Photo by Matt Otto “Here's your God-forsaken lime drink, Scott,” Susan says, plopping down a murky mix of vodka and something-or-other in a way that suggests she's said those exact words a thousand times—and will say them a few more times before the night ends. “I swear this drink is a crime against bartending.”
But she loves it, that much you can tell.
She's a stone fox, Susan is: no smoker's hack or missing teeth or tired eyes or slurred speech. She's all blond hair and blue eyes, a self-described “corporate runaway” who brought a trail of devoted customers with her a year and a half ago when she started at Westminster's C'est Si Bon.
And C'est Si Bon? Or, as the regulars call it, “The Bon”? It's among the divey-ist of dives, a half-century old joint—the strip mall it sits in was built around it—where you get your change handed back to you in drink tokens; where Aerosmith's entire catalogue waits for you on the juke; where you can still eat popcorn, buy a lotto ticket, throw steel-tipped darts, and drink a 22 oz. beer for $3.50.
We show up at 9 p.m. on a Saturday and a sign posted on the wall tells us we missed the biggest party of the year by about three hours. The Bon (pronounced “bone”) had been packed for its annual BBQ—replete with Tri-tip steaks and oysters—but now there's just a handful of people left: Scott and another guy sit quietly discussing Peter Cetera and Chicago at the bar while two couples duke it out over 50-cent rounds on the pool tables.
We're feeling posh, so we order a Ketel One dirty martini. “That'll be four bucks,” Susan chirps, and we're pretty sure at this point that we're in love: with Susan; with The Bon; hell, even with Scott and his icky lime drink. Two martinis later, and we're certain of it. “Janie's Got a Gun” plays in the background as Susan notes the inflated balloon hat we're now wearing—a leftover from the party—is a perfect match for our outfit.
Tony, another regular, strolls in—his second visit of the day, we're told—and we join in as everyone shouts, “Y-not!”
“It's Tony spelled backwards,”
Scott explains.
Now, if you're looking for hordes of pretty young things, you'll want to stick to Newport. And if you're dying to hear hip-hop, you should bury yourself in Huntington. But if you love to drink—love the smell of bourbon; the first prickly sip of a gin and tonic; the delicious saltiness of a dirty martini—and love to drink with those who love to drink—people who'll shorten your name; remember you like your Manhattans with two cherries, not one; refill your popcorn and stick around while you wait for your cab—then C'est Si Bon is your place.
Our three dirty martinis leave us completely buzzard, but we find room for more when Susan suggests a Mai Tai. “You know, Jack LaLanne used to live across the street,” yet another regular starts to say, and while we're not so sure we believe him, one more gulp—oh yeah, they serve their Mai Tais in pint glasses—makes everything
seem possible.
Looking up, we spot a sign that reads, “If assholes could fly, this bar would be an airport.” Kid Rock kicks in on the juke. Looking down, we realize the bar is spinning. Our notes are becoming illegible and the end is near, so we mumble a good bye and stumble for the door. But before we leave: “Hey,” waves Susan, “now you're a Boner.”
Love.
C'est Si Bon is located at 6338 Westminster Blvd., Westminster, (714) 379-9934.
