Where Do You Water?

By Cecille Mauricio
Photos by George Cabig

          My editor asks me for a piece on “watering holes.” But I don’t frequent bars. And I don’t drink, bar the glass or two or three of wine with dinner out.  Or the drink I nurse to watered-down nothingness at cocktail parties…except French champagne, of course, which I can never have enough of. My idea of a “watering hole” is linked to cowboy-movie reruns where cattle stampede to the river and lap thirstily at the water.
          But when I do go to a bar, it’s to meet friends. And have one or two drinks before having dinner or before braving the traffic home. I go to places where there’s an honest-to-goodness bar and bartender—and I can sit in a bar stool. Where the smoke level is tolerable so I can breathe and not come out smelling too much like an ashtray. Where parking is reasonable and the prices not unreasonable. Where the bar’s geographically accessible, considering where I work, where I live. Because I do not hold my drink well, and I must be able to drive myself—and my vehicle—home in one piece.    

check out five bars (my editor said “just five”) because of all the above reasons.  With a drinking buddy in tow, one balmy Wednesday evening.  I, on assignment. He, to play bodyguard to me—and to rate the margaritas.
          First stop: Endangered Species on M. H. del Pilar. At 6:30 p.m., I still have my choice of parking slots (a fairly big one, with a valet too). Jungle/safari motif here with plants and animal drawings on the walls and lady attendants (only) in black and leopard-print outfits.  The bar is set apart from the dining area by glass walls.  Burnished wood with bar stools in the same dark wood.  The bar is empty save for a Caucasian man and his lady companion.  We take the two stools at the far end , and order a piña colada and a margarita from the smiling lady bartender. And can we also please have the Crustini?  The drinks come first.  The Crustini comes awhile later on a platter.  Six baguette slices, two topped with what the menu says is liver pâté and the rest with anchovy and cheese topping.  A salad of slivered vegetables on the side. A hefty serving really.  Not bad, but not that great. We leave the Caucasian man and his lady—alone at the beautiful, polished, spotlessly clean bar. My buddy says a lime juice concentrate went into his margarita.  And the margarita was served—not in a martini glass, but in a regular wine goblet.
          Havana across the Adriatico Circle is next.  I pull into the coveted slot by the curb, aided by the smiling parking attendant—a shriveled, little old man.  A loud “Hola!” is the mandatory greeting as soon as you enter. We make for the mirrored bar, set against the wall facing the entrance. I passon the establishment’s now famous mojito, the Cuban mint-and-white rum drink, and opt for a Cuba Libre. Our drinks come fast. So does the platter of meat skewers—morsels of pork, beef and chicken, each on a skewer served with a piquant salsa and fingers of fried, sweet potato.  Latino music is playing at an appreciable sound level.  An Antonio Banderas movie with English subtitles is on the video screens.  “Hola!  Señorita!”  One of the paisley-shirted waiters recognizes me. The friendly welcome is palpable here.  It must be the effect of the music. A lone Caucasian comes in to sit at the end of the bar. Red T-shirt. Khaki slacks and loafers. “Tourist” is written all over him. It’s almost 7:30 p.m.  Three more bars to go.  The meat skewers are excellent ; the meat nicely juicy and not overdone. My buddy declares the Havana margarita infinitely better than the one he had earlier.

e walk the short two blocks to Casa Armas on J. Nakpil St. The place is packed, as always.  But perhaps that’s because the restaurant-bar is crammed into what seems like just 70 square meters of floor space.  The bar is miniscule; sits about ten comfortably. My bag becomes a liability.  Can’t sit in the empty bar stool beside me.  Can’t sit on the bar, or my lap either. A waitress comes to the rescue. There are bar hooks under the bar ledge where my bag can hang safely, comfortably.  Bravo!  I order a margarita in celebration. The gambas al ajillo is perfection. Laced delicately with olive oil, chopped chili and gently toasted garlic. Bespectacled  Señor Jesus, the patron, is just two stools away from us, holding court.  Above the din of conversation, the trio singing Spanish songs hold their own. They spot us newcomers. Horrors!  They weave across the room to the bar and ask for a song that we would like them to sing. Nothing we say, but they sing anyway. Beside us.  I fidget. Must we tip them? And then the bartender, who looks more like a gentle grandpapa with graying hair and gold-rimmed glasses, brings a plate of boquirones. Compliments of Senõr Jesus, the lady bar attendant says.  What did we do to deserve this?  Fat white anchovies in a tangy marinade dusted with chopped parsely and fresh garlic slivers. Superb. My buddy says the margarita has a bit more triple sec and comes in second to Havana’s. But it’s the cheapest margarita so far, at P120.
          It’s a short drive to Republic of Malate on Mabini. Survival Café is on the second floor.  Perhaps because it’s a Wednesday and just a little after nine, the place is half-empty.  The bar seems like an excuse to hide the audio system and the cash register.  There are only three forlorn bar stools at one end of the bar. The end facing the audio system—and the audioman. We did try to sit at the bar but couldn’t face the night facing the audio system. But you forgive the state of the bar because of the handsome surroundings. High ceiling.  Wood floors. Filipino antique-reproduction table and chairs in beautiful wood.  Molave and narra, perhaps, some with bone inlay. Candles flicker away in corners and on tabletops. We take the table for two by the glass wall separating the main room from the wide terrace.  I think a beer will go well with the duck siopao and the San Xian, deep-fried tofu stuffed with ground pork, then glazed with what tastes like plum sauce. The menu is chic Chinese, coming as it is from the Good Earth Tea Room on the ground floor, now known for its nontraditional way with Chinese flavors. My buddy waxes poetic over the duck siopao and the stuffed tofu.  And the margarita?  Wimpy. A watered-down version of the original that has more sweet than kick.

incent’s Pub on Jupiter Street, Bel-Air is unpretentious. Friendly. Comfortable. The bar with its dark wood is always polished to perfection.  It’s like an island on one side of the room—and there are always people sitting around it. Banquettes on one side of the room allow for more privacy.  More tables across the room for the diners. But the bar is where the action is. Groups, doubles, singles all perched on the bar stools. Yuppies, corporate types with impressive titles (perhaps), expats.  All oblivious to everyone and everything, save for the pleasure of the drink. A dear friend introduces me to the frozen margaritas here.  It’s the only drink I will drink here, I tell my buddy. So he also orders a frozen margarita, and would I like something to eat?  The waiter kindly serves the hefty beef burger, already split in two, and the French fries on the side, apportioned equally.  The sultry lady singer is crooning a song that has the three men sitting across us, applauding lustily. My buddy pronounces the frozen margaritas excellent— and orders another one.
          It’s 12 midnight  when I get home. I barely make it up the four flights of stairs to my flat.  I don’t hold my drink well. I’m not cut out for bar-hopping.