Tiki

Trader Vic's, 1934 Oakland. Don the Beachcomber lit the fuse in Hollywood a few years earlier and suddenly every G.I. coming back from the Pacific wanted a rattan stool, a mai tai, and a carved idol glaring down from behind the bar. That was tiki — mid-century America's permission slip to get loose under a thatch roof. Elvis in Blue Hawaii. Frankie and Annette on the sand. Painkillers strong enough to make the ukulele sound like Coltrane.

This bag is the idol behind the bar. Fanged, snarling, tongue out, orange grain still wet from the carver's chisel — teal war paint around a mouth that's already talking trash. Flip it and you're on the other side of the door: hibiscus red, palm green, the ocean doing its thing. Two moods, one long happy hour.

Skates the fast side clean, sits down HARD on slow. Pour something rum-forward, tell your partner to bring a jacket, and let the tiki do the talking. Order the Tiki.