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    New England Tiki
    New England Tiki
    New England Tiki
    Ebook178 pages2 hours

    New England Tiki

    By Kevin Quigley

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    About this ebook

    New Englanders are as far away from the South Pacific as any American can be, yet when tiki fever gripped the country in the mid-twentieth century, even they were not immune. Tropical-themed restaurants and bars sprang up in the unlikeliest of places, from coastal cities to far-flung suburbs. Places like the Hu Ke Lau, the Aku-Aku and the Kowloon were packed every night. Decades after the fever ended, it re-emerged as a new century dawned, and New Englanders took up the mantles of Polynesian pop to escape to places of tropical leisure in their own backyard. Local author Kevin Quigley dives deep into the region's unusual history with tiki culture.
    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherThe History Press
    Release dateJun 12, 2023
    ISBN9781439678190
    New England Tiki
    Author

    Kevin Quigley

    Kevin Quigley is the author of the novels Meatball Express, I'm On Fire and Roller Disco Saturday Night , as well as the short story collections Damage & Dread and This Terrestrial Hell . His stories have appeared in the Cemetery Dance anthologies Halloween Carnival and Shivers , the bestselling Shining in the Dark anthology, the thriller collection Death of a Bad Neighbour and Lawrence Block's upcoming Playing Games . Quigley is also known for his monographic work on Stephen King (including The Stephen King Illustrated Movie Trivia Book, Chart of Darkness and Stephen King Limited ) and for The Sound Sent Shivers Down My Back , a deep exploration into the Oregon folk-rock band Blitzen Trapper and their seminal album, Furr. He lives in Boston, Massachusetts, with his husband, Shawn.

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      Book preview

      New England Tiki - Kevin Quigley

      INTRODUCTION

      I was barely twenty-one the first time I had my first tiki drink. Well, that’s stretching it a little. I was at a karaoke night with my friend Jim somewhere in suburban Massachusetts, and the place was serving Chinese food and exotic cocktails. Jim and I split a pupu platter, in part because it came on a platter shaped like a volcano, with a divot on top for Sterno. I’ve long been a sucker for fried food dipped in sweet sauce, especially if it was served to me on fire. Jim also ordered a scorpion bowl, and though I was a teetotaler most of my young adult life, I consented. Something to do with the novelty of drinking from comically long straws. Did I like it? Man, did I. Syrupy-sweet with just the barest touch of alcohol. Exactly what a kid who had no experience with drinking might want. I also got a little tipsy, which was fairly unusual to me. I don’t think I liked that part of it. For much of my adolescence and young adulthood, I was too tightly wound to ever really be on island time.

      Flash forward to 2019. Over two decades had passed, and I found myself in California with my travel buddy Jeff. We’d met through a mutual love of Disney parks, and we were both enamored of the Enchanted Tiki Room— the in-park attraction where the birds sing words and the flowers croon— and the Trader Sam’s bars in both domestic Disney resorts (the one in Walt Disney World is officially called Trader Sam’s Grog Grotto, and it’s a part of the Polynesian Village Resort, another Disney tiki place I was inordinately fond of). I still wasn’t a big drinker, but I’d developed a taste for coconut rum and pineapple juice over the years. This, combined with my love of Disney’s faux-Polynesian spaces, convinced Jeff that while we were in California, we needed to go on a tiki bar crawl. He knows the sort of themed entertainment that makes me giddy. Tiki, as it turns out, makes me giddy.

      I was in San Francisco for work, but when the night came, we would start to hit bars. As I said, I started off my adulthood teetotaling, so the very concept of a bar crawl was novel and a little scary to me. I hadn’t been in a bar regularly since my husband and I stopped going to the scene bars in Boston once domesticity swaddled us in its clinging, soft embrace. What I didn’t know then was that San Francisco was one of the loci of both the original tiki explosion in post-Prohibition California and the tiki resurgence that started taking hold in the late 1990s. I was just going because it seemed like a neat experience, another aspect of that Midcentury Modern thing I was so all about. I didn’t know it was going to be an inflection point.

      In San Francisco, we visited Smuggler’s Cove, a three-story tiki paradise with two bars and exceptional theming. Everything felt like it was under water. The walls and ceiling were festooned with nautical bric-a-brac. A small fountain lit from within burbled under a staircase on the lower level, glowing blue and adding to the ethereal feel of the murk of the place. The drink menu sprawled out before me, with names like Aku-Aku and Three Dots and a Dash and Doctor Funk. All of it was strange, the first new drink language I would have to learn since discovering that Starbucks was using fake Italian for beverage sizes, a concept that charmed me so much I learned to like coffee.

      As it turned out, I liked tiki drinks. I liked the Sidewinder’s Fang. I liked the Jet Pilot. And once we got our fill at Smuggler’s Cove, we lit out for a jungle-themed bar called Last Rites that purported to be the ruins of a downed commercial airplane in a remote jungle island. The place smelled of burned cinnamon and adventure. The seats were 1950s airplane seats. Giant skulls glowed from the dark walls. It was feeling more and more like a new world was opening up to me, a world removed from the Disney fantasies I’d always loved—but not that removed. The Tiki Room, the entire concept of Adventureland, the Jungle Cruise—those were influenced by places like these in the 1930s and ’40s and ’50s, and here we were, full circle, with revival bars and restaurants at least in part influenced by Disney’s concepts.

      We headed to the Tonga Room, the legendary establishment in the basement of the Fairmont Hotel. A lagoon that dominates the room hosts musicians on a floating barge, and every once in a little while, thunder rumbles and lightning flashes and there’s a rain shower inside. How did this happen at places outside Disney? What magic had gripped these bars that made them so astounding? My world travel so far had supported my Disney habit. Yes, Jeff and I went to Tokyo to see Tokyo…but we also spent a lot of time at Tokyo Disneyland. Ditto Paris, ditto Hong Kong. This was something entirely different. This was going to a regular, normal city and finding a lushly themed environment hidden away, ready to make your dreams of adventure come true. Were there any places like this back home in Boston?

      From San Francisco, we moved to Palm Springs, booking a room in a Midcentury Modern motel called the Orbit In—yes, with one n—and the whole thing was atomic age poptimism at every turn. Seriously, from the amoeba clock on the wall to the Formica table to the rocket ship–shaped ice bucket in the living room, our whole room looked like a Charles Phoenix fever dream come to plastic life. Maybe that’s another reason tiki draws me in. It doesn’t look or feel like the futurism that excites me so much about the aesthetic of the 1950s, but the whole Polynesian thing existed at the same time, for the same people. Tiki and Midcentury Modern are connected, and not just because they share that curious architectural touchstone, the jutting A-frame. Already I was thinking about tiki history, and why it happened when it did, and why it seemed to be happening again.

      Palm Springs, and the continuation of our tiki crawl. First, a trip to the Tonga Hut, which was nice, but I didn’t know about the hidden room, and we drank out on the balcony instead of in the themed indoors, and there was karaoke happening. Then, The Reef at Caliente Tropics, a semi-seedy tiki-themed hotel with one of the more classic tiki bars on the West Coast. They were silently playing episodes of Magnum, P.I. on the TV and playing yacht rock overhead, and while it wasn’t the tiki sounds of classic exotica or more modern surf rock or hulabilly, I was very into the smooth sounds of Christopher Cross and Michael McDonald. The bar was lit up gorgeously in blue, and the bartender, who had a way with a Nui Nui and a Rum Runner, was kind enough to tell us about Bootlegger Tiki, just up the road a piece.

      Ah, the Bootlegger Tiki, dark inside, swathed in red as though we were in the glow of a volcano. Gorgeously low-brow black-velvet paintings of half-nude wahines hung on the walls, while Jeff and I hung at the bar, sipping drinks with complicated, thrilling garnishes, like tropical hideaways in a ceramic tiki mug. Was this my fifth drink of the night? Sixth? It didn’t matter. Waiting for me at the end of the night was a Mid-Mod hotel room in the shadow of the San Jacinto Mountains, and I was perfectly happy to be squiffy in a place like that.

      Los Angeles followed. We couldn’t miss the Tiki-Ti, even though at the time I wasn’t quite aware of the deep tiki history in which I was imbibing. That would change. We ended our trip at Disneyland and the original Trader Sam’s. Jeff by then was sick of rum. I was just getting started. My brain was on fire. I wanted to know everything about tiki, about these fake Polynesian places, all the whys and wherefores. Later that year, I went on my long-delayed honeymoon, and I did it in Hawai‘i, where my husband and I could actually look out on the waters of the South Pacific, and I could see some of the real influences behind these artificial spots back on the mainland.

      Back home in Boston, I started seriously to think about my home and what sort of tiki was to be found there. After all, the places I’d been in California were darn near tropical already. Didn’t a place like New England need exotic escapes more than those West Coasters did? I started to read books on the subject (the first being California Tiki, by Jason Henderson and Adam Foshko, part of this very series). Then the pandemic hit, and I was stuck inside for days at a time. There were days in which sometimes all I had to do was read books about tiki history: Sven Kirsten’s The Book of Tiki, Beachbum Berry’s Sippin’ Safari, all the History Press tiki books, more and more. I’d had no idea there was so much material on tiki history, tiki architecture, and tiki mixology just out there, waiting to be studied by an eager novice. But it occurred to me that virtually none of the books I read, none of the resources I consulted, talked about tiki in New England. Once in a while, they would mention Kowloon, the giant pan-Asian restaurant in Saugus, Massachusetts, out on Route 1, but it usually only got a passing glance. Was there really no tiki history here?

      There was. And there had been. And there was about to be. In New England, tiki was all over, but it didn’t assert itself. We Yankees like to keep things close to the vest, and we like to do things our own way, and that includes our faux-tropical hideaways.

      If New England tiki was going to be found, it would have to be done by a curious, patient, and persistent tiki aficionado.

      That’s where I come in.

      Prologue

      FROM PILGRIMS TO PROHIBITION

      A SHORT HISTORY OF NEW ENGLAND, BOATS, AND RUM

      The Mayflower landed on Plymouth Rock in 1620, carrying scores

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