Your Daily August, 07th

Behind Bars

At The Big Easy's Snake and Jake's Christmas Club Lounge you can party 'til it's time to enter your coffin.

By David Smith
Published: Dec 13, 2007

Nestled under the blossoming magnolias and lazy oaks in the university area of uptown New Orleans lies the mothership of all below-sea-level lounges: Snake and Jake’s Christmas Club Lounge. If you can avoid driving into a pothole and flattening your tires on the side streets getting to the place, you’ll park across the street in a gravel lot — frequently the site of late-night revelry and early-morning human wreckage.

From the outside, the place is a dilapidated tin shed sandwiched between two neighbors’ houses (one of whom just came into the bar to borrow a garbage bag) in an otherwise serene residential area. There is no sign outside, only a hanging Christmas wreath with half its lights burned out. At first glance you might think to yourself, I drove across town for this? Once inside, though, the reason becomes obvious. At Snake and Jake’s, every night is Christmas.

The door creaks open to complete darkness. Scant light comes courtesy of a four-foot, illuminated plastic Santa Claus donning a sombrero and bullet belt (“Santanista”), random strands of Christmas tree lights, and several candles that haphazardly dot the tables and bar. The reward is total anonymity. After a few minutes, my pupils finally dilate and I can see my wallet in front of my face. I am ready to order. Guinness on tap? Yahtzee. To my left is a complete living room with a TV and a piano, and to my right a long bar. I adjourn to the sofa, where for a moment I feel like I’m in an Amsterdam coffee shop. The only thing missing is, well, you know, the coffee. But from the look of things, I get the distinct feeling that lot will be schwagtacular in short order.

The crowd is an upbeat eclectic mix of locals who at 3:45 a.m. just haven’t had enough, and a smattering of college kids who seem content with a 2.4 grade point average as long as they can drink Guinness until 5 a.m. on weeknights. As I order another, the bartender informs me that Snake’s is celebrity-friendly. He has proudly served the likes of George Clooney, Dennis Quaid, Dave Matthews, and members of Blues Traveler and Widespread Panic. He then introduces me to Tony Tocco, one-half of the ownership team of Snake and Jake’s (the other owner is Dave Clements). Unlike so many other bar owners, Tony is instantly lively and gregarious — even before I tell him I’m writing an article on the joint.

“Where’s Dave?” I ask him.
In his best Tommy Chong voice he replies: “Dave’s not here, man.”

I inquire about the rumor that if you strip to your birthday suit you drink for free. He casually tells me that one night he’d had too many and came in naked and said whoever gets naked with him drinks for free. When the mixed crowd of about 30 took him up on his offer, well, let’s just say he lost much more than his shirt that night.

“Yeah, we tried to cool the nudity thing down. Naked people don’t tip very well,” he says deadpan.

The attitude of the bar is best described by a sign hanging over the cash register that reads: NO COORS, NO MILLER, NO HEINEKEN, NO CREDIT CARDS, NO ATM. But the heartbeat of the place undoubtedly comes from the jukebox, which simmers to the sumptuous sounds of Barry White’s “Love Serenade,” the Ohio Players “Fire,” and Grover Washington Jr.’s “Black Frost,” among other chocolate classics. The overall vibe is simple, yet smooth.

Sunday night is Family Meal Night. As if the $2.00 per drink, 9:00 pm to midnight, happy hour wasn’t enough, the bar’s thank you to the public comes in the form of a complimentary well-rounded meal, with dessert. Monday night is Barbecue Night, where “Barbecue Dave” chars it up and slathers it on with his granddaddy’s trademark sauce. And there’s an annual Super Bowl Party, where a big screen TV and all of the couches are dragged out into the street for any and all.

You would have to be a complete idiot — or President, actually — to suggest that post-Katrina New Orleans is getting back to normal. After hearing that “Santanista” was found face down, floating, literally dead in the water upon Dave and Tony’s return to the bar after Katrina, it warms my heart (along with that mandatory journalist-Jack-shot) to see him standing tall again, alight in soft green and red hues, back where he belongs. I think I see his aura. Or is that the face of Christ? Either way, it's time to go.

On my way out of the bar, I ask the bartender one final question.
“What time did you get home last night?”
“Oh, it wasn’t that bad,” he said. “9 a.m.”

I swing the door open and the early morning sun burns my eyes. I am a vampire in daylight. Snake and Jake’s: it never closes and you can smoke. Hallelujiah.

Snake and Jake’s Christmas Club Lounge, 7612 Oak Street, New Orleans, LA, (504) 861-2802
www.snakeandjakes.com — Happy Hour: 9 p.m. to midnight: $2.00 wells and drafts.

Dave Smith, bred and spread in Santa Monica, California, spent two of the coldest years on record in the Bronx teaching surgeons how to perform robotically-assisted laparoscopy. After 350 procedures, he swore off gastric bypasses forever, tossed his sweater collection in a dumpster and returned to his beloved West Coast. “The West is the best, Baby.” He can often be found searching LA in vain for good Chinese food or at home on the phone with Dell customer service.

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