Screeeech! Ah, the sound of that preverbal needle ripping away from a wax disc. In a kind of Otis Day reversal of fortune and pigmentation, there’s nothing like a happy bunch of islanders walking into their local haunt, only to find a table full of drunken, lily-white kids screaming over their favorite calypso tune. Ja, man! But, as the Island attitude goes, said folks take the inebriated interlopers in stride and start gettin’ down to the sounds of Jamaica and wherever else the beers flow free and jobs are not so easy to come by. Soon the caucasoids, with their lack of style and grace, begin to realize that this place has turned into a real party, and the head-bobbing begins in earnest. Never have they seen a group of people so at ease and so damn happy. Isn’t this the rotten apple? Aren’t we supposed to be bitter drones? Not at the Cafe Creole, where, despite the subterranean locale, even the white dude in the tie can for one night fight to keep the smile off his face, the Carribe out of his glass and the wonderful spirit of the islands out of his heart. [MF]
99 McDougal St.
