Tijuana bars: Young Mexican artists and musicians lead today's scene
http://www.ocregister.com/articles/bar-598267-friend-dance.h...
TJ bar crawls used to mean American students and cheap drinks. Is it safer today?
BY JORDAN ENGLAND-NELSON
Jan. 21, 2014
We're packed into a plywood booth, drinking dark beer out of milk carafes and smoking cigarettes – indoors! – just because we can. Out front, the
barista peddles facial-hair-themed shots to mustachioed indie kids and their pixie girlfriends.
On our way out, we pass the DJ, who is spinning electronic music, drinking from a red plastic cup and sporting a well-manicured handlebar mustache.
“Mexican hipsters?” is all my friend can muster as we leave the bar, called Mous Tache. He looks at the rack of fixed-gear bicycles parked out front,
then turns back to me. “What is going on here?”
What is going on is the emergence of a hip new bar scene in downtown Tijuana. It has taken weeks of cajoling, but my friend and I are finally here,
ready for a long night of beer, loud music and lots of ironic fashion statements.
Lax liquor laws and cheap, often raffish entertainment have drawn generations of Southern Californians looking for a good time. But an explosion of
drug gang violence in the past decade and the increasing difficulty in getting back across the border have spooked many Americans from making the
trip.
But over the past four years, Tijuana's reputation has rebounded. Drug violence is down – even though a State Department travel warning remains in
place for the city. The innovative “Baja fusion” restaurant scene has been praised in The New York Times, The New Yorker and on PBS. Slick travel
magazines are again venturing to shopping, spa and beach spots in and around Tijuana.
As they return, Americans are finding the Tijuana drinking scene has moved beyond old stereotypes. Sunrise still comes before last call, but now
adventurous Americans can share the bar and dance floor with young Mexican artists, musicians and DJs – rather than drunk gringos.
For those who are willing to take a chance and give “TJ” another look, there are great times to be had.
The joy of mescal
The second stop on our TJ tour is across the street from Mous Tache. El Tinieblo is a dark mescal c-cktail bar with plush curtains, Louis XVI-style
love seats and faux chandeliers. The electronic DJs are killer and the bar's flavored mescal smoothies are tasty.
But they're a little weak. So with our spirits high and blood alcohol content still relatively low, I take my friend to a proper mescal bar across the
street.
The appropriately named La Mezcalera is the flagship of Tijuana's alternative bar scene. From the cheese-grater ceiling lamps to the floral Formica
tabletops to the grasshopper appetizers (or chapulines), this dive bar is a panoply of Mexican kitsch.
Its 18 varieties of mescal are served in metal tumblers and poured on the rocks (en las rocas) or over shaved ice (raspado).
The bartender tells me “real men” order the gusano, Spanish for “worm.” I thank him for his recommendation and order mint.
In the back is a darker and louder mini-dance club called La Mija, La Mezcalera's rowdy kid sister. It's got a light-up dance floor a la Michael
Jackson, Chinese lanterns and a pop-art mural of a rapturous Virgin of Guadalupe.
The place doesn't get going until after 2 a.m. Then around 3, when most Tijuana bars start to close, the grate out front gets pulled down and people
keep dancing until 6 a.m.
On the back patio, the DJ duo Latin Lovers is mixing up a storm of electronic dance music and live drum beats. The mescal is flowing, fists are in the
air and we are loving life. But I've promised my friend a proper bar tour, so we pull ourselves away from the Latin Lovers' sweaty beats and head up
the street to Calle Revolución (note: if you call it la Révu, you can be cool).
The scene on the sidewalks
The sidewalks are crawling with miniskirts and heels, leather jackets and pointed shoes. A girl with long, red fingernails orders a street taco. A
mariachi blows into his trumpet, and music pulsates from every building, a reminder that we are in a country without noise violations.
The cacophony comes to a head at the corner of Sixth Street (Calle Sexta) and Revolución, where flier-wielding clowns on stilts and girls in green
bikinis and black leg-warmers try to coax drunken passersby into nearby clubs.
It's getting late, so we skip Santa Leyenda this time, even though its lucha libre wrestling-themed bar and 1-liter steins of beer (called tarros) are
well worth a visit. Order it ruda and they'll throw in a splash of tequila.
It's nearly 4 a.m. when we stumble into Bar Hawaii. An aging drag queen looms on stage in a black quinceañera dress, complete with busty corset and
heels. With the cordless mic to her rouge lips, and wind – from the fan on the ground – in her hair, she writhes and twirls as she belts out a
mournful Mexican love song known as a corta venas, or wrist-slitting music.
The initial look of shock on my friend's face slowly dissolves as the infectious enthusiasm of the crowd – which spans a wide range of ages and sexual
orientations – washes over him. Everyone is singing along and cheering with genuine appreciation for these quite talented lip-syncers. We all know the
sting of unrequited love, and there is something cathartic about watching a 200-plus pound chanteuse sing her guts out about it on stage.
After the second act, my friend – who appears to be in desperate need of a toilet bowl and someone to hold his hair – tells me he's heard enough
karaoke. It's time to dance off some of this mescal.
On to the dance club
We exit and catch a cab across the river to the Zona Río quarter. I've heard this area is for fresas, or yuppies, but my friend doesn't care – he
wants to experience a real Tijuana discoteca.
So I take him to El Alebrije, a club I've never been to but have been meaning to check out. We pay the cover and saunter into a dance hall the size of
a small Costco.
Disco balls and chandeliers hang from the ceilings. A giant panoramic TV screen above the bar plays hip-hop videos. Scantily clad go-go dancers wiggle
and shake in the TV's electric glow.
On the dance floor, girls in tight skirts are grinding into guys with silk shirts and gelled hair. Bottle service is everywhere. Giant prints of 1950s
American film stars are hung on the wall.
The place feels so much like a club in Los Angeles that for a moment I forget we are in Mexico – then I go to the restroom and there's no running
water, and when I get back I see a woman selling roses on the dance floor.
After an hour, the fog machines and Top 40 pop music are too much for my friend and me to handle, so we head out into the predawn light of Sunday
morning.
Time for the trek back to the U.S.
As we're leaving the parking lot, we pass an ambulance manned by a couple of bored-looking EMT officers. I ask them what they're doing there.
The woman casually draws her thumb across both her checks, in a cutting manner. “Peleas,” she says. Fights.
I ask her if the city pays for them to be there, and she looks at me like the stupid, drunk gringo I am.
“They pay,” she says, pointing to the club.
Now I understand why this place is for yuppies. The entrance fee comes with health insurance.
We grab a taxi back to the border, where a guy on the sidewalk asks us for spare change. He says he was recently deported and is now trying to make it
to Tecate, where he says he has family. This is not the first time I've heard this story, which is not to say I don't believe it.
We give him the rest of our pesos before breezing through customs.
When we come out on the U.S. side, we make a beeline for the golden arches in front of the San Ysidro trolley stop.
Half an hour later, we are riding the trolley back to our hotel and stuffing our faces with deliciously greasy goodness.
“It was a fun night,” my friend says as he wipes a rogue piece of Egg McMuffin from his 5 o'clock shadow. “But it tastes good to be home.”
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