San Diego Unseen: An Urban Portrait
Enrique Limon
- Photo by Lizeth Santos-Roberts
“Working man’s bar” doesn’t even begin to describe this place, so leave your Avenida Revolución expectations at the door. In fact, leave your life expectations at the door. If the Chee- Chee Club had an illegal hep-C-ridden cousin, this (glory) hole in the wall would be it.
Located on the 600 block of Avenida Constitución in TJ’s fabled Zona Norte, its distinct location—on a prostitute-laden street across the way from the city’s cathedral and the deep-fried copyright infringement, Kentucky Fried Buches—makes it ground zero for prime people watching.
Discovered by chance on a 2 a.m. streetpancake expedition (they’re the new tacos— trust me), I was greeted by a friendly toothless woman who signaled me to come in. She went by “Manina,” a slang term used to denote “godmother,” and had a nauseating natural smell of fried chicken gullet and White Rain hairspray (Maximum Hold).
Before you could say bibbidibobbidi-booze, she cleared out a table of passed-out paisas and accommodated my group of five. With my thumb firmly placed atop my beer bottle so the house roaches wouldn’t mistake it for a glassy Slip ’n Slide, I took a moment to take in the sights.
I spied a water-filled 40-gallon trash can used to flush the toilet every now and again, a Homer Simpson drawing hanging bar-side that a patron made when he was too down-and-out to pay his tab and, oh yes, the handful of regulars that call this place home. Grizzly and weathered, no one looked fully human. In fact, I could almost swear a goat in a dress was sitting at the table to our right.
I shudder to think what the old Pachanga looked like.
Armed with an arsenal of dollar bills, my jovial buds and I took over the juke and got the party started. A bar-wide sing-along to Ricky Martin’s “Livin’ La Vida Loca” ensued, and an impromptu stripper-pole routine involving Manina and an exposed pipe followed.
It was like Coyote Ugly, except a helluva lot uglier.
The piéce de résistance? A gem by tropical group La Sonora Dinamita titled “La Cumbia del SIDA” (The AIDS Cumbia), whose viral beat made even goat girl get up and rhythmically graze about.
Maybe it was the gods smiling down on me, or perhaps it was a wave of Manina’s wand, but exiting the joint, I spotted the fabled white buffalo of food vendors, Señor Pancakes, setting up shop.
Positively heavenly.
