Waikiki Silver and Gold

The rum flowed like a man-made waterfall at a cheesy Caribbean resort.

Arriving at Acacia for the second tiki takeover, Friend and I were greeted by a guy angry enough at his skateboard to pick it up, yell directly at it and then throw it on the ground in punishment.

"I arranged that just so people would see it and want to duck into the nearest bat," said tiki mastermind T, dressed festively in a flowered Hawaiian shirt and lei. You have to appreciate a man who not only slings a fine drink but has a sense of humor.

Having learned a few lessons from last year, we'd made sure to arrive right at 10:00 in hopes of beating the worst of the crush of humanity.

I'll concede that Acacia provided far more room for everyone overall, but the drink lines, at least initially, were just as long.

After being introduced to a chef recently returned from a decade in Italy, I joined one of the snake-like queues to procure a Scorpion Bowl for my date and me.

There were far more options on the tiki menu this year than last, although I missed how last year they had listed the year (or at least the decade) the drink had been created and become popular and in some cases, even where.

Let's face it, inquiring drinking minds want to know.

While in line, I ran into loads of people I knew, some curious how I knew the others (never underestimate the neighborhood connection). Make new friends, but keep the old.

Finally at the front, I watched as Danny (nattily dressed in a shirt with the sleeves torn off beach bum-style) combined Nicaraguan rum, brandy, orange lemon and orgeat in a hollowed out pineapple, topping it with fresh hibiscus, marigolds and miniature daisies.

And most importantly, a paper umbrella and two straws.

As I moved back through the crowd, person after person stopped me to find out what I had in my hot little hands.

Friend and I attacked the drink like Lady and the Tramp had their bowl of spaghetti, each doing our part to work it down as people stopped by to chat with us.

Like many people, I had shown up in tiki attire, which for me means a tropical blue Hawaiian-looking sundress and at one point, a girl grabbed my arm and began raving about my dress.

Let's be clear, this is a dress I ordered out of a catalog in 1995 and drag out every summer once or twice because it's still pretty, but not rave-worthy.

Next thing I know, she grabs her husband and pulls him in to check out my dress and tell me how much he likes it, too. For all I know they were crazy swingers looking for an entry point.

While quite a few in the crowd had donned tiki togs, I thought it a shame that Acacia was noticeably absent any of the decorative touches that made last year's tiki takeover so atmospheric. No blow up palm trees, no coconut heads, no fishing nets. No bubble machine, no crabs nor monkeys.

They were all missed, as was last year's DJ Puma spinning tiki-appropriate music.

Where Acacia excelled was in having made the tiki takeover a ticketed event with a tropical buffet included as part of the ticket.

Chef Dale Reitzer providing endless eats? Oh, hells yes.

The voodoo goat alone was worth the price of admission, long cooked, falling off the bone and redolent of allspice. The jerk chicken was tender, flavorful and addictive. More than one person told me they couldn't leave the fried plantains alone. A well-known chef was popping conch fritters and fried okra in his mouth like popcorn.

My second drink, hard won after an even longer wait than the first time, was the Ancient Mariner with aged Demerare and dark Jamaican rums blended with citrus and (again) allspice while my pal went with a Hurricane.

I moved around the room discussing the movie "Chef" with people who'd come from seeing it, got introduced to a Farmville bar manager who regaled me with anecdotes about sore privates and medicated cornstarch (and was positive I'd been in his bar drinking red wine) and hearing from a favorite server that she's moving to New Orleans in July (may as well jump head first into the heat and humidity, no?).

Before long it was clear that some people were going for the sprint and not the marathon, a rookie mistake if you ask me. A pro knows a four-hour tiki takeover requires pacing or you'll never make it to the end.

As people with spinning eyes and slurring speech began leaving, friend and I added glasses of water to our intake and kept moving around to let different people entertain us, like a guy in pink shorts so, um, fitted that my friend couldn't help but stare. He turned out to be friendly, sharing the source of the shorts and even showing us the elastic waistband under his stylish belt.

After another pass at the voodoo goat, we easily got our final drinks of the evening, mine a Painkiller of Navy rum, pineapple, orange and coconut (and touted as the drink of the British Virgin Islands) and hers an Ankle Breaker, a deep ruby beauty of three rums and cherry brandy.

It would have been at this point that we most missed a DJ since dancing would have been just the thing to expend some of that sugar energy we'd been consuming all night. But, alas, no.

Still, it had been a stellar evening out with a favorite girlfriend who doesn't get out much these days, and all the more unique because we'd spent it drinking cocktails, not our usual M.O.

But we also got our traditional late night gab session when I drove her home and we sat in the car for almost an hour talking about everyone, ourselves and life in general, windows down to the warm night air.

I especially loved it when she told me, "You're so good about grabbing the life that you want."

Fortunately, once a year that life comes with a little paper umbrella. And it is good, very good.

Welcome to Trader T's Tiki Bar

If you let too much time go in between visits with a friend, life happens.

In this case, my friend had been out of the country and experienced some major losses since our last get-together.

Like me, he is a level-headed, practical sort, but unlike me, he is an introvert.  Mostly, he is a good person with whom I always enjoy spending time.

Because he is the logical, organized sort, the day began with him sending me a list of possible places to meet.

He suggested six restaurants; two I'd been to last week, two I avoid like the plague and one didn't excite me.

I chose Magpie, near my house and consistently delivering interesting food.

He said to meet him at 6:20, but when I walked in at 6:18, he was already on the phone and in place, menus in front of him.

My punctuality has nothing on his.

Villa Wolf pinot gris seemed an ideal choice for a summer evening as Friend and I considered what to eat.

There was a tuna tartare special, so that was a given, along with ginger barbecue baby back ribs.

We followed those with Buffalo sweetbreads (house Buffalo sauce, Maytag bleu cheese, Hollandaise and celery ribbons), crispy bites of well-seasoned glands and tonight's house-made sausage, a pork and aged cheddar wurst that showed Chef Owen's mastery of sausage.

Oh, yes, and also supplied tempura shallot rings, a high-falutin' take on one of my diner favorites.

And, just to make sure our arteries clogged fully, we also got crispy pig head torchon, made completely decadent with duck egg aioli and green tomato relish made even better with the addition of pickles.

So while it gently rained on Norton Street just outside the window we were sitting next to, we consumed far more delectables than either of us needed.

More importantly, it gave us time to talk about all that had gone on in his life the past few months- the people lost, the lessons learned, the time well spent.

But lest it sound like we were all sad all the time, we also covered our usual subjects.

Which restaurants have declined, which are still home runs, which owners will never get a clue and how hard it is to order 300 cupcakes with only a morning's notice.

Obviously, my friend has completely different concerns than I do.

I spent a fair amount of time trying to convince him to join me for the Tiki Takeover, a pop-up tiki bar going on at Ipanema tonight, but he insisted he had to be a good worker bee and be up at 5:40.

After extending my sincere apology for anyone having to be up at that ungodly hour, I reminded him that I have limited cocktail experience.

As a wine or straight tequila drinker, mixology is not my forte.

Accordingly, I explained, I needed his expert guidance to navigate a tiki bar menu.

Plus I knew he'd be great fun to crowd-watch with.

And here's the measure of a good friend: despite his early wake-up call, he agreed to join me.

I took a quick detour home to change into my only Hawaiian-print dress and met him at Ips to be swept away to Tiki-land.

Walking in, we found a mob of people for an event that had (supposedly) begun seven minutes earlier.

Clearly Richmond has been severely tiki-deficient and the people were ready to roll.

Up front was a bubble machine blowing bubbles into the oncoming crowd.

The place was decorated well with crabs, monkeys, blow-up palm trees and coconut heads everywhere.

Paper lanterns hung above the bar, grass skirt-like fringe decorated bar tables and a fishing net was draped over the booths.

Mixologists T and Tim looked appropriately dapper in Hawaiian shirts.

DJ Greg "The Puma" was playing the best kind of tiki music, which to me sounded like songs  that made you want hula dance or take a dip in a blue lagoon.

Or drink exotic drinks and laugh with friends.

Given the hordes of humanity, the challenge was getting a drink, but my good buddy and I patiently waited in line until it was our turn to order from a menu of nine drinks (not counting the "12 and 2," a bottle of Hondurian Port Royal beer and a shot of Ron Matusalem rum), most notated with the year of creation.

Bypassing the scorpion bowl (1950s, serves 2-3), friend chose the Mai Tai from 1944, so I suggested we choose something from the '70s, too.

Just trying to mix it up. Ha!

That led us to the Singapore Sling, a bit daunting for a non-cocktail drinker like me, given its Plymouth gin, Martell VS brandy, cherry Heering and Benedictine, but if not tonight, when?

The Singapore sling came in a blue tiki glass with a yellow umbrella, possibly my first cocktail umbrella ever.

The drink was everything we could have hoped for - perfectly made so that no one flavor dominated and the overall effect, despite the abundance of alcohol, was smooth, blended and fruity.

In other words, the kind you could drink like juice and wake up the next day with little umbrellas between your toes and have no memory of how they (or you) got there.

Yum.

The Mai Tai was refreshing, but a little too lime-dominant, although we guessed that was due to the speed with which T and Tim had to make drinks and not to the recipe.

We took our drinks back under the fishing net where there was a little room to move and a far better view of the tiki crowd.

I saw lots of people I knew - the professor, the breakout musician, the mother-to-be, the roommate-seeker, a couple of chefs- and everyone agreed it was worth the wait for the cocktails.

The front and back doors of Ipanema were open, making for pleasant, slightly humid air coming in from the gentle rain, absolutely perfect for such an occasion.

When you're at a tiki bar sipping your first Singapore Sling, listening to songs with steel drums, you want your Hawaiian dress to stick to you just a little.

Because if not tonight, when?