I never thought I'd say this, but thank heavens for Adam's Morgan. It seems a trip back to AdMo, where our happy hour tour first began, was all we needed to re-energize our alphabetical efforts. After a couple of down weeks, I'm happy to say Ike's Mambo Room got us back on track.
I'd be remiss if I didn't admit I was pretty worried when the night first started, however. M. Gatewood and I arrived around 6:30, and were the first ones there. And by "ones" I don't just mean A-to-Zers. I mean we were the first people to arrive at the bar, period. (Aside from Tracey Jirikowic, bartender and self-proclaimed "Dusty Pizza Chef" extraordinaire, that is). Unfazed, we picked a prime patio seat and enjoyed some cheap beers in the fine weather. I enjoyed watching the random mix of passersby, from hippies to hobos to, well, homosexuals. But still no one from our happy hour tour came. I began to get worried, so made an executive decision that we needed to take a shot in order to "make things happen." Two manly SoCo and Limes later, things certainly did happen, but not exactly what I'd been hoping for. Seems Ike's is next to a bodega where rival Mexican gangs go to taunt each other. Gates and I chuckled as the groups made "tu madre" jokes at each others' expense, but our laughter ceased pretty quickly once it became apparent that a fight was escalating and we were square in the crossfire. We ran inside the bar post haste and hung out with Tracey the pizza maker until we were sure the banger dust had settled.
Returning to our patio perch, we were soon joined by a steady stream of A-to-Zers, and spent a few hours sampling Ike's "gourmet pizzas" that truly were delicious, sipping on $2 PBRs and Natty Bohs (National Bohemian), and wondering when the promised entertainment for the evening -- DC Funk Squad and the Funkateers -- would show up. More friends arrived. Then sure-to-be-new-friends Funk Squad showed up (the Funkateers had other funky business to attend to). The sun set, but the evening was just beginning. We moved the party inside, where DC Funk Squad soon proved funkalicious, playing a delightful mix of originals and curious covers (ranging from AC/DC's "Back in Black" to the Clash's "Rock the Casbah").
The interior was probably the most unique I've seen in DC: Picture Dwight Eisenhower wearing an Indian headdress. On his left hand, a Mickey Mouse glove. In his right, a golf club with a lone Indian feather adorning it. Above him, in the sky, a woman's legs in high black heels and lace garters. On his face, a grin that says "there's a story here, and only I know the truth." In fact, I asked the bartender what the deal was with all the Eisenhower in Headdress imagery. He said, simply, "the story is too long and the music is too loud. Fair enough. I won't even try to understand. All I can really do is share this picture with you and let you ponder its deeper meaning:
This is just one of the many strange sights in Ike's mambo room. There are also pictures of skeletons drinking at a bar, voodoo-themed death masks, a giant fish tank full of sharks, and Jesus and Virgin Mary prayer candles on all the tables. We ended the evening around midnight when the Funk Squad called it a night. But, unlike most trips to AdMo, we skipped the Jumbo Slice because we had already had our fill of delicious pizza. I can't wait to go back to this bar, perhaps on a weekend, to see what other sorpresas it holds.
All-star of the evening: James Pagenkopf, for his Good Samaritan efforts to alert a passing car that its lights weren't on at dusk. To wit, a van comes driving slowly down the road. Jimmy jumps out of his chair, runs halfway out into the road, and starts screaming "Lights! Lights! Lights!" at the top of his lungs. The driver quickly complied and gave a friendly thank-you wave (or was it a different, decidedly less friendly hand gesture?). Mr. Pagenkopf, hero and protector of bad drivers everywhere, I salute you.
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