Picture it: a dimly lit hall illuminated by a line of rustic, brass chandeliers emitting a faint yellow light onto the slice of Cahuenga Boulevard just visible through the open door. A boar’s head hangs high on the wall, serving as a taxidermic spectator to the affairs below, too enshrouded in shadow to be suspect of cheap facsimile or costly verisimilitude. Yards down, an oxyn-colored bar stretches the length of the room, reflecting a mural of light: yellow from the glowing lanterns and variegated from the polychromatic bottles arranged seductively in a backlit cabinet. Opposite this extravagant display stand eight circular tables, their gloaming mien a perfect respite for the patrons of a more private disposition than the raucous guests steadily occupying stools at the bar.
Three bartenders dart amongst this throng, their hands ever moving to fulfill increasingly slurred behests. One, a tow-colored Englishman in a satin vest and ensemble intended to match the brooding palette of the furnishings, might own the place–or at least have some influence on the Anglian pub décor. The second is a sharply dressed Hispanic man making his debut in this particular tavern but clearly no novice mixologist as he swiftly produces Blackberry Sidecars, London Eyes, Basset Hounds, Strawberry Fields, Cranky Butlers, and crassly titled Abortions. The final barman speaks through a pierced lip as he recognizes a girl who shamefacedly attempts to avoid his gaze, certain that she unintentionally called him a jackass in a drunken stupor during her last weekend soirée. Little does the mortified customer realize that the bartender, with his penchant for remembering her face, has no memory of the accusatory slight, and instead plots a transgression of his own by inviting her to partake in free shots despite the boyfriend she visibly fawns over.
The din ebbs and flows to the rhythm of an electronic bass, spiking with each bout of high pitched laughter that peals from intoxicated women, raising the hopes of their interlocutors. Men play Ring the Bull with no knowledge of the game’s title and little luck at its objective, groups of women in towering heels and tight dresses throw back tumblers of transparent liquid with pinched expressions and successive giggles, couples inch gradually closer to one another with obvious intent, a large party convenes in the upstairs loft to celebrate the birthday of a beloved east coast screenwriter, and a typical Friday night in Hollywood unfolds to a cacophonous collage of diverse people with the shared goal to unravel.
In short, business at The Blue Boar booms.