Trader Vic's: The Hilton Tiki Hut

Lyrics

You leave Peachtree Street at the door.
Down the carpeted stairs of the Hilton.
The air gets heavy, sweet.

October, 1970. The light dies.
And here... a permanent twilight.
Bamboo walls that don't grow.
Fishing nets that never caught a thing.
The wooden gods, their eyes carved wide open, staring at nothing.
Water whispers from a fountain in the corner, a man-made lagoon.

But then the glass arrives.
Cold, sweating. A sprig of mint.
Victor Bergeron's little boast from 1944.
He said it was a sensation.
A delicate taste... of Jamaican rum and fresh lime and just enough orange curaçao to make you forget the Courtland Street traffic.
One Mai Tai.
Or maybe two.

A scent of smoke from the kitchen.
From those Chinese wood-fired ovens.
Someone orders the pupu platter.
It comes with its own tiny fire.
Crab Rangoon, crisp and hot.
Spareribs, sticky and dark.
We pass them around, a little ritual for the pretend islanders.

And the glass is refilled.
Cold, sweating. A new sprig of mint.
Victor's promise, delivered.
He said it was a sensation.
A delicate taste... of Jamaican rum and fresh lime and just enough orgeat syrup to make you believe in the illusion.
One Mai Tai.
Or maybe two.

For twenty-four years, this little boat was anchored in a concrete basement.
A perfect, beautiful lie.
And when it sailed away in '94...
the tide just went out.
The jungle went quiet.

Just the ghost of pineapple.
The last whisper of rum on ice.
So good it caused a sensation...
it really did.