May We Never Speak of This Again

April, 2008 - Buenos Aires, Argentina 

When the Argentina guidebook tells you to avoid “Boca: the most dangerous neighborhood in Argentina”, it kind of makes you want to go to Boca.

Lonely Planet is right. This hood is no joke. It’s home to the second most famous soccer team in the world, the Boca Juniors (behind Manchester United). Unsurprisingly, Boca yields some of the most violent fans on the planet. We would later find out that a soccer fan died in a fight before this game. 

On this particular evening, the Boca Juniors are facing off against a club called River, another dominate team and #1 rivalry. These are cheap thrills people. For just $9 USD, you can watch a futbol game behind barbed-wire fencing while opposing fans throw garbage on you. 

Back at the hostel, we contemplate the pros vs the cons of making this trip. The innkeeper recommends we wait until there is a daytime game to avoid added danger. (Soccer gangs tend to get away with more beat downs by the cover of night). Our crew of four young men (myself, Mick Fallon, O.D., and "The Other Brett") comes to the following conclusions…

Cons: Getting heckled, robbed, stabbed, nunchucked, injured, dead.

Pros:  Probable fun

Even though none of us really like soccer, the group opts for adventure over repercussions. So, O.D., The Other Brett, Mick Fallon and I take the train down to Boca at night. We pick up Jerseys of the hometeam, deciding that wearing blue shirts will decrease the chances of getting shived.  We arrive in Boca Stadium. The sun is falling behind the skyline, leaving the neighborhood in cold darkness. A River fan begins to heckle O.D. as we are pushed like cattle through a maze of barbed-concrete walls. O.D. talks some shit in Spanish as the natural density of the crowd separates the two men before an altercation presents itself. Shoulder to shoulder with hostile strangers, we do our best to cover our pockets and keep each other’s backs. After 15 minutes, we are still being herded through the Berlin Wall concrete barriers toward the stadium. It feels like a zombie apocalypse film as the infected city is being evacuated. I am sweating like Kobe Bryant in a Colorado courtroom. 

20 minutes later, we arrive at the holy gates of Boca Junior Stadium. The stadium resembles that of a prison playground where Ving Rhames would make Hell’s Angels his twinks. Tall, baren walls keep the compound surrounded as the Boca fans in blue are kept on separate decks from the River fans in red.  Construction fencing topped with barbed wire separates the insane fans from the field. In South America, soccer is as much of a religion as it is a game. Due to violent Boca Junior support groups, Boca Stadium is one of the more dangerous places to see a match. Fireworks and glass bottles are commonly smuggled into the stadiums. Subsequently, “Football Hooliganism” has been added to Wikipedia. Noting the following about Argentine soccer…

In 2002, the Argentine government announced emergency security measures because football violence continued, with three people dead and hundreds injured in two weeks. Argentina also deals with three of the most dangerous organized supporter groups in the world, which are Los Diablos Rojos (from Independiente), Los Borrachos del Tablón (from River Plate) and La 12 (from Boca Juniors).

Imagine if America had a sports gang called “Los Diablos Rojos” that supported the L.A. Lakers. Rooting for Steve Nash would become the scariest thing since throwing Pepsi at Ron Artest. Argentine sports fans put American sports fans to shame, but that’s only because there’s no shame in knifing your rivals. Maybe that’s why Americans don’t like soccer.

In March of 2011, Colombian soccer fans dug up the coffin of a deceased friend who was also a huge fan of the local team. The group of hooligans carried the 300 lb casket past “security” and into the stadium, passing the dead teen like a crowd surfer as the game played on. Authorities commented that they “didn’t know how the men got the (8 foot) coffin past security.”

Entering Boca stadium, the four of us scrunch into the Boca fan section. We have the worst seats in the house, well deserved for showing up late. The locals get to the game supremely early to start their gameday rituals and rally their Boca allies. There are no seats, only large concrete steps covered in old gum and sandwich wrappers. The yelling is ceaseless from start to finish. 180 straight minutes of excitement dabbled in fear. 

As the game goes on, our friend Mick Fallon complains about having to “push a Harris”, which is college-code for the need to poop. As it is not a good idea to go the toilet solo, we urge Fallon to wait until the game is over. Fallon goes dead quiet for 10 minutes, then begins to ask again, more desperate this time. A fart cloud surrounds our vicinity. Smelling quite poorly, “The Other Brett” and I urge Fallon to use the toilet, regardless of the risks. He agrees and leaves for the restroom. I agree to go with. Like two schoolgirls, we squirm through the crowd towards the toilet area. Fart clouds are trailed every step of the way as I take them straight to the face.

The Boca Stadium restrooms are a marvel. Fire code doesn’t exist, and that’s fine. But the travesty here is that there is no plumbing. No plumbing in the country’s most popular sports arena. A line of soccer fans forms behind a small drain in the restroom, which fits only a third of the patrons in need of relief. The remaining people move out to the hallway to pee in the stairwell like ducks in a row. There are now more people urinating in the stadium hallway than the restroom itself. Void of options, I join in the public urination and proceed back to the game, leaving Fallon in line to wait for the only toilet stall.  Walking back to the seats, I climb stairs as rivers of piss run onto my shoes.

The score is 3-0, Boca, which pleases us in a sense that we won’t have to deal with excess fan rage that could result from a nail-biter. With only six minutes left in the game, we begin to worry about Mick Fallon, who has been gone for almost an hour at the toilet. With sixty seconds left in the match, Fallon returns, shirtless. There was no toilet paper. There is no shirt on Fallon’s back. He grins a little. You might say it was a shit-eating grin.

The final horn rings. Boca wins 3-0. Fans of the away team begin to rampage on the upper deck directly behind us. I look behind me to see River fans unzipping their pants, peeing on us and the Boca crowd below. Alcohol is not even served on the premises. These people are quite possibly stone cold sober. Argentine peckers hang over the guardrail as golden showers pour from the sky. Garbage and dirty water complement the streams. We pull our shirts over our heads into “Cornholio” mode. Half-naked Mick Fallon provides comic relief to the demoralization consuming us. May we never speak of this again.

Lawrence & the Machine

“You have broken the law, and now I will punish you in money”, states the officer at the Vietnam-Laos border crossing. “What? You’re going to punish me in money?” replies Lawrence Cambridge, a tall and gangly British Chap sharing the bus ride with me.

Lawrence and his UK counterpart Bill Gee have expired Vietnam Visas, making the border crossing into Laos a challenge. The two bash brothers have been traveling 6 months together, sharing expenses even if it means sharing a bed; budget travel professionals. Our crew has coined them “Lawrence and the Machine” due to their ability to rip through cigarettes without fatigue. They are rodeo clowns of the road, but their fun circus is about to be tarnished by a Vietnamese rent-a-cop looking for a bribe to feed a nicotine habit of his own. Their Visa had expired just one day prior. Sadly, Lawrence & the Machine are shit out of luck, cash and cigarettes.

We are in the middle of the Laos jungle, straddling Vietnam with nothing but mud, sticks, and straw huts for miles. It has been 14 hours of dirt roads on a rusty bus void of any fans, leg-room, or breathable air. The 16 of us are packed onto a 10-man bus along with live chickens and metal roofing needed to supply a primitive Laos border village, which only gets about two to three deliveries per week.  

It’s also the rainy season, so some roads have become rivers. Our jalopy mini bus had forded two rivers since the inception of the journey. The Vietnamese bus driver takes off his shoes and walks ahead into the river, squatting to study the curve of the earth like Greg Norman before missing a game-changing putt. Our driver feels out the flooring of the rocks for a proper place to drive across. He returns to the bus, guns the engine and plows us through 4 feet of water that nearly rushes through the dirt-glazed windows. “This chav is totally mental,” notes Lawrence as we trot up to the border. 

Now, it is time to face the music. The border patrol does not even have a computer, much less the Internet, which leads to a three hour VISA processing afternoon of ink and paper. This is an operation that normally takes 20 minutes, but we’re in the jungle baby, and we’re gonna die. 

“I speak to my boss upstairs. Then punish you in money,” states the officer as he trots up the stairs with Lawrence’s passport. Lawrence and the Machine appear to remain calm. “I’ve never been so unprepared for a border crossing. These are still just empty threats,” states Lawrence as he burns through his last Marlboro. “This guy is a wanker”. 

My time has come. I hand the other Laotian officer my passport. He appears stern when he sees I am American. In the Vietnam War, the US actually bombed Laos harder than Vietnam, and unexploded US bombs still go off on Laotian farmers to this day. I swallow nervously. My Adam’s apple pops through my skin like Sigourney Weaver’s veiny Alien belly. My Visa passes, and I am not punished in money.

Meanwhile, an old Spanish couple chips in some dollars to the Lawrence fund to help pay the troll toll. “Proceed”, says the officer. Lawrence and Bill Gee wipe the sweat out of the eyeballs and we pile back on the bus.

So in the end the Machine was “punished in money”, an extended synonym for a fine (or bribe). It sounds more like a consequence for a grand theft auto felon or repeat offender of drug smuggling.  I haven’t been “punished in money” since my 2005 traffic ticket for speeding down Coffee lane on caffeine, 13 over. Bush-league. The crew piles back on the bus to be punished with another 10 hours of potholes and river fording. To my left, Lawrence peers deep into his wallet. It peers back emptily in shame, punished and lonely, void of all currency.

Dead in America. (Live from Vietnam)

“Is that…? No. Can’t be. Can it?”.

Oh but it was. As I wait for my flight to Asia, Britney Spears is sitting in the terminal across from me sporting bug-eyed shades and a posse of giant chisels. Spears is flying out after a Milwaukee Summerfest performance the night before. From this point on, Britney Spears would follow me for the rest of the journey across Vietnam. 

Spears is enormous in Nam. Her videos are in regular rotation on any music channel and her face is in the minds, hearts, and magazines of Vietnamese kids and adults. Her promiscuous image is the same that it was ten years ago, and it sells hard. Spears’ lyrics are jammed with as many sexual innuendos as the FCC will allow. Avril Lavigne is even bigger than Spears. There is a strange pop culture delay that hits Vietnam 4-10 years after its peak in the USA. What we thought was dead in America people will die for in Vietnam.

But the undisputed champion in concert popularity is The Backstreet Boys. The boy band phenomenon that dominated the American 90’s is alive and touring in the arenas of Nam. While boy bands were an addiction many Americans would prefer not to talk about, Vietnamese of both genders will wear Backstreet Boys shirts loud and proud. Notably, there is a popular clothing line called “Backstreet Boys”. Whether this brand is officially licensed by the band remains unknown. Either way, someone is cashing in on Howie, Brian, AJ, and Kevin.

Overall, the live music landscape of Vietnam is an odyssey of cover bands that study American Rock n’ Roll from top to bottom and back to top.  The guitar players will memorize the solos of Stairway and Hotel California note for note. The lead singers will imitate Steven Tyler to the last crow’s foot. And for some odd reason, half of the band always wears T-shirts of old school American rock bands. This would be like Dave Grohl wearing a Foo Fighters shirt during his own show. It is an unwritten cardinal sin in concert etiquette and only accepted in Western culture if…

A)   You are a dad wearing the shirt of your kid’s band

B)   You are at a Journey reunion performance

C)   You are Vietnamese, and you are at a Backstreet Boys concert

But the rules don’t apply here. Vietnam is a country where the drunk driving penalties are a $15-20 fine. Jaywalkers hate it, but Mel Gibson would love it.

As the night continues, the locals take me to “Seventeen Bar”, a live music venue that looks the old-west theme at Six Flags Great America. Plastic wood lines the rails and over-sized cowboy hats arm the wait staff. It’s a John Wayne movie set gone wrong, but the band is tremendous. They cover everything from Ozzy to No Doubt in perfect Western dialect (yet they don’t speak English). The guitar player wears a tattered Guns n’ Roses T-shirt as he rips the guitar solo to “November Rain”. The drummer rocks a black Motorhead tee and the bass player lingers in the cig smoke with a Kiss tour shirt from the 80’s.  They play through “Crazy Train” and make sure to cover at least two songs from each respective band T-shirt. Ozzy would be proud, Gwen Stefani would be flattered, and Axl Rose would definitely take them to court for infringement on his material.

Vietnamese man sings "Livin' on a Prayer" at Karaoke

CRASH COURSE IN DEATH DODGING

Getting hit by cars has generally been a good experience for me. As it stands, I am not dead. I have all four limbs, and I maintain the same generic face I was born with 24 years ago. Walking away unscathed feels pretty decent the first time, but when it happens twice, there’s never a better moment to waste a dollar on a lottery ticket.

The first time I was drilled by a Sierra Cutless Supreme while on my bicycle. Riding down the sidewalk, I was quickly T-boned at a neighborhood cross street. The shredding of metal polluted the air as I flew 8 feet off the bike landing softly on my ass, unscratched. Kevin Harrison, the lad who crashed into me, was a 23-year-old college grad from Madison, WI. He was totally sober but completely drained from another 14-hour day selling wheelchairs to the elderly over the phone. This was Harrison’s first full-time job, and telecommunicating to Old Man Clemens was sucking his mind dry from any ability to operate a motor vehicle. Upon impact, Harrison flipped out, panicking “dude, I’m so sorry! You okay, you okay? I hopped up from the road high on adrenaline, missing a shoe. I was holding my head in disbelief, not from pain. At that moment, Harrison thought he was going to prison for sure. “I’m fine. I’m fine.” I said. It was hard to tell if Harrison was crying out of fright, or out of elation that I was not hurt.

Harrison gave me $60 to repair the barely-damaged wheel on my bike, which was a ghetto cruiser to begin with and would ride for another year unrepaired. Its tattered frame was worn down from all the late night trips to Taco Bell in college. Harrison’s financial donation would later be transacted for 50 Chicken Burritos from T-Bell. A man had just been paid for getting hit by a car, and that man was me. I celebrated Christmas in July while Harrison was dancing with Miss Misery. His car was barely worth more than my bike, his job was poo, and he dodged killing a man by a few miles per hour. 

Rapper 50 Cent always bragged about getting shot (or at least his PR team did). Who could blame him? It’s cool in a fuc*** up way (like competitive drinking or Mohawks). While getting hit by a car is notably less cool, it remains in the upper echelon of ways to dance with death and tell about it. People like to say, “It’ll be a good story to tell my grandkids,” but I’m not going to say that, as it may jinx me into getting hit by another car.

Where do child stars go post-glory? Facebook.

On October 3, 2010 I became Facebook friends with Buzz from the film Home Alone. I’m not talking about the “Buzz Fan Page”, I mean the actual dude. His real name is Devin Ratray, a 34-year-old humungous man who has since retired from acting to pursue film production. (Peaking at the age of 14, I would probably retire too.) Buzz is best known for eating the last slice of cheese pizza coveted by Kevin McCallister (Macaulay Culkin), leaving McCallister to sleep on an empty stomach with bed-wetter cousin Fuller. Below is the only exchange I ever had with Ratray, which was clearly a ploy for him to accept my “friendship”.

Brett Newski: “Devin, thanks for the autograph last weekend. You’re the man!”
Devin Ratray: “No problem. Anytime!”

Ratray has since “unfriended” me from Facebook for reasons unknown. I did not find this out until today, after spotting a bootlegged copy of Home Alone at a Vietnamese DVD stand. It was a reminder to my only cyber friendship with a celebrity fallen from glory. On this day, I too feel like I have fallen from glory.

AGENT ORANGE is probably the greatest travesty in US war history. The War Museum in Saigon is horrifying, but you don’t have to go there to see its effects on the Vietnamese people. Children and grandchildren of Vietnamese exposed to Agent Orange in the Nam War are born with deformities to this day. Short, crippled arms and legs are a common sight around the city. Those without the care of families will use a skateboard as a wheelchair. The “Agent Orange” section of the war museum is the kingpin of depression in an already sad collection of US War Crimes. This chemical turned fully-grown men into mutated trolls void of eye balls, limbs and reasons to smile…ever. Damnit America. And also, everyone should now hate the already shitty punk band “Agent Orange” just by association.

After two hours of intensity at the Vietnam War Museum, I joined a tour group out to the war fields of suburban Saigon. On the bus, we were briefed on the history of the Vietnam War in broken English over an extra broken Karaoke speaker system.

Having a tour guide you cannot understand is like having an overweight personal trainer. Distraction from the task at hand is inevitable. I slumped back in my seat, hiding my headphones under my hoodie as not to offend Joe, our 4 foot nothin’ Vietnamese tour guide leading the bus to the famous Cu Chi Tunnels. These tiny, underground holes were the Viet Congs base of operation for the Tet Offensive in 1968. They are about the size of an ass crack, or maybe a piece of computer printer paper, but no more. Not even one half of an American person could fit in some of these tunnels. Since the war, the tunnels have been widened to fit Cheeseburger shaped American bodies for tourism purposes.

As you know, tourism gift shops are generally tacky, overpriced, and encompass Webster’s definition of “terrible.” But not this one. In the Cu Chi gift shop you can forget about novelty T-shirts. Here, one can actually buy tickets to the gun show. For just $1.50, you can shoot an AK-47 or an assortment of other Rambo artillery from the war. (In Nicaragua, you can blow up a cow with a Bazooka for $200, but the Vietnamese are just more tasteful). One can also buy sandals made from a Goodyear tire for $2.50 USD.

We complete the tour. Our guide Joe is pumped up about his job, rattling off his war knowledge at 300 mph in Vietnamese English. I try to concentrate, but can’t look away from the four-inch long solo grey hair dangling from his chin. Despite communication barriers, I love this old guy. Joe informs me that his two favorite bands are CCR and the Jimi Hendrix Experience, both of which he discovered during his time as a hippy intellectual during Nam. No fightin’ for Joe. What a fortunate son.

Vietnam: Stalking Bill Clinton

In the summer of 2010, I urinated next to Dan Auerbach of the Black Keys at Lollapalooza. Since there were only two Port-O-Johns for ten patrons, I waited in that toilet line for six minutes next to the Keys guitarist. Auerbach is the most down-to-earth celebrity I’ve ever met. He is almost permanently stone-faced, but mini shit-eating grins present themselves if you look closely. He cracked tasteful jokes about Lolla representatives slacking on the personal hygiene component of the media tent.

Waiting in line is a mundane event no one looks forward to, except Dan Auerbach. For once in his day, Auerbach is able to dodge the frenzy of media tape recorders and tight-jeaned reporters that ask him the same question in 100 different ways, “tell me about your new breakthrough album ‘Brothers’.” At this moment, I am happy to talk about portable toilets with Auerbach, and so is he. If I didn’t slam that Blue Gatorade just 60 minutes prior, I would have never met Dan Auerbach. Blue Gatorade is essentially melted cotton candy, but on this day the aftertaste was that of the nectar from God’s balls. This was the highlight of last summer.

This summer is different. The highlights present themselves in different shades. I am sitting in a Saigon, Vietnam alleyway stealing Internet from a wireless hotspot labeled “Dang Dung”. It rains fat cats and un-neutered dogs against the sheet metal roof as I attempt to drown out the noise with my iPod (playing the “Brothers” album). The alleyway runs just 6 feet wide. I catch whiffs of “Black Menthol Marbolo” from the Vietnamese shopkeeper across the way. He smells like cabbage, but I don’t mind. There has never been a better moment in time to inhale cabbage and cigarettes in unison.

Lugging my guitar halfway across the globe, it became time to hack away at this 6-string. Setting up in the alley, I fake a Bob Dylan tune on harmonica. A small Saigon crowd gathers in mild amusement. A middle-aged deaf woman takes particular interest, placing her hand on the neck of my guitar. She stays here for nearly an hour, feeling the vibrations up her arm while I adlib one of the seven something verses to “Hurricane”. She can’t hear a thing, but feels every song. Her enthusiasm is exciting, motivating and heartening. After the jam, we communicate simple questions via notepad and she invites me to lunch at her restaurant next door, Pho 2000. I look at a framed photo on the wall. I’ll be damned, it’s Bill Clinton eating curry at this very eatery back in 07’. Nice. I hope he sat in this very chair. My Vietnamese date smiles at me from across the table. I did not have sexual relations with that woman.

Billy C at Pho 2000.

Vietnam: Life is 1/4 over; "Back when I was in Nam."

It’s three days after the demise of my band, my life’s work of the past 4 years. I’m in between jobs with a small travel fund set aside from playing Beatles covers in Midwest suburban pubs. Time is on my mitts. Time to do something weird. At the moment of this documentation, it’s 3 a.m. I am sitting in the Bangkok airport, typing next to a peg-legged man from the slums of Narnia. The airport looks like a state-of-the-art NASA space station, but the clientele is less flashy. His teeth are scurvy ridden, his vision is cockeyed, and his raspy broken English cuts in a shivering dialect. “Yu gimme da goola money freela,” says the Goonie monster. I would be scared if I wasn’t sitting across from the tourist police office.

“Sorry man, I don’t have any goola”, I reply. He looks pissed. This man is one eye patch away from a Captain Blackbeard that would make Ferdinand Magellan pee in his jeans. I’d change spots if it weren’t for the only power outlet is under his seat.

There are 3 more hours to kill before my flight to Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam. On my budget, getting a taxi to a pricey airport hotel would be pointless, so I opt for the airport bench for some shuteye. Clutching my baggage I zonk out for no more than 30 minutes, too pumped up to sleep. Traveling the developing world with no itinerary, I’m elated.

The flight to B-cock was incredible. I ate eel next to a cute Chinese girl from Beijing. She was grouchy. Her sister had pawned off her 6-year-old boy for the second time to visit his relatives in Chicago. She spoke minimal English, but I could comprehend it was a chore of a trip for her. “I sick of lil kid,” Chinese girl says. I laugh. She laughs. We talk about American rock n’ roll. Trying to find common ground, I ask her if she has ever heard of Arcade Fire. “No. Who dat?”, she responds. I counter, “you know U2? The Bono Man?” Notta. I rattle off the 5 most popular bands I can think of. Nothing. China is definitely a shielded world, and the following quote says it all. “I like you but we can’t be friends because the Government no let us have Facebook,” she says. We exchange laughter over our language barrier. Somewhere along the line I must have said something right, and she offers a back massage. I realize the chronology of my dialogue doesn’t yield the charisma suave enough to deserve a back massage, but I got one. I wouldn’t believe me either. We land in Beijing and she departs with her sister’s kid. “Bye! Miss you later,” she says. I feel loved.

Back in the Bangkok airport, I hop a plane to Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon). The flight was rather uneventful except for one remarkable element; there were footprints on the bathroom mirror. Footprints on the bathroom mirror?! Who joins the MileHigh Club on a 90-minute flight? Glenn Goulia maybe? Outrageous.

Completely cracked out from lack of sleep and excess of 7/11 fish-flavored snacks, I arrive at the Bee Saigon hostel in Nam to stumble upon my best amigo for the next three days.

“I’m kind of going through a quarter life crises,” explains Griffin Randolf, a 24-year-old garage rocker from Brooklyn, NY. This seems to be a common theme among travelers. They are either in-between jobs, addicted to travel, dodging reality, or more commonly, a combination of the three.

I get this kid. He too is in between bands and work. He offers travel tips and gives me his albums for free. Randolf’s coolness goes beyond the blessing of a full-on stage-name on his birth certificate. He has a conservative hipster combover, but lacks all the arrogance of trendsetter majesty. “I got a massage yesterday. This tiny Vietnamese lady was walking all over me like a sexy ninja. I tried to fight off the boner, but dude it was impossible. Pretty embarrassing.”

His honesty is commendable considering that’s the third thing he ever told me. Randolf had recorded an entire album on GarageBand before having his laptop stolen just 2 days prior. Having a laptop (with Garageband), I felt for the dude. We grab food down the block and talk about our rock n’ roll hopes and dreams.

Here’s an idea of how far your dollar goes in Vietnam (in $USD)…
• Restaurant meal - $1.50
• Accommodation w/ air con - $3 to $9
• 1 bottle of beer from 7/11 - $0.60
• Haircut - $2
• 30 minute massage - $3
• Hand job - $4

I’m not condoning HJ’s, BJ’s, or TJ’s, but it gives you a better grasp on the sliding scale of Vietnamese goods and services.

Ho Chi Minh City (Saigon) is a sprawl of controlled chaos. Motorbikes dominate every inch of road and sidewalk while cabbies mêlée for your business. Stop signs are generally disobeyed and crossing the street becomes a thrill in itself. Children sell fake Lonely Planet books for $2 (In past travels I met a young kid who worked for a business of selling these pseudo books on Ebay. The US Government caught him and destroyed his credit score, but spared him prison time since he was only a middleman). The buildings are tall and slender, stacked close together like Dominos. Copious signage hovers over the sidewalk. Mobile venders watch your every move. In one block’s walk, a tourist is bound to be hounded by 3-4 dudes selling sunglasses, lighters, and/or marijuana. The best part about Vietnam is that crime is extremely mild. Despite the hectic nature of the beast, it’s generally safe to walk anywhere at anytime of day. I love it here. The food sits atop the totem pole of culinary goodness (as Anthony Bourdain would attest). I recommend everything on the menu, even the cooked dog.