MONTECITO COCKTAIL BARS

High Spirits on the American Riviera

The Manor Bar (Rosewood Miramar Beach Resort)

You could be at an exclusive East Coast country club.

Or an upscale lounge on Manhattan’s Upper East Side.

The difference: A big city edge is replaced by a different kind of edge—a soft, safe, sandy beach and balmy breeze.

Wood paneled walls, low wattage lamps, high-end art, leather club chairs.

Uber-sophistication for those with discerning taste.

What can go wrong?

Nothing.

Ambient excellence extends to high-end hooch, crystal glassware and impeccable service.

The Manor Bar will always have Paris

Little wonder this venue is in competition for world’s best bars.

The mushroom lamps on the bar conceal hidden mysteries.

Major global conspiracies could be hatched here, and should be.

But wait a sec—considering who occasionally books out the whole resort, it’s possible very grand plans have been plotted within these walls.

(I planted a microphone somewhere strategic, maybe we’ll find out.)

If you get bored inside this bar (unlikely), you can stroll out onto the perfectly manicured quad, sink into a white Adirondack and, like Jay Gatsby, gaze at the ocean and dream of Daisy.

Because the Manor Bar isn’t just a watering hole. It’s a fantasy you construct around yourself.

On the other hand, let’s get real…

Jill’s Place (downtown SB)

I wanted to review Jill’s.

But the female barkeep was slammed, sassy and stirred a Negroni the color of mud.

A second attempt wasn’t much better—it looked like cola.

So… that was that.

I decamped back to Montecito, to Bar Lou for…

A real rosy-red Negroni

And a superb meal.

Entertainment (not intentional) came from a Larry David clone (obviously from LA) who waxed disgruntlement for an hour at the bar.

“Hitler! Hitler! Hitler!”

Poor loony Larry—and his clownish clone.

Now back to fantasyland.

Or rather, to the 1920s, and…

The Speakeasy (San Ysidro Ranch)

This Prohibition-style joint is cozy and intimate: plush burgundy booths, a low beamed ceiling—and the kind of illumination that would make a perfectionist sigh with approval.

Wood-framed leather barstools, upholstered in tiger print, alongside a tufted hunter-green leather (lower) bar.

Here, you’re not Jay Gatsby.

You’re his creator, F. Scott—fedora tilted, idly waiting this side of paradise for Zelda to show up.

The house-roasted candied peanuts (gratis) are dangerously addictive, a perfect companion to their Cuban Old Fashioned (Buffalo Trace bourbon; butter pecan; aromatic bitters; smoking cinnamon stick; orange twist).

Usually my first and last sips are my favorite. But with this libation, each and every guzzle hits like a revelation.

I rarely go beyond one cocktail (thereafter, vino).

But Zelda is late. And since I’m now F. Scott (renowned for his thirst)… of course I’ll have a second!

What’s an additional highball when the night is tender…?

Gotta sample their signature Casa de Sevilla, fully assess the skillfulness of their mixology: Thai chilled chili infused Vida mezcal; spiced falernum; coconut; lime; yuzu bitters; flaming half lime shell sprayed with Le Fee absinthe, set alight.

Sublime.

But still no Zelda.

In her absence, I opt for Tamarind chicken wings…

They’re hot and spicy just like Zed, my Southern Belle—but they come without back-talk, heart-break or shimmying on the bar.

The only thing missing, aside from a permanent haze of cigar smoke, is Joe Kennedy with a wheelbarrow full of moonshine.

Some nights, the only thing stronger than the spirits is the memory of what we’re still waiting for.