Bar 107 - 107 W 4th St, Los Angeles, CA 90013

ELANA'S TAKE - Not so many bars are made to look good both at night, and in the fading afternoon sunlight of a Tuesday Bar 107, however, seems to pull it off quite nicely.

The first time I ever tired to patron this bar, it involved circling the block about 6 times- no joke. There was an illuminated bar sign, yes, but not for the current bar. Instead, "Old Style" glows, confusing any first time bar-goer. I think at some point in time it was a gay leather bar, I think. Anyway, Bar 107 tops pretty much any bar I can think of for having the most, and having the weirdest shit, compete for space among its red walls. Rococo era paintings, an inflatable Spiderman, a giant cartoon depicting sexual acts... it all pours forth into your drunken, moist eyes. I've been here more times than I can assign a number to, and every time I feel like I've found something new and disturbing hanging from a hook that I never noticed before. But enough about the crap on the walls. The crowd here is always a varied mix- anywhere from hipsters to punk kids to cholos to just plain seasoned drunkards. You can apparently even bring your dog! Everyone either stays within their own personal space, or is friendly to you. It is downtown though, and not just on the outskirts like Chinatown, it is a hobo's piss from Skid Row. With this in mind you may put a nail in the coffin as far as visiting this place. BUT STOP! It's really ok! It's bright and on any given night they have several large dudes on security. I've even walked, by myself, two blocks around the corner to my car at 2 in the morning, and not feel the need to wield a giant stick. This does not mean exercise some caution if you do go, and it’s late. Don't be stupid.

The drinks here are reasonably cheap. They have your usual standards like PBR and Tecate in tall cans, and $2 Olympias, although I'm not so sure if this is an everyday thing, or a special night price. They have a fully stocked bar too, and the bartenders are nice and pour well. There is always someone's decent ipod music list going, except on nights when they have DJs. I hear Sunday night they have a pretty awesome Old Country night...

And the best part? A photo booth. An old school black and white dunk tank in the back room that also houses a stage I almost never see occupied anymore. There is also a side room right off the left of the bar that has old arcade games. And some nights that serve popcorn and hotdogs.

Bar 107 is an actual reason to go downtown sometime.

Naja's Place - ‏154 International Boardwalk, Redondo Beach, CA

JUSTIN'S TAKE - Until this past weekend, if someone had suggested to me, "Bro, let's hit up Redondo!", I would have replied with "You must be fucking kidding me, right?" Everything I've heard about the place made it sound like a haven for complete assholes and Jimmy Buffett fans who ended up on the wrong coast. After this weekend, I'll admit I was wrong. Redondo Beach is a place for drunks, their families, and single-minded fishermen. Let's address the first point.

Naja's Place is a pretty astonishing bar. It looks like a completely abhorrent joint at first glance, populated as it is with shirtless dudes and overly tanned former sorority girls, crushing each other in the scrum up to the bar as a passably mediocre cover band plays note-for-note covers of Bob Marley and Sugar Ray songs. But we managed to find a spot at the other end of the bar, situated far away from the music and the crowd.

So what's actually good about this place? 88 beers on tap. And it goes beyond the admittedly always-welcome presence of Chimay and Craftsman. They have Allagash Curieux, Duchess de Bourgogne, Delerium Tremens, Dogfish Head 90 Minute IPA, Lobotomy Bock, Arrogant Bastard, Boont Amber Ale, and so on. And the numbers aren't padded out with shitty beers, either. Other than Budweiser, Heineken, and a couple of unnecessary others, everything they have on draft is excellent.

The bartender nodded approvingly when Felicia ordered the Dogfish Head 90 Minute IPA and the Allagash Curieux, the former for herself and the latter for my dad. Battling a cold and foggy on meds, I wasn't able to drink but instead merely pose with a pint for posterity. There's also something to be said for sitting in a boardwalk bar on a marina, watching people walk by as the sun goes down. After awhile I started to feel like I was in an Eagles song as covered by Sublime, but for some reason I was okay with that. Maybe it was the cold meds?

FELICIA'S TAKE - The noise level is high and people are packed into the place pretty tightly. The crowd contains> drunken older gentlemen who appear to have been sunburned for at least two decades, loud girls with crunchy hair and lower back tattoos, and dudes in patterned board shorts, Ray-Bans and flip-flops high-fiving each other. Nearly everyone appears to be drinking bottles of Corona or Bud Light. Despite my initial disbelief, a UB40 cover band is performing. In short, there are many things about Naja’s that I might normally not enjoy. But I set all these things aside and take a look at the taps.

And here is where I am bowled over. The selection of beers here is pretty stunning – nearly 80 on draft alone, according to the bartender. I’m so excited I can barely decide. I pick out the newly-available-in-California Dogfish Head 90 Minute IPA and the semi-rare Allagash Curieux.

I find a seat and drink my beer, which packs quite a wallop. The weather feels just perfect and a mild breeze is blowing in from the sea. I begin to feel a sense of inner peace. All those loud annoying people now seem more like good potential drinking pals, friendly folks just enjoying themselves. I start to sing along absentmindedly to “Red Red Wine” while contemplating whether there is a word for a cover version of a cover version, and I begin to plot my next visit to Naja’s.

Prince o' Whales - 335 Culver Blvd., Playa Del Rey, CA 90293

SIMON'S TAKE - Possibly it's unfair to review a bar after just one visit. For example, we arrived at Prince o' Whales for a friend's birthday function at about 10:30 pm on Saturday, in a section of town on the Westside that I basically never go anywhere near. I was all about to write a review discussing how Prince o' Whales is pretty much the most depressing bar I've ever been to on a Saturday night, because the crowd in there, friends aside, seemed more like it was 1 p.m. on a Tuesday and acted as if they were just drinking as much as they could before they had to go back for the rest of their shift at the slaughterhouse. But then I go online and read about how Tuesday night, not Saturday, is the happening night at Prince o' Whales, because that's when they have their drink specials. And apparently the limited menu of bar food is really good. I wouldn't know about either of these things, because I wasn't hungry and I got charged $14.75 for a Guinness and a glass of the house wine, a Coppola Cabernet (although I will note that the bartender filled the glass of wine literally to its brim, as if she were filling a pint, which I've never seen anyone do before but entirely approve of).

So maybe I don't know enough about this bar to write a review of it. It's also possible that I just hate the whole fucking western half of Los Angeles, with the possible exception of a couple bars in Redondo Beach, the Museum of Jurassic Technology and the ocean, and therefore am poorly qualified to review a chill "beach culture" bar like this one. It's difficult to explain why I dislike beach culture, but to briefly summarize, what others see as a laid-back, peaceful and in-the-moment attitude, I see as insufferably hedonistic, lazy and dull. Whenever I'm at a beach bar, I want to make everyone in it do push-ups.

Oh yeah, Prince o' Whales. One side has a large bar and a stage for musical acts. The other side has another, smaller bar, a lot of televisions showing sports, a dartboard and some sports-themed video games. Then there's a back patio area with a ping-pong table, which okay, that's cool. And I like how you can be in the room with the music or not and still have a place to drink, reminding me of my favorite concert venue, Spaceland. But still, I'm sorry, this place just sucks. The people here are depressing, there's way too many dudes (2:1 male to female ratio, offhand) and everywhere you go, even though there's no one there, you feel vaguely claustrophobic.

In one of the later Cerebus books, Dave Sim envisioned a matriarchal society in which all men are kept more or less imprisoned within bars; they can leave whenever they want, but in order to do so, they have to stay entirely sober for a week. Thus, the majority of the male population simply stays in these bars and is miserable and drunk all the time and thinks about women constantly in a sort of hateful, wistful way.

This bar is exactly like that.

Beers on draft: Guinness, Budweiser, Bud Light, Newcastle Brown Ale, Sierra Nevada.

EVAN'S TAKE - Simon was relatively thorough here, so I'm just going to list a couple thoughts and observations on the Prince O'Whales.

1. Prince o' Whales is literally the dumbest name I've ever heard for a bar... and yet simultaneously pretty great. It seems like it would befit a fictional dive in a neo-noir movie featuring an actor like William Fichtner or M. Emmet Walsh as a malevolent bartender or something.

2. The staff was nice. The bartender poured strong... and the vaguely crossed-eyed doorman seemed genuinely happy to have us. It seems like he'd be pissed to invite more dudes to an already pretty ridiculous sausage-fest... but the place is called Prince o'Whales, so who knows. Maybe me and Simon were missing something.

3. The ping pong patio area had a very threatening vibe... for no reason. It's a ping pong patio! Here's a bit of advice to all you tatted-up badasses out there. If you want to look really tough and menacing... don't congregate around a ping pong table. You can't do that unless you are Yakuza. I've heard that they LOVE that shit.

4. The place reeked of french fries.

5. Two or three good looking women in the entire joint... but they were pretty hot.

6. After leaving I started to question my love of dive bars. I wondered whether I was getting soft, and was better off sucking down high priced wine in some ritzy Los Feliz joint... but then I remembered something: I love DARK dive bars. Kind of quiet... kind of gloomy, depressing little shitholes, with ROOM, and the chance of an odd sexual encounter with another lonely alcoholic... preferably one without a penis. A good jukebox helps too. This place couldn't satiate that hunger, and basically made me miserable, so fuck it... I hate the Prince o'Whales.

Tangier - 2138 Hillhurst Ave., Los Angeles, CA 90027

Simon's Take - It's difficult to hate a bar like Tangier, with its well-stocked bar with beers on draft (Stella Artois, Guinness, Pyramid Hefeweizen, Sierra Nevada) and its spacious outdoor seating area. Not to mention it's geographically the closest bar to my apartment, a mere block or so away. And yet, despite all that, I do hate Tangier. Hate, hate, hate, hate, hate.

One of my favorite aspects of Ramsay's Kitchen Nightmares (the BBC version, not the overfunded American version, which can suck a dick) is when Gordon Ramsay tries to explain to a befuddled restaurant owner that their business is failing because it lacks a clear image. They'll stammer about how their menu has 400 items in a dozen or so cooking styles, offering both Mexican food and sushi, while Ramsay patiently tries to clarify to them that they should just do one thing, with only a few menu items, but do it well (seriously, this is, like, 60% of all episodes). He's right, of course, and having a distinct image applies even more to the ownership and management of a bar than a restaurant. A successful bar knows the crowd it intends to attract and can anticipate exactly what that crowd wants from a night out; thus, the miserable losers lined up outside the Cha Cha Lounge in Silverlake on a Saturday night are distinctly different in their stylistic preferences from the pathetic douchebags queued up a few miles away outside the Ivar, but everyone is spending money on booze and happy.

What then to make of Tangier, a bar and restaurant in an artsy-posh area of Los Feliz that caters to an uneasy mixture of drunken office drones, indie music kids and guido-style Armenians? Too fancy for the neighborhood's younger residents and too sleazy for the older ones, Tangier has struggled to define itself since its opening. Is it a restaurant, with a consistently vacant and suspicious dining area? Is it a concert venue, programming mostly local artists and, inexplicably, rappers on the Oakland experimental hip hop Anticon label? Is it a classy bar, the kind you can take a date to, or is it a sports bar, with its large monitor showing ESPN in HD above the bar? No one seems to know, least of all the people who work there, who all have the attitude of sullenly biding their time in purgatory.

The problem here is the crowd that frequents such an establishment. Unless a decent band is playing - an increasingly unlikely prospect due to the management of The Fold, the music scheduling organization that books Tangier and other neighborhood venues, but that's the subject for another article - you could firebomb Tangier on any given night and be fairly certain to harm no one of any value. At 9 p.m. on Thursday, the bar was initially packed by three tables' worth of overweight women in work attire boisterously screaming at each other the top of their lungs like a pack of corpulent hyenas. Then they left and the bar area went from crowded to eerily empty in one giant, pear-shaped exodus of fat. Feeling suddenly vulnerable, I went to sit outdoors while I waited for my "friends," but it was empty there, too, and it made me feel sad and lonely, so I went back inside. Then the bar started to fill up with musicians that were playing in the back room that night and their friends, mainly girls with tattoos and ill-conceived piercings and emaciated dudes wearing jeans that a recent Dachau survivor would have difficulty squeezing into. Scattered amongst these types were a few pairs here and there who seemed to feel that they might be in the wrong bar: a few older couples on dates, a bunch of girls apparently on a "girls night out" but also clearly wondering why no one was hitting on them or buying them drinks, and a group of dudes in slacks and striped dress shirts who probably would have been buying the girls drinks if the atmosphere at Tangier wasn't so damn uncomfortable. Everyone then got kicked out when the bar abruptly closed at midnight.

It's too bad because, like the increasingly unfortunate Derby across the street, Tangier could be really cool. There's plenty of good space within, and it's not badly designed; as previously stated, its walled-in outdoor seating area, with heat lamps and a fountain, really is quite a nice place to get your drink on if no one else is there. But as is, you should only go to this place if you're looking to drink yourself into a misanthropic stupor that will last for days.

Evan's Take - I've never gotten a real bead on this place for the very reasons stated above. This seems to be the primary Los Angeles venue for the alternative hip hop collective, "Anticon", but I've yet to catch any decent show here by any other artists. You get quite a bit of singer-songwriter stuff, none of it really good.

I stuck to mostly jack and cokes... with one Stella. The bartender wasn't aloof so much as she carried herself as if she'd recently been smacked in the face with a volley ball, and could only squint meanly at the bar patrons for any sign of her mysterious assailant. Getting served takes some time and effort... which was weird, since there really wasn't that many people there.

I also ordered an appetizer... some bizarre shrimp cocktail; it consisted of two delicious jumbo shrimp, and then a gross concoction of shredded bits of shrimp, and a bunch of random spices and vegetables. To be fair, I ate the whole thing, but you could have thrown a sauteed puppy on my plate that evening, and that cute little fucker would be half digested by now.

As you can tell by this review, and the lovely picture of me above... I'm far too classy and good looking for a pit like Tangier.

Vinoteca - 1968 Hillhurst Ave., Los Angeles, CA 90027

Simon's Take - My favorite neighborhood bar of the moment, Vinoteca is a beer and wine bar opened by the owners of the fantastic Italian restaurant Farfalla on the same block. Small and usually overcrowded, Vinoteca otherwise does just about everything else right, from a staggering list of wines stored and tapped from sealed glass humidor-things to a draft beer list featuring a couple of hard-to-find favorites. (Check it: Schneider Weisse, Chimay, Maudite, Stella Artois, Peroni, and Bitburger, all served in brand-specific glassware.) Prices are reasonable and the servers are friendly, informative and attentive. The limited food menu is okay, with free toasted stale bread from Farfalla to sober up on, which is surprisingly delicious after more than two drinks. This place gets my highest possible recommendation, but I'm into bars that are quiet, small and dark; if you're looking for a night out partying, other bars in the area would probably serve you better, such as the Drawing Room or Ye Rustic Inn, especially as Vinoteca closes at midnight on weeknights and one a.m. on weekends. Vinoteca is more a bar for a date or to start an evening before moving on to another bar; it's also one of the few places I've seen in Los Angeles where people will sit at the bar reading or doing work, which I think is cool.

As a footnote, I should point out that Vinoteca offers a house wine that the owner has had made exclusively for his establishments under the label name Farfalla. This wine is disgusting and tastes like Charles Shaw diluted with tap water; I wouldn't give it to a dog I was trying to murder. That said, I like everything else about this place.

Evan's Take - This place isn't as stuffy as you'd think it would be. The female bartender that served me seemed genuine and helpful, and there is a relaxed atmosphere to the place. There's a shitload of great beers on tap... Chimay being my favorite.

One of the bartenders has HUGE fake tits, but I'm not sure if she works there anymore. Actually, come to think of it, I believe that there's a second bartender there with HUGE fake tits.

If that isn't an incentive to venture to a classy wine bar in Los Feliz, then I don't know what is.

Little Cave - 5922 North Figueroa, Highland Park, CA

Highland Park always feels like the other side of the moon to me, even if you're coming from Eagle Rock. I often find myself groaning at the prospect of having to drive back home, that is up until I get there and start drinking; then I don't care. Tonight I hit up the Little Cave because it was actually on my way home. Following a screening of the 1922 German Expressionist Nosferatu, accompanied by some of the worst Manheim Steamroller-like music, the Little Cave seemed like an obvious choice.

The Little Cave feels a bit more spacious than an actual cave. Although in earnest they've made all the light shades red and covered the dropped in-ceiling lights (also red) with cut outs of bats. Had I actually been in caves maybe I could point out some discrepancies, but for drinking purposes I'll go ahead and pretend. Seating is plentiful with both stools around the bar, and with a bunch of low to the ground ottomans and against the wall bench seating. I had a party of 10 and we were all able to occupy a corner comfortably and within earshot of each other. To the back they have yet more space alloted to a smoking patio which has a random assortment of tables/chairs/empty bar to lean against. And it's pretty bright from the lights in the parking lot next door. Showing up at 8:30 the bar was dead except for maybe a couple guys who were the bartender's friends or regulars. Although appearance wise you get the cross between tatted up punk guys and cholos here, everyone was pretty mellow and friendly. The bartenders are quick, engaging enough not to be dicks, and the bar back did a great job of continually emptying our little table of the mountain of glasses that would accumulate every 15 minutes.

Music wise, there was some great soul/funk playing, maybe just one of the bartender's ipods, for the start of the night, however once the DJ showed up around 10 I was forced to listen to a mix of tolerable 80's music and some overplayed indie dance scene music from 2006. Blah. I like to listen to DJs either playing somewhat of a theme, or at least not crap. Mediocrity of music at a bar has become accepted to a point that angers me. But then again, you're playing to drunk people who will ask you to play Willie Nelson 6 times in a row even though you've stated you're only playing girl groups. The Little Cave is trying to do some music nights, and apparently is looking for DJs, which would explain the spotty themes and selection of current nights.

Drinking is moderately priced here. A regular mixed drink is around 6 and a half bucks. Thursdays is $3 Hefeweizen Drafts, which was also a plus to come this night. I was always pleased with my whiskey drinks, which were pretty strong. For me, I will go with a beer now and then, but I like to partly judge the bar on how my whiskey and diet tastes. Anyways, there is a decent sized liquor selection, with any bar's usual stock, nothing fancy.

The only issues I have are parking and people here. There is only street parking, which is fine around 9, but showing up around 11 you are parking in someone else's neighborhood with the chance of never finding your car again. I was told you can park in the CVS parking lot nearby, but honestly, when I pull that stunt I always get a ticket, so the choice is yours kids. The other problem is the crowd tends to lean a bit towards sausage fest. There were some couples who started pouring in around 10:30, but mostly it was the black tshirts/dark jeans guys who all look like they could take you one handed. So, if you just want to hang with your bros, or if you're going to be ignoring everyone else there, this is a pretty ok place for that. If you're a chick who wants to go out with girlfriends to just 'hang', maybe not, as you will get hit on by multiple guys named Frank. However if that IS what you're looking for, head on down! You can spot a couple hipsters around, but this place always feels harsher and yet friendly at the same time- not a hipster combination.

One thing to note is that this is one of the bars around LA that is known for its bar tricks, like blowing fire. However, in the several times I've been to this place no one has shown any impetus towards doing this. Oh sure, they LOOK like they could do it no problem, but no one does. Maybe I'll try out for it next time.
-Elana R

Casita Del Campo - 1920 Hyperion Ave, Los Angeles, CA 90027

This is one of the better Mexican restaurants on my side of town. It’s funky though. Not food funky… think Priscilla Queen of the Desert Funky. Proudly displayed beneath their sign is a garish poster featuring three Latin drag queens, none of which probably weigh less then 225lbs. The “Three Chicas” apparently have a drag revue going on in the subterranean depths of the restaurant, deemed “The Cavern Club”. Their show was that night, so it was a packed house.

The food here is fantastic for the most part. I’ve had better albondigas soup, but it’s solid enough. The chicken mole tops any I’ve had in Los Angeles, and their chips and salsa are uniquely awesome. Service can vary… I’ve had some of the worst service I ever experienced a couple months ago, but this time it was stellar. It’s a predominantly gay owned and patronized establishment so sometimes they hire pretty boy waiters that could give a shit about service, because everybody’s tipping them well no matter what they do. On this occasion our waiter was quick to bring us shot after shot of Cazadores and Dos Equis, and our food came much faster then expected. I had the mahi-mahi which came with fried plantains’. Very good.

There’s a well stocked bar, filled with a couple hipsters, some odd looking locals, and a bevy of sketchy middle-aged gay dudes out trolling. I wouldn’t suggest coming out to the bar just to drink unless that’s what you’re looking for. The main attraction is the food and the tequila… preferably a combination of the two.

I made the mistake of trying to take a piss right around the time the drag queen show ended, so the bathroom had a longer line then any lady’s bathroom I’d ever seen. I’d had several drinks, so my temper was short when one duo took especially long to vacate the premises… and I might have uttered, “C’mon… hurry up.” I was quickly put in my place by the line of effete gentlemen, “Oh look… we’re ruining his night.” Another one rubbed fake tears from his cheeks… “Look I’m shedding a tear for him”. I lowered my head and resorted to pissing in the alleyway beside the valet parking lot.
- Evan K.