Always in search of new opportunities for tiki worship, Carole and I went out last night to see the Martini Kings play at the Purple Orchid Exotic Tiki Lounge (no website, as far as I can tell, but it's at 221 Richmond St. in El Segundo). It was our first time at the Purple Orchid, and it was definitely worth the trip; the place is done up to the blowfish gills in a tasty array of carved tiki poles, masks, bamboo, lava rocks and Oceanic Arts-style lamps, but it also gives off a very friendly, "beach community watering hole" kinda vibe. The regulars and bartenders alike were mellow and warm, and nobody gave us any shit for not looking like we were locals.
Oh yeah — the Purple Orchid's cocktails are pretty damn fine, too. We sampled the Chief Lapu-Lapu (pictured above), the Blue Hawaiian, the Mai-Tai (pictured at left) and the Purple Orchid Martini, all of which warmed the soul in the way that only an expertly-mixed tropical beverage can do. They also sell those Mai Tai mugs, which were specially designed for them by the good folks at Tiki Farm, and I just couldn't leave without purchasing one. If you're a tiki-lovin' SoCal type who hasn't been to the Purple Orchid yet, you totally owe it to yourself (and the Great God Ku) to make the trek.
I also can't recommend The Martini Kings highly enough. This was the second time we've seen the Marsico Brothers' vibes-and-upright bass combo (who were joined last night by a nicely funky drummer and several voluptuous burlesque dancers), and we were once again blown away by just how groovy, smooth and totally pro these cats are. There's nothing ironic or smarmy about their old-school lounge-jazz sound; it's simply the real deal, and I wish I could pay them to play a permanent residency by my pool. Instead, Carole and I settled for picking up copies of their new Weekend In Palm Springs CD and their holiday season collection, The Kings of Jing-A-Ling. Click this link to hear song samples and purchase these and other MK titles; trust me, you'll be glad you did.
The funniest moment of the evening came towards the end of the night, when I was heading to the men's room. Some twenty-something dude accidentally backed into me, and apologized profusely; when he realized I wasn't at all pissed about it, he complimented me on my leather jacket and sideburns. When I passed him again on my way back to the bar, he asked me to hold up a second; he waved over one of his buddies, a reasonably stylish kid who had begun to sprout some conceptual facial hair of his own. "Hey, John," he shouted to his friend, while pointing at me. "This is what you're supposed to look like!"
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