Cherry Bombs and Anger: Rodos Bar


Before Ben Kenobi took Luke over to Mos Eisley spaceport, he warned him, saying, "You will never find a more wretched hive of scum and villainy. You must be cautious." As far as we've seen in the Star Wars universe, he was right. The place was loud, packed with transients, and, almost as soon as Ben and Luke walked in, a monster started talking shit, backed up by a buddy.

Welcome, then, to Rodos Bar in Fell's Point.

Arguably the least typical of Fell's bars, Rodos is what I’d call a “party bar”. Much like Jester’s, the chain of frozen alcohol shills in New Orleans, the goal of Rodos is to get you to drink. A lot.

Dance floor lights pulse to Trance Pop as the Orange Crush machines churn alcohol.
 

Sit next to this thing and it'll help drown out the music.

There are printed signs for 50¢ World Famous Cherry Bombs and written in fluorescent pen on the bar mirrors are specials like including Corona-Rita. The attractive, chatty bartenders lean over the bar to push shots, their breasts threatening to spill out of their tank tops.

Of all the things I described in that last paragraph, this picture likely has none of the ones you care about.

The best part about this expedition into Rodos was that, although I walk by it all the time, I’d never actually been in. Mostly because it's a party bar and that means there's often a group of shouting, sweaty bunch of guys, stinking like Axe, hanging around the front, eyeing passersby for an opportunity to fight. I tend to shy away from frat boys like a nerd in an 80s movie shies away from bikers.

"When shots be named after sex acts or be in the form of jello, thar be frat boys." -Old pirate saying

Immediately, I’m introduced to both of my bartenders, Justine and Bobbie Sue, who tell me the Miller Lites are 2 for 1 and, although I haven't had a Miller Lite in 10 years, I go for it. As a friend said when I told him where I was, "You are suffering for your blog, apparently."

Bobby Sue asks where I'm from and is momentarily stunned when I tell her I live two blocks over.

The three guys closest to the door make a show of removing their ties in unison. They have been drinking enough that they’re sure they’re hilarious; although, most of what they’re saying to Justine would get them thrown out of any other bar around here. Plus, it’s more mean and degrading than funny. Justine laughs and it almost sounds genuine.

Bobbie Sue catches Justine's eye every so often and they subtly signal each other like soldiers on patrol. They’re anything but stupid: they’re here to make money.

As the trio of comedic businessmen orders another round of 2-for-1’s, their tone has gotten darker. Angrier. In fact, several of the men in Rodos sound angry. Some are pissed off about work, some about sports. Mostly, though, they’re angry at women. The usual sitcom remarks about nagging wives and girlfriends’ spending habits heard elsewhere are replaced here with an almost violent hatred for a female co-worker or celebrity. It feels dangerous.

The World Famous Cherry Bomb turns out to be Maraschino cherries that have been soaking in what's possibly ethanol.

I pay my tab and make my escape just as the Britney Spears remix gets louder.

My mouth is on fire.