Rural Cocktail Report

between here and there—Faithful friends know we keep vigil over the reader board at Rascal’s, a local watering hole, because the weekly special and the weekend entertainment listings often combine to read as a one item from a gruesome menu. Such felicitous pairings have teamed to create “Stroganoff Cats” and “Pork Chops Phizz.”

After three years of knowing Rascal’s only as a nodding acquaintance at 55 (okay, 65) mph, we were given occasion to understand our neighbor better: Our pal Nhu orchestrated a rural (dive) bar crawl, and put Rascal’s at the top of her list. Here’s the short report on last weekend’s fun.

Rascal’s: What’s not to love in a place that has a bar carpeted with a carpet whose shag is at least 2 inches long, and whose color is sort of Hawaiian-Punch-meets-fiberglass-insulation-and-is-left-to-fade-in-the-sun-for a-few-weeks?

Rascal’s also had the following going for it
--The bar maid was super nice (“Thanks for stopping in, now,” as we left)
--The French fries (two kinds! a packaged chip alternative a bit like a potato-y Cheeto without the cheese dust, and the “authentic” hot, fried, potato kind) were delicious
--The metal music was loud
--White table cloths in the music/restaurant/lounge area
--Summer salad bar!

Not going for it
--Bunker-like atmosphere of the entry way pervades the establishment
--Hostile stares from the regulars
--Someone not happy about “their” stool being occupied by one of us, probably me

All in all, Nhu and I agreed we’d definitely go to Rascal’s again, which caused Kit and Karen to cringe in confusion and horror. Perhaps differing opinions of the place resulted from the fact that Nhu and I were sitting at the corner of the bar and were thus shielded from some of the stare-downs that K and K had to endure. Or, maybe it’s just because we love French fries and salad bars THAT much.

Next stop was the new (opened during our tenure at Caywood, and thus is nothing but an upstart) miniature golf place in Tburg. Now no one was less enthused about this place than me when it first opened-- shameful greenfield development! Light pollution! Sprawl!—but now I’m a total convert! I loved the landscaping choices, was challenged by the difficulty of the course, and loved the nets they provided for fishing one’s errant golf ball from the ponds and fountains. The soundtrack was somehow bearable for its appropriateness to the setting--Casey Kasem's Top 100 Countdown of the Best Songs of All Time-- and our enjoyment of it was enhanced by Kit's sharing of this gem. Liz and Pete had joined us here on bicycle and a merry putting party we made, delaying many a putter behind us. Can we help it if we arrived at precisely the right time, when there was but one other party on the green? We also finished just in the nick of time, as lightning was forking from the sky and the heavens opened. No alcohol served here so we pushed on to Barangus.

I’ve been admiring Barangus ever since we moved here. If not for the bull on the roof then for the lovely job they did painting the place a while back—cobalt blue with orange pinstripes. We steeled ourselves for once again being viewed as outcasts and burst on in.

Going for it
--Horseshoe bar
--Handsome varnished wood tables and stools
--Many a mixed metaphor dart game
--All-Star Family Band (not a permanent fixture)
--Friendly drunk person (possibly a permanent fixture)
--Tab: $18 for 6 people including one mixed drink—WHAT?!

Not going for it
--No shag carpet along the bar
--Only liquid nourishment

All agreed that Barangus definitely rates a return visit. However, I will not let my guard down. While we could always be assured of a hostile reception (except for the super nice bar maid) at Rascal’s, Barangus could be lulling us into a feeling of welcome that is conditional... contingent on the All-Star Family Band being there, or the drunk lady at the bar. I like to know what I’m getting into. Racal’s is a known quantity, while Barangus keeps a person guessing.

Best not to sit with your back to the door.