Redwood Saloon

Located in the South End, on Cove Road, on the safe side of the hurricane dike gate, the Redwood Saloon has garnered a reputation as a biker bar, but on the night of the Barflies' visit, there was nary a biker to seen. Instead, the few customers that were there were drunken old men, or obnoxious loudmouths. The barmaid seemed more interested in shooting pool than tending bar, and, oddly enough, the two wall-mounted televisions were tuned not to a game or the news, but to Access Hollywood. One patron shouted to another, "Hey Jim- what'cha doin"?" Quickly came the response- "Fucking drinkin', what'da think?!" The draft selection was limited to Bud , Miller and Killian's Irish. Bagged potato chips, nuts, and pumpkin seeds were available to munch on. The bar itself, a small and nondescript brick building, can only be described as an odd semi-naive embodiment of some one's Jack Daniels and television induced idea of a western-style saloon. Outside, there were actually a couple of hokey hitching posts. Inside, an O'Keefian cattle skull hung on the wall. There were swinging saloon-style doors between the bar and the back room. But unlike the Long Branch Saloon- the classic drinking establishment from Gunsmoke- there was no sense of order provided by a Marshall Dillon, or amiability provided by a Miss Kitty. However, there was a bit of liquor fueled entertainment provided by a Festus Hagen-like regular named Bob, but was called Lefty by another regular, because of a lame right arm. This place ain't exactly about being respectful or gentlemanly. As can be expected, Mr. Mix made fast friends with Lefty, and the Barflies had to drag him away from the sparkling conversation that they were engaged in. This bar would have rated a 3, but the overwhelming stench of stale piss that Mr. Draft encountered when he used the lavatory spirals it further downward to a 2. Which is still better than Red J's Colonial Lounge. (Roll Call: Mr. Draft. Mr. Mix, Mr. Merlot, Mr. Cork, Mr. 3Boes)