There are certain things that immediately tell you whether you're going to enjoy a place. Sometimes it's the atmosphere, sometimes it's the drinks, and sometimes it's watching the owner full-on sprint out of the building to return someone's forgotten cellphone.
Honi Honi managed to establish the tone pretty quickly.
You can train people to take orders, make drinks and process payments, but you can't exactly manufacture the willingness to chase someone down the street with their phone. That sort of thing says more about customer service than a rehearsed greeting ever could, and it certainly left a good first impression.
Honi Honi is a tiki bar, which means the cocktails are allowed to be a little ridiculous. Frankly, I'd be disappointed if they weren't. Nobody comes to a place like this hoping for a restrained glass of something sensible. We're here for the tropical drinks, the poor decisions and the very real possibility of waking up in a gutter or sporting a Hawaiian-inspired tramp stamp you have absolutely no recollection of agreeing to.
After getting seated, I quickly realised that food needed to become a priority. With kitchen last call at 10:30 p.m., there wasn't much time to sit around admiring the decor and pretending we had all night. We placed our food order first, because cocktails are great and all, but there's only so long you can run on good intentions and rum.
The food menu was another pleasant surprise, although calling it a menu almost makes it sound more elaborate than it needs to be. It's minimalist, bowling-alley-style food, and honestly, that's exactly what I want in a place like this. Honi Honi isn't trying to be a fine-dining destination with an extensive list of carefully plated culinary creations. Sometimes you need something salty, greasy and carbohydrate-heavy to help prepare you for the questionable decisions that are about to follow.
I've never had a Mai Tai before, so when Travis recommended Honi Honi's version right out of the gate, I figured there was no harm in trusting the professional. What could possibly go wrong? The house blend of four Jamaican rums, dry curaçao, orgeat and lime certainly sounded inviting. Citrus, almond sweetness and rum are a pretty convincing combination, particularly when the whole thing tastes considerably more innocent than the ingredients would suggest.
It's a dangerous little arrangement, really. Tropical cocktails have a remarkable ability to convince you that you're drinking juice, right up until your liver starts drafting its resignation letter. If this was Travis's idea of a proper introduction to the Mai Tai, I can only assume he operates on the principle that you should experience the classics before your internal organs have the opportunity to file a formal complaint.
Who actually needs a liver?
Nat ordered the Occidental Beach after requesting a smoky cocktail. Travis asked whether she was after something that looked smoky or something that tasted smoky. Nat said she wanted both, but Travis coyly informed her that she got one, and he would be deciding which. Apparently, cocktail customisation has its limits.
The Occidental Beach arrived with the smoky flavour she was after, built around mezcal, green Chartreuse, falernum, cucumber, serrano pepper, cilantro and lime. The mezcal brought the smoke, while the cucumber and cilantro offered a fresher, greener contrast. The serrano added a little heat, with the Chartreuse and falernum bringing some herbal complexity to the mix. It was a more adventurous combination than the sweeter, fruit-forward tiki drinks, proving that not everything served under a tropical umbrella needs to taste like someone blended a fruit basket with a bottle of rum.
Then came the Cobra's Fang, which immediately sent me back to the annals of early YouTube, when the internet was a lawless wasteland of questionable animation, terrible audio quality and videos that had absolutely no business becoming cultural touchstones.
"Snake, a snake, oooo, it's a snake!"
If that reference means nothing to you, I'm also guessing you have no idea who Charlie the Unicorn is. At this point, I'm not sure whether to congratulate you on having a productive relationship with the internet in your formative years or feel sorry that you missed out on some of its finest cultural contributions. I'm sure your parents were thrilled either way.
The drink itself is built around Jamaican rum, Barbados rum and 151-proof Demerara rum, with dry curaçao, lime, passionfruit and Herbastura rounding things out. That's three different rum components, including one that could probably strip paint, before we even get to the other ingredients. The passionfruit and citrus help keep things tropical, but this isn't exactly a cocktail I'd recommend approaching with the confidence of someone who thinks they've mastered their alcohol tolerance after two Mai Tais. The name may evoke a cartoon snake, but the rum lineup suggests the real danger is considerably less animated.
The Chimp Empire was the second drink Nat ordered, and it managed to do something I don't come across very often: deliver a banana flavour that actually reminded me of bananas. Unfortunately, it also managed to drag up memories of that banana-flavoured nail polish parents used to paint on children's fingernails to stop them biting them. You know the stuff. Bitter, supposedly corrective, and somehow still recognisable as banana. It was an odd combination of actual banana flavour and childhood behavioural trauma, but there was something oddly satisfying about a cocktail managing to pull off both.
Honi Honi's version combines Hamilton Pot Still Black rum, Giffard Banana liqueur, 99 Bananas, dry curaçao, lime, coconut and Angostura bitters. That's a fairly committed approach to banana flavour. Between the two banana liqueurs, there's no real opportunity for the flavour to hide, while the rum, citrus, coconut and bitters give it a little more going on than simply drinking liquid nail polish. The result brought that oddly specific childhood memory straight back, which is both impressive and mildly concerning. I didn't expect a cocktail to unlock memories of my parents trying to modify my behaviour through chemical warfare, but here we are.
Who doesn't love a glizzy after dark?
Nat can't have gluten, so when the opportunity for a late-night glizzy presented itself, I took it upon myself to make sure she didn't miss out entirely. This involved carefully fingering the tip of the glizzy from its bun so she could indulge without the gluten.
The looks we received from the bar staff and other customers suggested that perhaps this wasn't the sort of culinary innovation they'd anticipated witnessing that evening.
I guess they've never tried just the tip. Just to see how it feels.
I'm not sure what people expected me to do. Leave her sitting there watching everyone else enjoy their hot dogs? That would hardly be good hospitality on my part. I was simply trying to make sure everyone had a good time, and if that required some questionable manual intervention with a hot dog, so be it.
You're welcome, Nat.
Then there was the Jet Pilot.
Literal jet fuel.
This was the plane that crash-landed Tom Hanks in the middle of the ocean, nearly drowned him, and ultimately left him stranded on a deserted island, where he slowly lost his mind and resorted to removing an abscessed tooth with an ice skate. Thankfully, my evening at Honi Honi didn't deteriorate to quite the same degree. I survived the flight without nearly drowning, ended the night without needing emergency dentistry, and managed to avoid developing an emotional attachment to a volleyball.
The Jet Pilot contained Bacardi Limitada, Hamilton 151, Rest & Be Thankful Jamaica rum, cinnamon, grapefruit, falernum, lime and Herbastura. At 2.5 ounces, this wasn't exactly a casual afternoon refreshment. Three rums, including 151-proof rum, made up the alcoholic backbone, while the citrus and spices rounded things out with that familiar tiki warmth.
At some point during the evening, I found myself wondering why a certain bag of Cheezies hanging on the wall didn't have a label. Before I could get an answer, the owner rushed past, caught the question on his way by, and offered the most concise explanation imaginable.
"It parties."
Well, that’s ambiguous.
What really made the evening, though, was the staff. Travis, Dani and Tom Nook (Ainsley? I'm pretty sure he was fucking with me) brought an energy to the bar that made the whole experience feel less like a transaction and more like being out with people who genuinely enjoy what they're doing. The sarcasm levels were impressive. Potentially concerning, actually. I may have finally found people whose natural inclination to give someone a hard time could rival my own.
That's not a compliment I hand out lightly.
There was also a nice bit of choreography behind the bar. Space was limited, so when things got busy, arms went up and over the bar to reach things without invading another bartender's workspace. It was a small detail, but I appreciated the awareness. When you've got multiple people working in close quarters, respecting each other's space makes a difference. Nobody needs to be elbowing their colleague in the ribs while trying to build a cocktail, particularly when said colleague is holding something that could potentially end the evening in a very different way.
It's the sort of evening that's difficult to manufacture. The drinks have personality, the staff are entertaining, and the atmosphere encourages you to settle in rather than spend the night worrying about whether you're behaving appropriately. Between the nostalgic cocktail flavours, the early-YouTube references and the staff who seem perfectly comfortable giving as good as they get, Honi Honi has a character that goes beyond its tiki decor.
And that owner sprinting out to return a cellphone? That's the sort of thing you remember. It's easy to talk about customer service, but actually going out of your way to help someone says considerably more than a rehearsed greeting ever could.
The only other question is whether you should start or end your night at Honi Honi. Honestly, I’m not sure it matters. If you start your night here, there’s a very real chance you won’t leave. If you end your night here, you’re probably arriving with the exact sort of momentum the place is designed to encourage. Either way, you’re going to get trashed.
Honi Honi managed to make an evening of drinking tropical cocktails, discussing questionable nail polish memories and engaging in late-night hot dog surgery feel entirely reasonable.
Would I happily get trashed here again?
Absolutely.
Just make sure you retrieve your cellphone before leaving, get your food order in before kitchen last call, and don't be surprised if the staff give you as much grief as you give them. Frankly, I'd be disappointed if they didn't.