2018 Primetime Emmy
& James Beard Award Winner

We’re Going to Need Some More Information on the Yakuza Club and the Strippers

We’re Going to Need Some More Information on the Yakuza Club and the Strippers

Mai Tais on Waikiki Beach

Four of us sat around a table on the posh waterfront patio of the Outrigger Waikiki in Honolulu, heads in hands. I was coming down from a solo day-drunk while also trying to drain the salt water from my sinuses after an ass-over-teakettle first attempt at surfing. The other three were recovering from a night on the town and being uncharacteristically taciturn about it.

It was 3 p.m. Around us sat a thin crowd of honeymooners, clearly second- or third-rounders who had overdone it on turtle tours and theme-park luaus. Despite their salty experience they were still putting in the effort, all dressed up in colorful shirts tucked into dockers and white dresses showing off more pink flesh than was strictly warranted.

A manicured waitress arrived and greeted us with a sunshine-bright aloha, to which I cannot say she received the deserved commensurate response. The other guys didn’t even look up. Undecided between the menu’s various elderberry-infused offerings, I asked her for four rum punches. The guys had flown all the way to Hawaii from Barbados, and I thought some home-town nostalgia would perk them up. The waitress stared at me blankly.

“You don’t have rum punch?” I tried, as politely as possible. The look on her face was the same one you get when you drunkenly order tacos at a late-night shawarma joint. At least one of the guys looked up when I said it.

“Hmm. Rum sours?”

“Ohhh sure, rum sours!” she said. I wasn’t reassured by the set of her eyebrows, though.

Four neon-green drinks arrived soon after, be-rimmed with limes and umbrellas. Unsteady hands, attached to noncommittal arms, reached out for the medicine. The drinks were consumed in silence, and had no apparent curative effects.

The waitress, undeterred and attentive, suggested the hotel’s specialty, a Mai Tai. Four ounces of varied rums, pineapple juice, and a slice of fruit. The boys didn’t offer an opinion. I hesitated. The famous, if faded, Mai Tai was not something I had ever seen on a menu in a non-ironic manner. Our waitress smiled brightly, patiently.

“Oh come on, give them a try–they’re delicious!” she said, putting her hand on my shoulder. I nodded, letting responsibility for the matter slough off me.

Our Mai Tais arrived in huge tumblers soggy with condensation. Thick layers of dark rum, pineapple juice, and then more white rum were somehow well delineated. Massive chunks of pineapple perched on the rim, glistening vibrantly in stark contrast to every other fruit rim in my long experience. Heads lifted.

Tentative sips were taken. Less tentative gulps were taken. Glasses were finished, ice ringing dully against a boozy pineapple pulp. We looked around at each other, guiltily. The Mai Tais were stunningly good.

The guys eventually loosened up, telling me about a debauched night of Yakuza clubs, suicidal strippers, and nearly-lost limbs. Despite our evident appreciation for the iconic drink, I don’t think Tourism Hawaii will be calling us anytime soon to request a promo.

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