United Nations of Beer

Tom's Little Havana

by Jill Lutes
(Beer Delegate, NS, Canada)

Tom's Little Havana
Halifax, NS, Canada

Everything about the night sounded dodgy. If you'd been eavesdropping in my house, you'd have heard snippets like "Well, you go into the bank, right? And then you go out the back through this other door..." and "Andre the Giant or the Jolly Green Giant? How will I know what to wear?" or even, "Can my nickname be Fidel? Since we're going to Tom's Little Havana?"

We get the Giant thing right in the end (or rather, J-Bird did, since she's the only one who donned underwear over tights for the wrestling theme at the party attended later) and find the bar (you DO have to go into the main doors of the Bank of Montreal first AND through another bar, which may slow down some less-determined drinkers).

Nobody got to be Fidel. We do nickname the bathroom Little Guantanamo Bay, though. It's clean, but there's some seriously questionable action going on in the stall next to K-Dawg at one point.

Sporting a brand new cold, I follow the girls into the dark bar, praying that beer will cure my ailing head. Lo and freaking behold, it does. A pint of Garrison Red and I start to feel better. The folks at Buckley's (gross cough syrup, anyone?) have nothin' on these guys. AND it tastes good.

We crowd around a table by the window in the back, perch ourselves on surprisingly comfortable swivel stools and squeal like five-year-olds when we find a deck of cards hiding behind the heavy drapes.

Among the five of us, nobody knows solid rules for Texas Holdem Poker, so we play Asshole instead. Ah, high school... The cards have holes in 'em, not because someone shot through them (K-Dawg apparently thinks the bar is located in a spaghetti western) but because they're leftovers from the Halifax Casino (which, contrary to its current ad campaign, is NOT just like Vegas, thank you very much).

The beer is great. Garrison is brewed locally and Strongbow, well, that’s called panty-peeler where I come from, but Newf and Bird seem to dig it. The food is also excellent. We ordered the house wings and Mediterranean dip with pita chips. Both are finished off in record time, which I like to believe has more to do with the quality of the food than our own gluttonous nature.

The music throughout the evening at Tom's Little Havana leans towards blues, emphasis on slide guitars, with a long stint of Tom Petty thrown in, much to the disappointment of the tankasses at the table next to us.

For the record, crazy girl with fugly haircut? There is no need to belt out Summer of '69 when Petty is playing. Shhhh. I don’t care that your friend stumbled over to our table at one point and, swaying in front of us, declared, "So much beauty... Jesus Christ!" You still suck at singing.

The highlight of the night at Tom's Little Havana was Golden Doodle Guy.

Halfway through our umpteenth game of Asshole, in strolls Chewbacca. Except he's blonde. Our jaws collectively hit the floor and Beater stares down at the table, murmuring, "Is it a man? Is it Bigfoot? Who knows?"

When he heads back our way to go out for a smoke, we haul him over and beg to know where, in the name of all that is holy, did he get his coat? He beams with pride and starts to tell us the story of his mother, who raises dogs. Golden Doodles, to be precise.

"My mom raises Golden Doodles, so she made me this coat-"
"Oh my GOD. She made you a coat from her dogs? How many dogs does it take to-"
"It's not made of dogs!"
"Oh." Awkward pause. "Good."

We let him go outside after we'd all posed with the coat and settled back in for one last hand, before sending Newf off to Cheers and the other girls to the party.

The verdict? Tom's Little Havana rocks out even more without the smoke... and Garrison Red is great for what ails ya. Suck it, Buckleys.