Will P.'s Profile

I spent the afternoon reading reviews of this place on Yelp after establishing that I would accompany my friend on a Friday night for his free drinks and my half price ones. The reviews were quite scary, and I was nervous about my decision to attend.

Let's start with the first impression. No line, and so I figure I can walk right up the door, show my ID, and waltz right in. Wrong. The bouncer bluntly tells me, "you gotta go around." Huh? Ohhhh, walk 10 feet down the block and around the fancy red fencing that held the "line." Gotcha. Makes total sense.

I get a wristband thrown on, and I'm in need of a drink. It's loud, crowded, and virtually no clear pathway to the bar. I'm also not informed of the one drink per wristband policy, and so I figure I am smart by ordering two beers at once, since I can't envision myself getting close to the bar again. Wrong. I am scolded by the blonde bartender in the world's tightest collared shirt and an insane amount of hair gel. I apologize sincerely for my mistake, since it's clearly my fault.

I had read about the spilling factor in someone's review - it's true. Lots of kids, the sloppy drunk kind, who have a tough time carrying their whiskey sours from one side of the bar to another. I can smell the red bull/vodka on my shoes right now.

It seems odd to judge a place based on their bathrooms, but I feel compelled to say something about theirs.

A bathroom attendant?? Really?? The bathroom is small, really small. I nearly smashed the attendant with the door on the way in. Talk about a terrible job. I walk in, and the attendant "presents" an open urinal to me. Awkward. I take the one on the end in a row of three. As I go, I see 3 or 4 dudes stand and wait as opposed to using the unoccupied middle one. Is the clientele at Turtle Bay really just a bunch of shy guys? The way they are eye-balling and hollering at the female patrons, it doesn't seem that way.

Back to the bathroom attendant. When it's time to wash my hands - and I appear to be in the very small minority here, LADIES - he's got the soap ready to squirt in my hands, so I accept. I wash, I dry, and head for the door (which is a half a step away from the sink, which is where the attendant is sandwiched). He stops me. He's pointing at the frigging tip bowl. I think to myself, well, since he pointed at it, and he is the bathroom attendant at a really crappy bar, I'll give him a buck. Just get me out of here.

11 o'clock comes and my friend is hammered. Smashed. Thank you bartenders for continuing to feed him alcohol despite his visible intoxication. Classy.  

Bottom line: come here only if you are really in need of a funny Yelp review. Now that I got mine, I don't see myself returning to Turtle Bay or this neighborhood for a long time. I'd give it 0 stars if I could, but then again, I'm pretty happy with the review I got out of my visit

28 years of my life without karaoke just didn't seem right.

So I shipped out to Korea to train in their legendary singing rooms while I "taught" English during the day. I butchered great songs and poured way too much Hite down my throat to ease battered vocal chords, and pretty soon my year was up and I was ready to take on American karaoke bars. Korea taught me that "Sexyback" is no easy task to sing and dance to, and there's really no reason for a man to sing Christina Aguilera.

And so I was thoroughly pleased that my first "official" karaoke experience was at Hula Hula. They have a crazy extensive songbook (a page and a half of George Strait tunes might be a little much), but on the right night, you can essentially sing as much as you damn well want to (Tuesdays!). Aside from a forgetful waitress, the wait staff's cool and the DJ looks like 1990s Weird Al.

Weekends are a far different crowd (and much larger) -- lots of collared shirt/hair gel types -- not necessarily my thing, but decent for people watching/gawking.

Though I miss the days where you could sleep on a couch until its your turn to sing in Korea, karaoke at Hula Hula packs the randomness and silliness punch that ruining songs should.

I once went out for Indian food with the fam when I was 12 or 13 years old. And, like most obnoxious kids at that age, I was not welcome to eating something that was not pizza or a bowl of cereal. I protested, and I went home hungry and unhappy. And I haven't stepped foot in an Indian restaurant since.

Why it took me so friggin long to eat Indian food as an adult, I do not know. It's not like I haven't been open to the idea, maybe it's cause the right person hadn't come along and introduced me to it. Well, the right person came, and we went to Cedars and she's even more awesome for it.

Since I am pretty much an Indian food virgin, and yet haven't yet developed a level of snobbiness towards the quality of Indian food I eat like some of the peeps on Yelp, I really liked my food. My tandoori chicken tikka was really, really good and the garlic nan bread was delish. Our waiter was even cool, and they even prepared my counterpart's dish without cream in it.

Now call me naive, rip me a new one over my Indian food ignorance, but I enjoyed my dinner at Cedars and I would recommend it to anyone who, like me, hasn't had much Indian food experience. But then again, I might also recommend it to someone who has been around the Indian food circuit a few times, too.

And though a bit out of place, I thought hearing Gloria Estefan's "The Rhythm is Gonna Get You" on the way out was somehow completely awesome.

What took me to the Baranof on Valentine's night, I'm still not sure. I giggled to myself walking by this establishment weeks earlier over the advertisements on their windows, bragging about "warm beer and bad service." I guess my presence in the Baranof was inevitable.

My friend who invited me put me on "dive alert" and rightly so. I had the oldest female bartenders that I can remember, and I peed next to someone who could easily pass as a transient. The men's bathroom had its own music piping in, but Marvin Gaye's "What's Goin' On" somehow made me forget the madness that was just a wall away. Did the bathroom have its own DJ? God, I hope not.

The presence of Canadian Tuxedos (jean jacket, jean shirt, jeans) was unusually high this Valentine's night, as was the number of women wearing figure skating outfits as tops. There was even one who combined the two. Sorry fellas, she was married. I asked.

Plus it was karaoke night and I was treated to a completely depressing version of Elvis Presley's "Can't Help Falling in Love" by a hammered 50 year old birthday boy (accompanied by only his niece), who's slurred words still echo in my head a couple days later.

Karaoke always brings out the best in everyone, or maybe this was just the usual here? I think I might have to go back sometime and find out.

And break out the denim.

Before I went to the Lo Fi for the first time I did a little "yelp research." Basically, from what I read, is the Lo Fi is a cool little place with expensive drinks. Being broke, I was scared by this.

But I picked up my ball bag and gave up $5 for funk and soul night on Wednesday. Then, to my surprise, there were $2 PBR Tall Boys, and $3 wells. Then, the music started and it was actually good. Then all of the sudden, I found myself in the middle of the dance floor, surrounded by happy people, some having rhythm others looking like Elaine Benes. Then, it dawned on me.

I was having fun.

But most importantly there were $2 PBR Tall Boys. I dare you to look in a man's eyes and have him deny the beauty of such a low price for this Blue Ribbon winning beer.

Especially this man. Cause I woke up Thursday with a smile in my pocket and money on my face. Or was it the other way around?

Damn PBR.

I figured that my first review as a new Yelper should be somewhere good. I love this venue, its lighting, artwork, and atmosphere... I even love the bathrooms. Potentially my favorite potties in Seattle.

The food is excellent, love the Asian fusion. Love drinking at live shows. Beer and live music is like celery and peanut butter - it just makes the celery taste a whole hell of a lot better.

Yet I've struggled with the whole concept of eating 7 flavor beef while trying to give the artists my attention. I love going to shows, and part of what I love is the standing for extended periods of time in anticipation of the band you love taking stage. And after they do, I love the fact that my knees ache afterward. Here, I find it difficult to concentrate on what was happening on stage, while I scoop double dunk spring rolls, hoping my date doesn't notice. Maybe my multi-tasking needs work. Maybe coming to the Triple Door more often is good practice.

All in all, the Triple Door is a unique place to have dinner or drink beers, see comedy or watch a live show, or maybe do all at the same time - but only if you are coordinated enough.

I'm still working on that one.