BAR EXAM: They’re Playing Our Song

And making our margarita at Paradise Cantina

Matthew Scott Hunter

Well, not exactly. But she was determined to visit the establishment, and it seemed like every time she came to town, it was closed. The last time it had been for remodeling. We get back in the car and thumb through the newspaper in search of a Plan B.

"How about there?" Lisa suggests.

"Where?" I ask, my eyes darting around the page.

"There."

She's not pointing to the newspaper at all, but to a bar across the parking lot. Of course. How silly of me. This is Las Vegas, and when one bar doesn't pan out, there's likely to be a substitute somewhere on the same intersection. In this case, it's the Paradise Cantina.

We head past the outdoor tables that have been deserted for the winter and step into a bar that stands in stark contrast to the sleekness of the Rainbow Bar & Grill. This place looks like someone ate three bars and a Corona advertising campaign and spewed it all out ... but in a really good way. An extraordinarily busy beach mural has been painted on the walls, and the room's tables seem scattered about without concern for order or geometry. The ceiling is covered with so many banners, ads and inflatable toy airplanes, it almost looks like the clutter could come to life, reaching down to grab you. All the decorative disorganization adds up to something decidedly less stuffy than what you find in most bars.

In the glow of the red ceiling lights sits an eclectic crowd, dressed in everything from baseball caps and T-shirts to fancy suits. Lisa and I take refuge in an empty booth and examine the menu. One side's devoted to Mexican food, the other to a variety of margaritas—clearly the joint's specialty, given how many margarita glasses hang prominently over the bar. The Cantina even serves breakfast now that it's open 24 hours on the weekends, in case you need an order of huevos rancheros and a shot of Bacardi to start your day off right.

As we wait for our taquitos and "Cabo Coconut" margaritas (which either taste like piña colada-flavored margaritas or margarita-flavored piña coladas), Lisa insists we play some sort of game.

"How about quarters?" she suggests.

"I've always hated quarters," I say. "Leave it to a bunch of drunks to invent a game that involves bouncing the least bouncy object possible into a glass."

"Well, how about this," she says after a moment's contemplation, "we'll listen to the songs that play, and I have to guess whether you like the song or not, and you have to guess whether or not I like it, and we'll keep score." Oh, boy. This seems like a loaded game. If I lose, not only does that mean I'm a loser, but it's proof that I'm a lousy boyfriend who doesn't know her at all. This has the potential to ruin the whole evening. But it's still better than quarters.

The first song the jukebox serves up is Stevie Wonder's "Superstition"; one of our mutual favorites, it immediately ties the game. Tom Petty pleases our ears next and is followed by a number of other good songs. The score is 8-8 by the time Marvin Gaye chimes in with none other than Our Song.

"This game sucks," I declare, "but at least the music's great."

"Hmm," Lisa muses. "I do have a whole bunch of quarters. Sure you don't want to use them?"

"Only to keep the jukebox going."


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