Mr. Harada and I have been exploring watering holes in the South Bay and beyond for a long while now. It’s been just over a decade since our first merry toast, and we’ve been going strong ever since. As the years pass, we’ve become wiser, plumper and our tastes have developed.

Certain prohibitionists, pragmatists and/or doctors would argue that we search for more complex flavor profiles because years of drinking alcohol have stripped our sensitive taste buds down into taste-stumps, but those people are wrong. You see, the barfly’s journey is very much like that of a philosopher, and our taste buds have developed like the minds of Plato, Machiavelli and Tupac.

Keeping in line with our refined tastes, we recently visited a drinking establishment befitting our elevated standing. The Hedley Club at the Hotel De Anza is as cultured as it gets, and I’m not just talking about San Jose; The Hedley is a world-class joint. The De Anza opened its doors at the height of the Great Depression, in 1931. It was built by Carl Swenson, and rebuilt by his son Barry nearly 60 years later. The hotel opened during Prohibition, so it probably didn’t include The Hedley Club from the start, but I have a feeling the place was nonetheless as wet as a catfish during the rainy season.

Today, it’s a dimly lit oasis at the end of a luxurious hotel lobby. It has a Masonic spirit. It’s a place that the Scottish Rite members would find familiar. The bar is tucked against the port-side wall, and it features a selection of fine booze. Across the room is a stage, which usually features live jazz, which never gets any “boos.”

On the night that Mr. Harada and I visited, we started with Templeton Rye. It seems that this particular whiskey is poised to take over the market. Even though it’s been around since Al Capone made a name for himself, Templeton Rye is recently on everyone’s mind and in everyone’s gullet. I’m not sure if the stuff made it out this far West during the dry years, but I’m glad it’s being shipped today.

From there we did the responsible thing and sampled a variety of the Boulevard Smokestack Series beers. You know the old saying, “beer after liquor will make you stronger and quicker.” Well, if you haven’t heard that one before, it’s probably because I just made it up. It’s the truth, though, or at least it seems like it. The Smokestack Series features very bold brews. We enjoyed The Sixth Glass, a Belgian strong dark ale, and settled comfortably into the glow slowly pouring from the bar in a room otherwise locked into dusk.

The room began to fill with hotel guests and locals ready for a comfortable night out. In no time we had an accomplice who pulled up a seat and engaged us in jovial conversation about music and guitars (two of my favorite topics). A jazz band started up and when we turned around to watch, nearly every seat in the room was occupied by guests that looked like they knew their way around Monte Carlo and Hong Kong.

The Hedley is a place where you want to wear a suit and tie, even if you came in wearing jeans. It’s a very California type of place. It makes no apologies for its refined atmosphere, and it doesn’t care to judge, as long as you’re willing to have a good time.

Where should the Barfly go next? Leave your suggestions in the comments section.

Good Karma‘s patio is a metal and wood barricade that juts out into the First Street sidewalk. It’s shaped not unlike a bar, tall enough to rest your elbows on comfortably while standing up. There is an actual bar inside. It only fits four bar stools, which is curious for a place that serves beer.

In all fairness, Good Karma is a vegan cafe, and most of the interior is dedicated to the mastication of various meatless dishes. However, this small eatery has also earned the reputation for stocking a great variety of quality beers. The food is quite excellent, but I’ve observed more meat eaters enjoying liquid bread than dedicated herbivores. The barley literati flock to Good Karma.

I found a vacant spot at the small, intimate bar, and while contemplating my options, I overheard the purveyor of the place, a gentleman named Ryan, educating a customer about a curious varietal he had in stock. Something happened to the Bruery’s Autumn Maple. It had gone sour and was now being poured as Autumn Maple Sour. They could have been a bit more inventive with the name, but I suppose nature had been imaginative enough with the flavor.

I asked Ryan about the beer. He simply answered, “Beer, sometimes, goes pleasantly sour.”

Usually I wouldn’t dare tread near something described as “lacto infected,” but I trust Ryan, so with my curiosity piqued, I decided to order a glass.

As soon as I was handed the brew, I gave it a taste. It was a powerful sour. I’ve met lemons that would be in a lot of trouble if they ran into Autumn Maple Sour in a dark alley. I’m not saying it’s not pleasant—it’s extremely pleasant—but be prepared to be introduced to something you’ve probably never tasted before.

Outside, on the patio, my friend and (sometimes) drinking companion Mr. Harada was enjoying a double India Pale Ale. We had actually scheduled this meeting to plot a new project. Artisan beer and planning go extremely well together, although the plans usually need revisiting during a more sober moment.

Sometimes the right mix of atmosphere and alcohol can precipitate enlightening moments, which you will remember (mostly) for the rest of your temporal existence. So, while I enjoyed a long list of sours, and Mr. Harada sipped various IPAs, we talked a little about our project, but it was really more of an excuse for good company, a night of listening to music, storytelling and people watching, for which the patio at Good Karma is the perfect place. The crowd on South First Street is as colorful as Good Karma’s cold case.

Whether you believe it or not, not too long ago people were perpetually under the influence of alcohol. Booze, that permutable antiseptic, was added to all drinks to prevent bacterial infection. Luckily, we as a species enjoy the stuff very much—some of us, a little too much.

If alcohol consumption were a religion, bars would be the shrines where pilgrims consult the oracles on the future, the past and everything in between. There is wisdom to be found at bars.

Wisdom, and often a lot of fun. This city needs a resource that can explain the joys and pitfalls of local bars—an investigative team of experts, a “special forces” unit that specializes in bar culture.

Mr. Harada and I are up for the challenge. He’ll be illustrating this effort, and I’ll be taking notes, asking meaningful questions, forgetting the answers and reporting back to you as soon as I find my notes.

We’ll share stories from the lowliest dives to high-roller havens tucked in the creases of Silicon Valley’s tech office sprawl from the perspective of two painfully awkward barfles. Cheers!

A Night at Patty’s Inn

Mr. Harada and I rode past the two-headed tiger that shone its laser eyes across the light-rail station playground. We headed to a local spot that claims the “oldest bar in town” title.

Some will suggest that the Cinebar is actually older, but in a town that places little value on maintaining historical records of bars, it’s hard to tell. I always thought the old Faber’s bike shop that just burned down was the oldest drinking establishment in San Jose, but since it hasn’t held a liquor license since it was Ben’s Corner in 1913, and is now a pile of ashes and charred lumber, I suppose the point is moot.

Patty’s Inn is a simple building, framed with ancient redwood and probably sided with the same stuff. It’s made out of the kind of wood that even termites won’t mess with, out of respect.

Above the door, there’s a large fan, housed in a cast-iron frame that reads “Ventilation Company, Chicago, Ill.” Its blades are caked with a mix of tar, grease, dust and whatever else floats in the air at a place like this.

Inside, Patty’s is pretty comfy. Interior decorators have never been invited to update the space. This bar has aged like the people who frequent it: naturally and with character.

An alligator-skin steamer trunk hangs above the bar; the flavored vodkas hide underneath a thick layer of dust; the urinal is a trough; and the walls carry the patina of decades of cigarette smoke. A large black and gold clock looks like it was lifted from a Robert Palmer video. In general, the place is era-ambiguous.

A man name Larry Limo danced and pantomimed the music playing on the juke. It’s the only type of interpretive dance that I can stomach. Larry Limo was pretty good, and he even caught the attention of two women. His Jheri curl bounced to a James Brown track, and his fingers sparkled from various oversized gold rings as we took our place at the bar.

Eddie the bartender, a sexagenarian of mixed heritage (Filipino and Korean, I believe), poured two generous shots of Jameson. We toasted each other, the bar and the night in general.

Patty’s Inn is the kind of place where you can find a private corner to reflect with a friend, even if you’re sitting in the middle of the bar. The juke switched from James Brown to Muddy Waters. Mr. Harada began drawing the scene. One of the women took a break from watching Larry Limo’s peacock dance and put her arm over Mr. Harada’s shoulder.

“Whatcha’ doin’ honey? Are you drawering or sumptin? You some kinda artist?”

The woman was having a good night; if a mosquito bit her, it would probably black out. She was being the kind of friendly that sober people don’t understand and can’t appreciate. Mr. Harada was fairly sober at this point, so his response was to look the woman in the eye, slowly nod and look back down to his pencil and paper. It took the woman a few seconds, but she finally got the idea.

“Geez. Why so serious? Soooory.”

I scooted down the bar to Francis and Benny. Francis was born in San Jose in 1947, and her friend Benny in 1950. They visit Patty’s to reminisce about a time, as Francis puts itâ “When it was pretty around here.” It’s probably the only bar in town that hasn’t had a facelift since then, so I get it.

Benny, whose nickname is the “Mayor,” recalled a show he saw at the Bodega for $2.50. The lineup included Bo Diddley, Janis Joplin and Tower of Power. Back then, the roller derby and wrestling were San Jose’s sports of choice. The local youth would convene at the Civic Auditorium to watch both.

Back in Francis and Benny’s time, Garden City Casino and Harry’s Hofbrau were located at the end of Post Street right downtown. There was also a Mexican joint called Stokes. Rags, the shoeshine guy with no teeth, was also a constant figure on Post Street during those days.

Benny said something about Khartoum’s in Campbell being filled, wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling, with tropical ferns.

It was 11:44, and I decided to reconnect with Mr. Harada, who was conversing with Larry Limo. I noticed a dusty bottle of red liquor in the way back of the bar. Was that a tax stamp sticker near the bottle cap? I asked the bartender what the mystery crimson liquid was.

“Sloe gin.”

I had never tried sloe gin, and now wish I had continued that trend. At least, I wish the introduction was made by a more recent rendition of the stuff. I’m not sure what sloe gin is supposed to taste like, but this stuff tasted mean, angry, confused, like it had been incubated in an old athletic sock. It was a scheming, untrustworthy kinda flavor.

No offense to the sloe berry, which I’m sure is a fine berry and a hoot at parties, but even the memory of the taste gives me a strange tingle in the spine. Speaking of memories, the sloe gin was one of the last ones I have from that night.

Somehow, I managed the trek home, and Mr. Harada arrived safely at his domicile as well. I woke up the next day in the same shape as I did the day before, which means the night before went well.

Stay tuned for more adventures with Barfly and Mr. Harada…

Thursday evening: 11pm, and the night is a slow one at Playhouse, the new San Jose nightlife venue. Having opened in late June, Playhouse is still comparatively unknown to club-goers, but I’m grateful for the small crowd. It gives me the opportunity to do what I enjoy the most—sit around and sip a beer.

Playhouse bills itself as a sports lounge, but from what I see, it’s more of a posh nightclub than anything else. Playground sits in the same building as the now-defunct Vault Ultra Lounge—a renovated two-story bank building. Gold upholstered couches line both sides of the first floor while a center staircase, upholstered in the same gold leather as the couches, rises to the second floor—a spacious balcony area with seating that overlooks the dance floor.

The DJ stands in his corner on the second floor, spinning a dance-worthy mix of electronic music while two of the staff, women in gold-sequined dresses and platform stilettos, dance at the foot of the stairs, bobbing and jutting out their chests. Playhouse would be entirely nightclub were it not for televisions: the greatest number of TVs I have seen outside of a Best Buy store—more than 21—cover every wall and they’re all tuned to the X-Games on ESPN.

Come midnight, business picks up. Muscular men in tees and jeans and women in curve-hugging cocktail dresses—San Jose’s classier and well-behaved version of Jersey Shore—arrive. They head straight to the bar for drinks and flag down the waitresses for $200 bottle services. The waitresses vanish for a few moments, then return, their arms heavy with trays of Grey Goose, shot glasses, juice and fruit chunks. The party spreads to the couches and tables, filling much of the first floor seating. For me, the night is ending, and I move toward the exit. Peering back, I spy the waitresses go-go dancing on the tables. Looks like it’s going to be one heck of a party. The Barfly

Playhouse
81 W. Santa Clara St.
San Jose

Saturday evening—deafening riffs and distortion blast out at me from the stage where the Stone Roots strum their guitars. The trio belts out Americana hits without ceasing, only once pausing to down some whiskey shots sent over from the bar. I watch from the lounge of Quarter Note, a neighborhood bar in Sunnyvale that is unlike any I’ve visited.

Quarter Note is different from the DJ-spun Top-40 nightclubs that fill most cities’ downtown areas; it’s rougher and less mainstream, yet it’s as American as apple pie. Quarter Note is a hard-rocking dive dedicated to original live music acts and offering music-based entertainment every day of the week.

Instead of being a bar that just happens to have a stage, Quarter Note is a stage that happens to have a bar. Karaoke, jam sessions and gigs take place on the huge spot-lit stage, which sits prominently in the center of the room. Circled around the stage are the bar, small tables and booths, providing the perfect places to see the shows.

The crowd is an older sort, appearance inspired by their music. The women wear tight jeans and spaghetti tops, while the men sport bushy goatees and wear large belt buckles and leather jackets. Despite their intimidating appearance, they seem amiable, greeting each other with hugs and pats on the back. Likewise, outsiders draw no ire. What matters is the music and all who come are united in their passion.

After the Stone Roots finish their set, the Road Vikings enter the stage. Though the band is largely a Bay Area one, its frontman looks every bit the globe-trotting metal musician, with his leather vest, long hair, beard and sunglasses. With a metal scream, he launches into their set, supported on both sides by guitarists, fingers flying over their strings.

The Quarter Note
1214 Apollo Way, Sunnyvale
408.732.2119

Blush Raw Bar and Lounge, at San Pedro Square Market, is the newest club in San Jose, having hosted its grand opening just last Thursday evening. The party was well under way by the time I arrived, at 9pm, and Blush was crowded elbow to elbow with an eclectic mix of patrons, young and old wearing everything from black tie to no tie.

Suits mingled with plaid shirts, evening dresses with jeans. Some chatted with friends and new acquaintances, shouting to be heard over the music, while many drank in relative silence, eyes glued to the Shark’s game on the flat-screen TV. Waitresses skillfully and unhesitatingly meandered through the human wall, weaving arms laden with menus and drink trays through the throng of people, occasionally stopping to answer questions and flirt.

Blush has three main parts, each with a distinct vibe. The dining area almost feels like a work-in-progress: Small four-person tables are scattered around the sushi bar. Adjacent to the open dining section is the main bar. This area has a glitzy techno-industrial feeling to it, with a high ceiling, exposed metal girders and an exposed air duct, along with hanging lanterns, color-changing LEDs embedded in the wall and a neat LED display over the bar proper, proclaiming “Blush” in glowing red.

The porch is where the club truly shines. This outdoor deck area has some Pacific Rim influence to it: backless wicker booths are scattered around knee-high tables. Tall, propane lanterns with child-size flames light the tables, while high above, Christmas tree lights are wrapped around tree trunks.

By the bar, a waitress told me about a new kind of drink that will, she assures me, make the club famous; the slush cocktail. Slush cocktails are alcohol and ice concoctions; flavored vodka or rum and cubed ice form the base, on which rests a layer of pured frozen fruits. I try the strawberry mojito version. The sips were harsh at first with a strong minty taste, but they softened quickly as a nice strawberry aftertaste lingered on the tongue.

Blush Raw Bar and Lounge
100 N. Almaden Ave., #160, San Jose
408.477.2191

It was a dark and stormy night. The road, slick with rain, reflected back the light from my headlights as I traveled down a lonely stretch of Coleman Avenue. It was the perfect night to stay home, yet there I was, driving to Bluz By-You, eager to escape the dreary Santa Clara weather with a taste of New Orleans.

The restaurant was easy to find: a sign towers over the building, proclaiming “Bluz By-You’ in large purple letters next to the silhouette of a saxophone player. The place occupies a squat wood-and-brick building with steeply sloped roof, eaves projecting far over the sidewalk; it looks like a shack one might find in the middle of the bayou. Once I stepped through the wooden door, however, I was whisked from the swamp and thrown into the middle of a different world—a romanticized nighttime street cafe in the French Quarter with lavender walls surrounding an expansive dining area. The walls, with their uniform lavender color and decals—a yellow crescent moon and glowing street lamps—give the illusion of a twilight sky. The vines hanging from the ceiling, though fake, seemed a natural touch to complete the illusion.

As I moved through the restaurant, I quickly forgot the horrible weather outside, because Bluz By-You is a warm and inviting place: the hustle and bustle of the restaurant, from the blues music playing over the sound system to the chatter of the patrons, drowned out the patter of the rain, while the heat from the fire roaring in the brick fireplace warmed my cold, wet clothes. Though the restaurant was filled to near capacity, the staff was attentive.

I pored over the menu—pages of salads, sandwiches and entrees, all with a Cajun or Creole twist. I settled on the hot link po’ boy, a quintessential Louisiana dish, with Cajun-style fries. To drink, I had a Abita, Bluz’s flagship draft brew. As I ate, I watched the crowd—predominately older men and women out for dinner, drinks and music with their significant others. The club’s primary attraction is its live music: blues, jazz and Zydeco bands Tuesday through Saturday with no cover charge. When the band began its main act, conversation became impossible. The guitar riffs and vocals were deafening even in the very back of the restaurant.

The stage was alive. In the rear, a drummer pounded a solid beat while a bassist strummed in the corner, eyes closed and rocking his head. In the front three saxophonists and a trumpeter crowded two microphones, arching their backs and blasting out their notes, while the blues guitarist and singer, the frontman, stole the show with his riffs and improvised solos. The crowd waved their hands and erupted into applause and whistles at the end of every song. As the show wrapped up, I left slightly deaf in my right ear and determined to return.

View more images from Bluz By-You.

The new Liquid Restaurant and Lounge sits between an apartment building and a parking lot near San Jose State University, occupying an ordinary orange and yellow building. The exterior looks nothing like the typical nightclub: no flashy neon signs, crystal-clear bay windows and glitzy entryways. Liquid looks more like a Bohemian art gallery than a new nightclub and restaurant.

At 9pm on a recent visit, the club was still relatively empty, allowing for a good look at the interior—a stark contrast from nondescript facade outside. Liquid has an expansive and seamless interior. A black tile dance floor stretches unobstructed to the rear of the restaurant; flanking the floor is a seating area, one long row of dining booths and white upholstered couches. Glowing, cube-shaped plastic footrests float on the floor like ice in a drink. The bar glows with same ice-blue tint as the footrests.

The bottles at the bar are arranged in two columns and lined neatly on rows of blue, LED-lit shelves. Liquid-filled pillars rise up from the center of the display while blue-and-white-striped lantern covers hang over the bar counter. Uniting the whole “liquid” theme is the mesmerizing light show; the walls shimmering and rippling like the surface of the sea.

All smiles at Liquid Lounge.

An hour later, the party begins. Old-school dance music, hip-hop and R&B thunder over the sound system. A DJ works the decks. Twenty-something year old men and women stand around the bar, fueling up for a night of dancing. The real show is the group of women that control the floor. Tipsy and a bit rowdy, they grind against each another. Even so, the atmosphere remains relaxed and festive. A good-natured security guard even gives some women piggy-back rides. Liquid’s abundance of blue is soothing and works its magic on me, too. The apprehensions I usually have about dancing are gone.

As I dance, I realize what is so special about this club. I come up with a word, Liquidity: the qualities, character and connotations of liquid. By deviating from the standard model in decor, atmosphere and music, Liquid changes form, becoming a new kind of club.

More Photos.

Liquid Restaurant and Lounge
32 S. Third St., San Jose

For those looking for a true dive drinking experience, the self-labeled Dive Bar on Santa Clara Street, San Jose, is a flagrant case of false advertising. Absent are the shady atmosphere, run-down appearance and rough crowd that connote a dive bar. Instead drinkers are treated to a hip, stylish place, one flashier and more mainstream than any dive. Not that anyone really complains, because Dive Bar is a good place to sit and have a drink.

Even the drunkest wanderer can’t miss Dive Bar. A large, red and yellow neon sign hangs over the entrance; a diver, in a one piece bathing suit and cap, face-planting onto the words “Dive Bar.” Just inside the front door is an expansive lobby: two wall-hugging rows of red leather booths border a large center aisle, each row flanked by a line of round knee-high tables and soft-as-pillows wraparound lounge chairs.

Just past the lounge is the bar;a heavy wood fixture of counter top and glass cabinets. On the center of the bar sits an eye-catching display of commonly ordered hard liquor, bottles stacked side by side under an arch of yellow flourescents. Directly opposite the counter are chairs and round particle-board Ikea tables lined against a red wooden wall.

The back of Dive Bar accommodates a separate spacious room. Accessible through a doorway in a brick wall, it presents a striking contrast to the rest of the joint. Instead of the “red” that characterizes the lounge and bar area, the back is a blue concrete room. On one side is a pay-to-play pool table (75 cents per game), while against the opposite wall is a row of tables and chairs—the perfect place to watch the felted action. A DJ booth sits in the corner by a blue neon martini glass on the wall, where DJs spin Thursday through Saturday.

Dive Bar attracts an eclectic crowd of SJSU students, young urban professionals and middle-aged patrons. Hipsters probably come as well, lured by the ironic use of the name, but hipsters have become so mainstream, they are difficult to distinguish nowadays. Dive Bar has a number of specials to attract customers—usually discounted well and draft drinks, and no cover charges on DJ nights—and as a result, Dive Bar is a fairly popular establishment. Groups of friends cluster around tables while couples occupy the stools. Those who plan to attend might want to arrive early. Those wraparound lounge chairs are perfect to sink into after a day’s work.

View more photos.

Dive Bar
78 E. Santa Clara St., San Jose