The Mambo Lounge
WASHINGTON, D.C. -- I live in Bachelor Hell. Ok, its not exactly Hell. In fact, I find it kind of pleasant, well, no, bachelor pads arent pleasant – that’s the point. Cozy? Nah, not cozy. Cozy and pleasant sound like what your girlfriend turns your bachelor pad into after she moves in. That is hell. Throw pillows are hell. No throw pillows here.
This is a piece of paradise. But of course, paradise would be a stupid name for a bachelor pad, at least for a heterosexual bachelor. I call my place “Chief Enrico’s Mambo Lounge.” It makes girls laugh. It makes girls want to see it. It does the trick. The women who are already in my life cringe when they see it or hear about it -- especially my mother and sister. “Grow up, you’re breathing down 30, you can’t live in Enrico’s little paradise forever you know.” Yes I can, I say as I drop the needle on a Bobby Darin album.
I remind them paradise is a dumb word for a bachelor pad. Although I do try and invoke images of what paradise will be like if I ever get there. Tiki Lamps, Pictures of Frank Sinatra, Plastic Polynesian masks, and 3,000 of those little umbrellas that go in drinks when you are in Hawaii. In the kitchen is the first thing I bought when I rented my basement Mambo Lounge – a bar cart. Every bachelor pad needs a bar cart. The great thing about it is that a bar cart serves to give the Mambo Lounge just the right touch wen you’re serving up a Mai Tai and telling stories. Even better though is when someone comes to the Mambo Lounge for Swordfish at 4:30 AM after a night of nightclubbing and chatting up its wonders – it functions as a kitchen island. My excellent culinary skills-- learned at age 14 because I knew that one day I would be cooking swordfish in my Mambo Lounge and if I did it well, it would impress chicks -- are more impressive when executed on a kitchen island than a mere countertop. Countertop cooking is tacky, uninspired, lame, not the kind of cooking we do at the Mambo Lounge.
All around the house are various bits of immortal adolescence. My kitchen clock exclaims, no matter what time it is, “It’s MARTINI time!” The bathroom is filthy, I covered some of the nasty parts of it with piles of seashells I brought home from Florida. I thought “sand is better than grime.” The fridge and cabinets are filled with the trappings of bachelorhood, well at least my bachelorhood: caviar, diet coke, 4 different kinds of gourmet olive oil, a 10 lb bag of peanut M&Ms, a bag of frozen scallops, 5 different bottles of wine, a Mango, a Kiwi, a rotten bag of red-leaf lettuce I’ve been meaning to get rid of, ½ a bottle of gin, six huge jars of special Jamaican curry powder you can only get at one little store in North Miami, ½ lb of sun-dried tomatoes, and a 3 lb can of chopped clams for a chowder I’m going to make in a few weeks. That’s it. Friends come over and shake their heads that I have caviar, but no ramen or pop-tarts. I hate both. Ramen sucks. I’ll eat my own hand before I get hungry enough to eat ramen. I had beer. A shelf of my fridge was devoted to cans of Schlitz. My ex-roomate came over and drank it all though. That’s why I buy Schlitz.
The living room is the heart of the Mambo Lounge. It’s the closest to a tiki-bar you can have in a basement on Capitol Hill. Plastic Polynesian masks, bought for $2 each in Miami and brought back as carry-on luggage. As much bamboo furniture as I could afford (one chair), pictures of the rat-pack, and the cast of Goodfellas, Japanese paper lanterns (with obligatory red lightbulb) and a string of skeleton lights – each skeleton holding a paper umbrella from a previously consumed drink.
Clothes litter the floors of all the rooms. When I have an important piece of crumpled up paper in my pocket, more often than not a shady phone number, I tack it to the wall – wherever I want. I don’t have a T.V., because I don’t need one. The Mambo Lounge is a show in itself. I go out when I want, and when someone comes over, it isn’t to watch T.V. If I want to watch T.V., I go to Tunnicliff’s Tavern. They put on whatever I want, if I ask. Why not go out to watch T.V.?
The bedroom is the best part. As the only room without a window, it is perfectly adapted to its purpose. If I’m up all night and I sleep until 3:00 p.m., no nasty light disturbs me. The only sound that penetrates this room is the sound of the neighbor’s dog barking. I plan to murder the dog, so this is only a temporary problem. No problems are forever in the Mambo Lounge.
So, if you’re ever on Capitol Hill, listen carefully. Follow the sound of the dog barking, as you approach, you’ll hear the sound of Martinis being shaken, Bing Crosby on the stereo, and you’ll maybe smell a nice Tuna Steak with Mango Kiwi Chutney being cooked. Peek inside, it’s the place with the red Japanese lantern. If you look through bamboo curtains and see a couple of guys and gals – all dressed like its Miami beach 1963, joyfully draining their Mai Tais, you’ve found the right place. Come on in, kick back on the bamboo rocking chair, have a bite, a drink, and relax. This isn’t bachelor hell, and it isn’t paradise. This is Chief Enrico’s Mambo Lounge, and you’re all welcome.
This is a piece of paradise. But of course, paradise would be a stupid name for a bachelor pad, at least for a heterosexual bachelor. I call my place “Chief Enrico’s Mambo Lounge.” It makes girls laugh. It makes girls want to see it. It does the trick. The women who are already in my life cringe when they see it or hear about it -- especially my mother and sister. “Grow up, you’re breathing down 30, you can’t live in Enrico’s little paradise forever you know.” Yes I can, I say as I drop the needle on a Bobby Darin album.
I remind them paradise is a dumb word for a bachelor pad. Although I do try and invoke images of what paradise will be like if I ever get there. Tiki Lamps, Pictures of Frank Sinatra, Plastic Polynesian masks, and 3,000 of those little umbrellas that go in drinks when you are in Hawaii. In the kitchen is the first thing I bought when I rented my basement Mambo Lounge – a bar cart. Every bachelor pad needs a bar cart. The great thing about it is that a bar cart serves to give the Mambo Lounge just the right touch wen you’re serving up a Mai Tai and telling stories. Even better though is when someone comes to the Mambo Lounge for Swordfish at 4:30 AM after a night of nightclubbing and chatting up its wonders – it functions as a kitchen island. My excellent culinary skills-- learned at age 14 because I knew that one day I would be cooking swordfish in my Mambo Lounge and if I did it well, it would impress chicks -- are more impressive when executed on a kitchen island than a mere countertop. Countertop cooking is tacky, uninspired, lame, not the kind of cooking we do at the Mambo Lounge.
All around the house are various bits of immortal adolescence. My kitchen clock exclaims, no matter what time it is, “It’s MARTINI time!” The bathroom is filthy, I covered some of the nasty parts of it with piles of seashells I brought home from Florida. I thought “sand is better than grime.” The fridge and cabinets are filled with the trappings of bachelorhood, well at least my bachelorhood: caviar, diet coke, 4 different kinds of gourmet olive oil, a 10 lb bag of peanut M&Ms, a bag of frozen scallops, 5 different bottles of wine, a Mango, a Kiwi, a rotten bag of red-leaf lettuce I’ve been meaning to get rid of, ½ a bottle of gin, six huge jars of special Jamaican curry powder you can only get at one little store in North Miami, ½ lb of sun-dried tomatoes, and a 3 lb can of chopped clams for a chowder I’m going to make in a few weeks. That’s it. Friends come over and shake their heads that I have caviar, but no ramen or pop-tarts. I hate both. Ramen sucks. I’ll eat my own hand before I get hungry enough to eat ramen. I had beer. A shelf of my fridge was devoted to cans of Schlitz. My ex-roomate came over and drank it all though. That’s why I buy Schlitz.
The living room is the heart of the Mambo Lounge. It’s the closest to a tiki-bar you can have in a basement on Capitol Hill. Plastic Polynesian masks, bought for $2 each in Miami and brought back as carry-on luggage. As much bamboo furniture as I could afford (one chair), pictures of the rat-pack, and the cast of Goodfellas, Japanese paper lanterns (with obligatory red lightbulb) and a string of skeleton lights – each skeleton holding a paper umbrella from a previously consumed drink.
Clothes litter the floors of all the rooms. When I have an important piece of crumpled up paper in my pocket, more often than not a shady phone number, I tack it to the wall – wherever I want. I don’t have a T.V., because I don’t need one. The Mambo Lounge is a show in itself. I go out when I want, and when someone comes over, it isn’t to watch T.V. If I want to watch T.V., I go to Tunnicliff’s Tavern. They put on whatever I want, if I ask. Why not go out to watch T.V.?
The bedroom is the best part. As the only room without a window, it is perfectly adapted to its purpose. If I’m up all night and I sleep until 3:00 p.m., no nasty light disturbs me. The only sound that penetrates this room is the sound of the neighbor’s dog barking. I plan to murder the dog, so this is only a temporary problem. No problems are forever in the Mambo Lounge.
So, if you’re ever on Capitol Hill, listen carefully. Follow the sound of the dog barking, as you approach, you’ll hear the sound of Martinis being shaken, Bing Crosby on the stereo, and you’ll maybe smell a nice Tuna Steak with Mango Kiwi Chutney being cooked. Peek inside, it’s the place with the red Japanese lantern. If you look through bamboo curtains and see a couple of guys and gals – all dressed like its Miami beach 1963, joyfully draining their Mai Tais, you’ve found the right place. Come on in, kick back on the bamboo rocking chair, have a bite, a drink, and relax. This isn’t bachelor hell, and it isn’t paradise. This is Chief Enrico’s Mambo Lounge, and you’re all welcome.
posted by Enrico Giamondi at 4:48 AM
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