Two bikers walk into a craft cocktail bar…true story. This isn’t some joke. Their usual order of watered down suds and stale chips doesn’t exist. Full of the hater mentality they don’t leave because of one reason, they’re thirsty.
Frothy egg white concoctions slide in front of their mugs. At a loss for words, in their fish-out-of-water world, they nurse the drinks like the rest of the trendy clientele. The sips evolve into gulps. They wipe the residual off their ZZ Top beards and tap the counter. Hey bartender, pour these men another!
Whatever their halcyon biker bar was, it’s now forgotten, and Georgia’s fills that void with cement.
Every person has a bit testosterone and estrogen in their systems, even the biker dudes. Fear sets in that they’ll be on someone’s Snap Chat sipping delicious sours so they order something straight. Their hands hold a significant whiskey list. They pick High West because of a fond memory they had in Park City, Utah. The bartender asks which bottle. These men clearly think whiskey is one type, as if they were stuck in 1865. One pats his comrade on the back signaling he’s the more confident one. His bluff is called when the bartender repeats his question. Thinking with his heart instead of his head, the biker orders a tasting of the whole lot. It’s the only way to truly appreciate every libation Georgia’s has to offer.
The bartender’s intuition is greater than most. He knows a whiskey novice when he sees one. His hands pull a few more bottles foreign to the men. He receives his pride in teaching. This bartender encompasses Georgia’s neighborly vibe. He makes sure there’s a drink for every type, the pour is heavy, and the price fits anyone’s budget.
Jubilance fills the air. Private parties laugh at the right side of the bar. Girls night out gatherings drink old fashioned type drinks called Grandma Georgia’s at the rear. One of the women offers the men a taste. Their lips touch the liquid and they do their best version of a spit take. The women jibe the men because they can’t handle the Grandma Georgia’s peaty Laphroaig Scotch base. Fully red-in-the-face, but not from the booze, the men turn their backs to the women and embrace the newly created sours before them.
The men didn’t order these drinks. They study the menu to see what’s in them, but aren’t listed. Sours are the bartender’s specialty. His encyclopedic knowledge is vast and considers a whiskey sour or Ramo’s Gin Fizz simple enough, but on the basic side of things. His herbs are hand picked from the bar’s botanicals. The juices are freshly squeezed. One sour is reminiscent of the original strawberry daiquiri. Another is gin based.
Both are exquisite to the mind, body, and spirit.
Locals mention these men need some food in their bellies. Their eyes don’t see any stale bags of Doritos or Lays anywhere. A server from the back plops a piping hot grilled cheese with hand cut spuds in front of them.
The two bikers don’t complain. Feeling the community has accepted them, Georgia’s is now their new watering hole. And if there’s a new joke based on them and their story, they’re laughing with you. Sláinte.
GET SOCIAL with Georgia’s Lounge
located @
1500 Aviation BlvdRedondo Beach, CA 90278 Article written by Monis Rose from RestaurantFiction.com for VivaLAfoodies.com
