this song is for you my brother

Sometimes the news doesn't really hit home until someone smacks ...you in the face ... with it.

The Liars Club in Mission Beach is hova. I've known this for weeks, sadly craning my neck as I ride by, only to see dark windows and barstools stacked upon tables. But until I received the bargoer email a week or so back, I still had a glimmer of hope.

Now hope is gone. This hits home, hard, because I happen to live a mile away from 3844 Mission, and also happen to have a good percentage of disdain for everything else that I live within a mile of. Without this neighborhood oasis, I no longer think there is a single place in my neighborhood I now care to patronize after 8 pm.

If I was as talented as the Jim Carrol band, I'd hum a catchy little tune for my long lost neighborhood bar. Since I can't carry a tune worth a damn, I'm posting a yet-unpublished and now-never-to-be review of the place I did back in August. When I'm feeling nostalgic in the future, I'll have something to look back on.

Thanks for all the beers and the BLTA's Louis. Maybe one day I'll see you in Alpine.

* * *

The Liars' Club holds a special place in my heart. It’s not because of its history—although Tom Waits did used to work the door at 3844 Mission Blvd. It’s not because of its jukebox, although the punk-inspired selection is beyond credible. It’s not even because of its menu, whose irresistible sandwiches, burgers, munchies, and salads I am seriously addicted to. It is because of its taps, its chalkboard menu of rotating craft and Belgian beers, its weekly Friday-evening cask, and its disdain for anything remotely affiliated with Bud, Miller, or Coors. The Liars' Club holds a special place in my heart because it introduced me to beer. Good beer. San Diego beer.

The setting is basement-meets-roadhouse, a sparsely decorated space with a hint of a hardcore vibe. The staff is tattooed and casual, often blending in with the patrons themselves. The floors are dark, the ceiling painted black. The booths and mismatched bar stools are upholstered in cracking vinyl and the table tops covered with forest-green Formica. Whitewashed brick walls are sparsely adorned with typical bar kitsch—a dartboard, framed prints, brewery paraphernalia. Mounted televisions hang just beneath the ceiling, unobtrusive enough to be ignored, but large enough to show any necessary sports games. The setting is little more than functional, and that is all it needs to be—the important thing here is not the scene but the senses, particularly those of taste and hearing.

Let’s talk music. The jukebox is award-winning, if not legendary. It’s populated with solid albums and compilations that cover just about every type of drinking occasion the bar could witness. The collection of punk, rock, and blues includes songs to appease every type of drinker: the angry (the Ramones, Sex Pistols), the celebratory (the Replacements), the down and out (Nick Cave, Tom Waits), the esoteric (Thelonious Monk), the restless (the Clash), the exulted (New York Dolls), the theatrical (Gogol Bordello), the unabashedly reminiscent (David Bowie, Blondie). There are albums for early afternoon (Rolling Stones), late night (James Brown), and happy hour (Lady Dottie and the Diamonds). There’s a soundtrack for the drinking binge (the Pogues, local band the Scotch Greens), the hangover (Jesus and Mary Chain), even the wake (Jim Carroll Band).

Before you feed your two dollars into the jukebox though, you’d better have a beer in your hand. Go ahead, saunter up to the chalkboard hanging above the kitchen—what’s on tap is on the left; what’s in bottles is on the right. As for the taps, you’ll find the list divided into two categories: local and everything else (with local more often than not being the larger list). If you’re overwhelmed—or if it’s Friday (local beer night)—you needn’t look beyond the locals: Stone, Green Flash, and Alpine are almost always represented; Ballast Point, AleSmith, Coronado Brewing Company, and Port Brewing usually make an appearance. Of course, venturing into non-local territory is never bad—Russian River, Avery, North Coast, and Bear Republic are solid northerly neighbors. As with all reputable San Diego beer bars, the hops are well-represented—a solid selection of IPAs and double IPAs are always on tap, and Pliny the Elder and Pure Hoppiness—two gold standards—are near-regulars. Belgian and Belgian-style beers are embraced too, especially through the bottled beer selection. And, for the timid, a solid selection of pale ales, American-style whites, and occasionally a lager or a cider can be found. If you see something unfamiliar or if you’re looking for a particular style, just ask—the staff is more than willing to chat about the beer.

With your thirst quenched, your ears happy, and hopefully a seat underneath you, the menu calls. The kitchen is adept at both meals and munchies, with a menu so solid that I'd back nearly anything on it. The portions are generous and the flavors are feisty—if you like spicy food you’re in good hands. A little insider advice? Order your sandwiches on jalapeño cheese bread and your fries Cajuned. Try the sweet potato fries, and for the sheer ridiculousness of it, the hand-cut fries smothered with bacon. The BLTA is classic, the seared ahi sandwich phenomenal, and the roast beef dip and cholula ranch burger both more than solid. If you’re feeling daring, order the popular (but painfully hot) fuego melt, whose Serrano and jalapeño-inspired heat advertises itself with the phrase "feel the burn twice." If you’re weary of heartburn, the salads are surprisingly good, any burger can be Boca-fied, and the kitchen can always hold the chipotle aioli. Whatever you do, if you’re there on a weekend before 3 p.m., do not pass up a bloody Mary—garnished with two bacon-wrapped shrimp, these ladies are the best in town.

If you're asking yourself "what's not to like?" the answer is, occasionally, the crowds—the Liars' Club's popularity doesn't mesh well with its size. The small venue—it holds just nine tables inside, five on the outdoor deck, and about ten seats at the bar—fills quickly, and once it’s filled, you can forget about it emptying. Friday nights are the most crowded, although they are also the most attractive: “Local Beer Night" means $3 local pints and a weekly cask that's tapped at 5:00 p.m., sharp. It's one of the best deals in town, and depending on the cask, it can be well worth fighting the crowds for. Tuesday nights are a close second, with $3 “you-call-it’s” that not only attract the beer lovers but anyone in town looking for a cheap drink.

But let’s face it—crowds are hardly a reason to stay away from one of the top five on-tap beer selections in San Diego. After all, it’s well worth waiting your turn for a pint of cask-conditioned Ballast Point Sculpin IPA or Alesmith Summer YuleSmith. But if can’t fit through the door on a Friday evening, don’t’ give up on the Liar’s Club. Other nights of the week are much calmer, and still easily affordable—Monday's Steak and Ale promotions means a $10 steak dinner, and any weekday means happy hour from 4-7. Even on a Saturday night, beers are only $3.25 to $5.50.

Some would argue the beer alone is worth the trip to the Liar’s Club, and I’d have to agree. But while beer may attract the first-timers, it’s much more than beer that keeps the regulars happy. Once you’re settled into a booth in the heart of the bar, with the Replacements blaring, a fresh pint of West Coast IPA set before you, and a mouth full of the unbeatable combination of bacon and jalepeño cheese bread, you’ll understand.