I’ve always felt like Kendall is a Chinese finger cuff of a suburb. It isn’t particularly interesting (other than some dude who drives around with a weather vane and a toilet seat glued to his car), it’s swarmed with identical peach colored strip malls pumped full of Staples and Subways, the traffic sucks, and most of the nightlife is plagued with restaurant workers (usually still in uniform), coke heads, and local sluts with over-baked muffin tops. Yet, once in Kendall, no ever wants to leave.
Including myself.
So I swing on over to Scully’s Tavern (9809 SW 72nd Street, Miami), a Cheers-esque neighborhood type of joint, where, last time I was here, I witnessed a shitfaced old man in nothing but a wife beater and silver, metallic shorty-shorts busting sexy senior citizen moves to Credence Clearwater Revival all night long.
So, imagine how excited I was when I spotted an old man sitting at the bar nursing a glass of pink wine. I didn’t know if it was the same guy, so I stared at him closer, hoping to see the outline of a titty tassel secretly glued to his nipple and hiding underneath his thin, white, cotton shirt.
No luck. But I did notice he was flipping through a karaoke song catalog.
Shit.
I hate karaoke.
“What can I get you?” asked my bartender, Mark, a friendly but enthusiastically dorky man in his mid-30s. As someone started to sing a butchered version of “We Built This City on Rock and Roll” by Jefferson Starship, I gave him my usual spiel: "Make me your best drink."
He shook me up a margarita and placed it on cocktail napkin in front of me. I took a sip and was surprised to find that it was good.
But I didn’t want it to be good. I wanted it to be awful, so I could snark away at Mark and Kendall and karaoke and grooving grandpa who wasn’t wearing hot pants, titty tassels, or assless chaps, but was now bopping his head to the pathetic fuckery that was once Jefferson Airplane.
Fine, Scully’s. Be pleasant. But I’m going to need a few more drinks.
Mark’s Margarita: To be honest, it was better than good, it was pretty fucking fantastic – easy on the sour mix and swimming with well-blended Cuervo Gold for just $4.95. And, more impressive than anything else, it was the first margarita I’ve ever had that didn’t immediately give me heart burn.
Raspberry Truffle-tini: Mark’s own creation consisting of Razzmatazz or Chamborg, a clear white chocolate liqueur that I can’t for the life of me remember the name of (starts with a “b”), and good ole’ vodka. It’s thick, rich, and gives you that nice, warm feeling as slowly oozes down. Great for a lush with a sweet tooth. Also, it’s handy for karaoke, being that Mark hates martini glasses and pours this drink into a lowball, you don’t have to worry about spillage when you’re boozing and blaring the lyrics to “Total Eclipse of the Heart."
Baby Aspirin: Let’s just say it sounds like it tastes. A screwdriver with a pineapple -- or crushed-pill -- taste. Perfect for infant drug addicts! Or for women who enjoy knowing they’re about to get date raped.
Last Call
Scully’s is a pretty decent place, chill, welcoming, and pumped full of weekly events. Plus the people who work there actually enjoy their jobs, turning out quality drinks and grub since 1989. In comparison to karaoke songs, I’m going to equate the experience with “Santeria” by Sublime – a great tune that almost anyone can sing and enjoy, but after a few too many listens, it can get played-out.
