Bar In Review: Cha Cha Lounge (Douche Central)
By Viviene Zehr
(Taken from the Cha Cha Lounge website)
When you live on the eastside in spread-out LA like me, you hate to travel outside of the neighb’ for a nice cocktail in a good lounge. It’s a happy day indeed when word filters that a new eastside bar or lounge has opened. Hurrah!
This was certainly the case for the Cha Cha Lounge. I kept hearing the name bandied about and somehow made a connection in my mind to the lovely Cuban eclectic and friendly restaurant/lounge Cha Cha Cha. Then when I heard about the location, on an unpretentious part of Glendale Blvd. in Silverlake/Echo Park just across the street from the German beer garden The Red Lion, I knew exactly where it was…it used to be a divey and fun gay bar aptly named Le Bar. I had such high hopes for this lounge and couldn’t wait to hit it up.
Well, apparently neither could a ton of other people. I remember going there on a Saturday night after the monthly Echo Park Avenue art openings had wound down; a group of us thinking we could easily dip right in and grab a drink or two. Not to be. As we drove by, looking in vain for parking, a massive queue of very Westside looking, seriously glossy hipsters wrapped around the side of the entrance. Yikes. We decided to take a pass and try again, perhaps mid-week sometime.
In the next month, I kept hearing about all the celebrities who were being seen at the Cha Cha, like Jake Gyllenhaal and Nicole Ritchie, to name a few. I also heard horror stories from random people about how rude the place was and so unwelcoming. I already decided I hated this place but wanted to reserve judgment. I mean, surely, I was missing out.
I was meeting a guy for a drink and he let me pick the place, so I asked him to meet me at the Cha Cha. I know, odd pick, as I had heard it was a lousy place to have a good time. I overheard one girl dissing it at a pool party, she likened it to a “Black Hole of Bad Energy” but still, I figured, I am from New Orleans and I can always make the party happen. Hell, I can have fun in a paper bag, so these reports did not faze me. My theory is that most of one’s perception of an experience is dependent on one’s attitude, so I went with a smile on my face and a friendly demeanor.
I showed up early in case there was a line. It being a Tuesday and rather early, I was in luck, but even though the place was more on the quiet side, I still had to wait a bit to go in. The sulky doorman looked so very familiar. Did I know him? I pondered this as I stood there on the quiet sidewalk. I was reminded of how Griffin Dunne’s character, in Scorsese’s After Hours, is made to wait in a non-existent line outside of the punk club Berlin, and how ridiculous it all is and how the doorman must need this mini-power trip to validate himself. I have worked tending bar for years so I knew it was best to just gamely stand there and feign complicity.
About 5 minutes later, when he finally asked to see my I.D., it hit me. He was the spitting image of Ozzy Osborne’s pudgy son Jack, right down to the heavy framed emo glasses and frizzy hair. Whoa. I walked in and my eyes strained to adjust to the wack-a-doo décor coupled with red lighting and ear-splitting emo rock. You may be wondering right now, dear reader, what kind of grandma I am, but I assure you, I am no grandma. I love divey hole-in-the-wall joints and I love places that are sceney. I am usually up for anything, the first to hit the dance floor and always the last to leave. I couldn’t put my finger on what was off about this place.
Let’s start with the décor. You ask what is wack-a-doo? Well, the bar itself is a Tiki-style rectangular bar with a thatched roof. Okay, so it’s a Tiki joint. But then you begin
to see the Mexican influence with the Lucha Va Voom type masks, Day of the Dead fluorescent hanging sombreros, velvet paintings, puppets, knick-knacks and fruit. To give it a final frat house touch, it’s rounded out with a foosball table. Basically, the theme is a combination of West Hollywood’s El Carmen, Sigma Nu frat house (any campus USA), El Chavo Restaurant, Tiki Ti and a bad Cobra Snake event (thanks to the look of the bar staff and the blaring music) all rolled into one. In the rear, there is a vending machine and I noticed they sell trucker caps emblazoned with their bar logo. How very Planet Hollywood of them.
Eventually I was able to find my date, but just barely, in the dim, windowless, and crimson-lit booth area. By that time, I had a headache from the lights and the music was so overwhelmingly loud, for it being just about 25% full, that when he suggested over shouts that maybe we could try our luck at The Red Lion, I practically skipped right out the door with glee.
This was my first experience with the Cha Cha. But I decided this visit didn’t count, as I was on a date and it probably wasn’t the right environment to fully appreciate the splendor that is the Cha Cha.
Flash-forward: 4th of July weekend. I was with a group of my girls, a fun and attractive group, and somehow after leaving a BBQ, we wound up in the queue in front of the Cha Cha. We waited with the rest of the
civilians as “Jack Osbourne”, and another doorman who resembled an irritated, greasy, unkempt Abercrombie model, held court. Finally after about 15 minutes, our little group of three was to the top of the line. “Abercrombie” had been barking out orders for the whole duration of our wait, asking us plebes in raised voice to “Keep it orderly!!!“, “Absolutely NO sitting on the wall!!!” and “Make sure your I.D.s are OUT & READY!!!”, etc. You get the picture. (*sigh*) Might I add, the aforementioned “wall” was a low waist-high-cinderblock-concrete-divider of sorts, was nothing special and seemed to be in the neutral area, not even belonging to the club.
I had a sinking feeling. He snapped at us for our I.D.s and I briskly handed mine over. My friend Sandra was not so lucky. As she fumbled nervously to release it from her slim wallet, he asked her if she was “In or out or what??” (I wondered in my head if this guy had seen one two many Project Runway eppies. I personally wanted to give him Heidi’s “Auf Wiedersehen” and call it a day.) She got so nervous that her I.D. flew from her hand onto the sidewalk skittering. We all laughed and then realized that to Abercrombie, this was no joking matter, this was serious business and because of our blunder, we would have to wait a little bit more. He grabbed at his temples and angrily strode over to Jack and said in a loud dramatic pained stage-voice, “I can’t TAKE it anymore tonight! You gotta take over! These people are driving me crazy. I am LOSING it!”
We all exchanged uneasy glances as none of us could figure out why we had pushed him over the precipice. Sandra tried to hand her I.D. to Jack, but he wasn’t having it now. He waved her hand away and yet was blocking the door. So we waited and waited...and then waited a little bit more. Finally, for no apparent reason, as no one had exited and nothing had happened really except for the queue getting longer and more ridiculous, he barked that we could go in. We went in and it was pretty busy, yes, and even louder and very, very red. But I didn’t care at this point. I just wanted a drink.
We waited until we could squeeze in near the well and finally got the attention of one of the Cobra Snake-ready scenester mop-topped bartenders. We ordered 3 pints of beer. He went away for what seemed like a long time to me, or maybe I was just extra thirsty. Finally, he came back and plopped the pints up on the bar and as he swung his arm back around to high-five a pal of his, 2 of the pints got jostled and about an inch of beer sloshed out of each, over the bar and yes, onto my outfit. But I just took the pint and drank it like it was the Holy Grail.
The rest was a blur of bad Britney-esque hair extensions, faux edgy guys wearing terrycloth tennis-head sweatbands and loud, loud music; yelling to be heard over the loud, loud music and, oh yeah, the heat. It’s really HOT at the Cha Cha temperature-wise. I am pretty sure the bright beaming red lighting does nothing to assuage this feeling of being in Hades so I tried to push this from my head. The bathrooms, I must add, stink to high-heaven much like a 76 Station’s right off the I-5 truck route. Yikes.
At one point, hot, exhausted, sick of yelling to be heard, with sore feet from lack of seats and sickened by the fetid wafts of toxic dooky in the stuffy bathrooms, I told my pals I needed fresh air and was going to step outside. Miraculously, the queue was no more and the front was completely empty. I perched tentatively on the concrete low wall and from out of nowhere came a booming voice, “NO SMOKING IN FRONT!” I leapt up, both startled and beaten-down, and saw it was my old pal Abercrombie. I said with an edge of snappiness as I was going to lose it, “I am not a smoker. I’m just sitting for a second.” He came back with a loud and bellowing “NO sitting on the wall ever!”
This was when I knew that I would never want to come here again and didn’t care anymore so I retorted “Gah, Sorry. I don’t even want to be here. I didn’t drive, I am with a group, stuck here, there is nowhere to sit inside and I am exhausted and just want some fresh air. I didn’t realize I was at Studio 54. I thought this was Glendale Blvd. I mean, isn’t that The Red Lion right over there? And isn’t this city property? (motioning behind me to the low concrete curb-wall thingy)…You people need to get over yourselves… this place sucks ass.”
He looked at me fuming, stomped inside and slammed the door. I was never so happy in my life to not be cool. Give me The Gold Room, The Red Lion or Taix any day.
This was certainly the case for the Cha Cha Lounge. I kept hearing the name bandied about and somehow made a connection in my mind to the lovely Cuban eclectic and friendly restaurant/lounge Cha Cha Cha. Then when I heard about the location, on an unpretentious part of Glendale Blvd. in Silverlake/Echo Park just across the street from the German beer garden The Red Lion, I knew exactly where it was…it used to be a divey and fun gay bar aptly named Le Bar. I had such high hopes for this lounge and couldn’t wait to hit it up.
Well, apparently neither could a ton of other people. I remember going there on a Saturday night after the monthly Echo Park Avenue art openings had wound down; a group of us thinking we could easily dip right in and grab a drink or two. Not to be. As we drove by, looking in vain for parking, a massive queue of very Westside looking, seriously glossy hipsters wrapped around the side of the entrance. Yikes. We decided to take a pass and try again, perhaps mid-week sometime.
In the next month, I kept hearing about all the celebrities who were being seen at the Cha Cha, like Jake Gyllenhaal and Nicole Ritchie, to name a few. I also heard horror stories from random people about how rude the place was and so unwelcoming. I already decided I hated this place but wanted to reserve judgment. I mean, surely, I was missing out.
I was meeting a guy for a drink and he let me pick the place, so I asked him to meet me at the Cha Cha. I know, odd pick, as I had heard it was a lousy place to have a good time. I overheard one girl dissing it at a pool party, she likened it to a “Black Hole of Bad Energy” but still, I figured, I am from New Orleans and I can always make the party happen. Hell, I can have fun in a paper bag, so these reports did not faze me. My theory is that most of one’s perception of an experience is dependent on one’s attitude, so I went with a smile on my face and a friendly demeanor.
I showed up early in case there was a line. It being a Tuesday and rather early, I was in luck, but even though the place was more on the quiet side, I still had to wait a bit to go in. The sulky doorman looked so very familiar. Did I know him? I pondered this as I stood there on the quiet sidewalk. I was reminded of how Griffin Dunne’s character, in Scorsese’s After Hours, is made to wait in a non-existent line outside of the punk club Berlin, and how ridiculous it all is and how the doorman must need this mini-power trip to validate himself. I have worked tending bar for years so I knew it was best to just gamely stand there and feign complicity.
About 5 minutes later, when he finally asked to see my I.D., it hit me. He was the spitting image of Ozzy Osborne’s pudgy son Jack, right down to the heavy framed emo glasses and frizzy hair. Whoa. I walked in and my eyes strained to adjust to the wack-a-doo décor coupled with red lighting and ear-splitting emo rock. You may be wondering right now, dear reader, what kind of grandma I am, but I assure you, I am no grandma. I love divey hole-in-the-wall joints and I love places that are sceney. I am usually up for anything, the first to hit the dance floor and always the last to leave. I couldn’t put my finger on what was off about this place.
Let’s start with the décor. You ask what is wack-a-doo? Well, the bar itself is a Tiki-style rectangular bar with a thatched roof. Okay, so it’s a Tiki joint. But then you begin
to see the Mexican influence with the Lucha Va Voom type masks, Day of the Dead fluorescent hanging sombreros, velvet paintings, puppets, knick-knacks and fruit. To give it a final frat house touch, it’s rounded out with a foosball table. Basically, the theme is a combination of West Hollywood’s El Carmen, Sigma Nu frat house (any campus USA), El Chavo Restaurant, Tiki Ti and a bad Cobra Snake event (thanks to the look of the bar staff and the blaring music) all rolled into one. In the rear, there is a vending machine and I noticed they sell trucker caps emblazoned with their bar logo. How very Planet Hollywood of them.Eventually I was able to find my date, but just barely, in the dim, windowless, and crimson-lit booth area. By that time, I had a headache from the lights and the music was so overwhelmingly loud, for it being just about 25% full, that when he suggested over shouts that maybe we could try our luck at The Red Lion, I practically skipped right out the door with glee.
This was my first experience with the Cha Cha. But I decided this visit didn’t count, as I was on a date and it probably wasn’t the right environment to fully appreciate the splendor that is the Cha Cha.
Flash-forward: 4th of July weekend. I was with a group of my girls, a fun and attractive group, and somehow after leaving a BBQ, we wound up in the queue in front of the Cha Cha. We waited with the rest of the
civilians as “Jack Osbourne”, and another doorman who resembled an irritated, greasy, unkempt Abercrombie model, held court. Finally after about 15 minutes, our little group of three was to the top of the line. “Abercrombie” had been barking out orders for the whole duration of our wait, asking us plebes in raised voice to “Keep it orderly!!!“, “Absolutely NO sitting on the wall!!!” and “Make sure your I.D.s are OUT & READY!!!”, etc. You get the picture. (*sigh*) Might I add, the aforementioned “wall” was a low waist-high-cinderblock-concrete-divider of sorts, was nothing special and seemed to be in the neutral area, not even belonging to the club.I had a sinking feeling. He snapped at us for our I.D.s and I briskly handed mine over. My friend Sandra was not so lucky. As she fumbled nervously to release it from her slim wallet, he asked her if she was “In or out or what??” (I wondered in my head if this guy had seen one two many Project Runway eppies. I personally wanted to give him Heidi’s “Auf Wiedersehen” and call it a day.) She got so nervous that her I.D. flew from her hand onto the sidewalk skittering. We all laughed and then realized that to Abercrombie, this was no joking matter, this was serious business and because of our blunder, we would have to wait a little bit more. He grabbed at his temples and angrily strode over to Jack and said in a loud dramatic pained stage-voice, “I can’t TAKE it anymore tonight! You gotta take over! These people are driving me crazy. I am LOSING it!”
We all exchanged uneasy glances as none of us could figure out why we had pushed him over the precipice. Sandra tried to hand her I.D. to Jack, but he wasn’t having it now. He waved her hand away and yet was blocking the door. So we waited and waited...and then waited a little bit more. Finally, for no apparent reason, as no one had exited and nothing had happened really except for the queue getting longer and more ridiculous, he barked that we could go in. We went in and it was pretty busy, yes, and even louder and very, very red. But I didn’t care at this point. I just wanted a drink.
We waited until we could squeeze in near the well and finally got the attention of one of the Cobra Snake-ready scenester mop-topped bartenders. We ordered 3 pints of beer. He went away for what seemed like a long time to me, or maybe I was just extra thirsty. Finally, he came back and plopped the pints up on the bar and as he swung his arm back around to high-five a pal of his, 2 of the pints got jostled and about an inch of beer sloshed out of each, over the bar and yes, onto my outfit. But I just took the pint and drank it like it was the Holy Grail.
The rest was a blur of bad Britney-esque hair extensions, faux edgy guys wearing terrycloth tennis-head sweatbands and loud, loud music; yelling to be heard over the loud, loud music and, oh yeah, the heat. It’s really HOT at the Cha Cha temperature-wise. I am pretty sure the bright beaming red lighting does nothing to assuage this feeling of being in Hades so I tried to push this from my head. The bathrooms, I must add, stink to high-heaven much like a 76 Station’s right off the I-5 truck route. Yikes.
At one point, hot, exhausted, sick of yelling to be heard, with sore feet from lack of seats and sickened by the fetid wafts of toxic dooky in the stuffy bathrooms, I told my pals I needed fresh air and was going to step outside. Miraculously, the queue was no more and the front was completely empty. I perched tentatively on the concrete low wall and from out of nowhere came a booming voice, “NO SMOKING IN FRONT!” I leapt up, both startled and beaten-down, and saw it was my old pal Abercrombie. I said with an edge of snappiness as I was going to lose it, “I am not a smoker. I’m just sitting for a second.” He came back with a loud and bellowing “NO sitting on the wall ever!”
This was when I knew that I would never want to come here again and didn’t care anymore so I retorted “Gah, Sorry. I don’t even want to be here. I didn’t drive, I am with a group, stuck here, there is nowhere to sit inside and I am exhausted and just want some fresh air. I didn’t realize I was at Studio 54. I thought this was Glendale Blvd. I mean, isn’t that The Red Lion right over there? And isn’t this city property? (motioning behind me to the low concrete curb-wall thingy)…You people need to get over yourselves… this place sucks ass.”
He looked at me fuming, stomped inside and slammed the door. I was never so happy in my life to not be cool. Give me The Gold Room, The Red Lion or Taix any day.
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Cha Cha Lounge
2375 Glendale Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA 90039
(323) 660-7595
http://www.chachalounge.com/
2375 Glendale Boulevard
Los Angeles, CA 90039
(323) 660-7595
http://www.chachalounge.com/
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