Ah, West Charleston Boulevard. You can have your Strip; West Charleston's got it all: beauty salons, thrift shops, car dealerships, Mormon chapels, Polish delis, medical centers, and of course, some lovely bars.
The last two categories overlap slightly at Frankie's, whose proximity to University Medical Center brings in some interesting patrons. I've heard tales of people with oxygen tanks or those weird head-cage-brace things shuffling up to the bar, but such Cronenbergian excess isn't quite the norm. Still, there's usually an assortment of scrub shirts and bandages, as well as the slightly shaky stance and mellow disposition of those who let their vodka follow a bit too fast upon their anesthetic.
The bar turns a blank face to the street, but "Frankie's" spelled out in pink-neon capital letters does much to make its whitewashed exterior inviting. And facing the parking lot is a giant floor-to-ceiling, arched glass window; strangely, the door in the center of it has curtains on its own tiny window—whatever they have to hide, it's apparently very small and hovers in midair.
Inside, the bar extends along one wall, with a surprisingly extensive collection of liquors—18 kinds of beer and 18 kinds of schnapps—lined up below the mirror behind it. There's also the usual collection of signage warning against falling down, beer goggles and asking for credit, as well as a large, carefully lettered list of "Comp Rules," which closes with the warning: "Don't abuse our kindness. This is a privilege. Not a requirement."
Not that they're stingy: Hit the video poker and you won't have to pay $2.50 for that drink after all. Or, if you prefer to waste your singles in smaller increments, there's a Dirty Harry pinball game crowned with a larger-than-life glowing head of Clint Eastwood and a blue-and-chartreuse pool table. And they've got one of those Internet mega-jukeboxes that takes you 15 minutes to pick out five songs.
The Rice Paddy, on the other hand, has possibly the worst jukebox in human history: REO Speedwagon, Big & Rich, Celine Dion, Robert Palmer. But that's the only thing I can say against the place—it is otherwise an entirely fine spot to while away the hours as painlessly and easily as though they were being sucked into a black hole.
The building itself has a strangely removed air, standing alone in the middle of its giant parking lot like a lost island amidst the strip malls. It's a fine example of miniaturized, mid-century design: tilted rooflines, spiky lanterns, fieldstone walls with the windows too high up to look through. This latter feature, along with its asphalt moat, makes the Rice Paddy seem a bit like a bunker—the most frequently used door is the hidden one on the side, which has a long, narrow window at eye level, the sort of window they only have in a speakeasy, social club or counting room.
But don't let the air of isolation fool you, as the welcome inside the Rice Paddy is warm indeed. It's the kind of classic, linoleum-floored, just-off-the-beaten-track dive bar that would be the same whether it was in the world's most exciting city or Pennsylvania's smallest town. Someone's always telling the bartender what happened to them last night—because she asked, because she was wondering where they were—and someone's always asking if anyone else wants to order any takeout. Because more than a bar, it's a living room: People stop by in the morning for a bit, leave for a few hours, come back to visit for awhile, go get some dinner, then return for a nightcap or few. After all, no one has to be at the beauty salon, thrift shop, car dealership or medical center until tomorrow.
Frankie's Bar and Cocktail Lounge, 1712 W. Charleston Blvd. 387-9256. Rice Paddy, 5183 W. Charleston Blvd., 878-4781.
Lissa Townsend Rodgers learned to make a martini at age 6. E-mail her at
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