Lava Love

What constitutes a dive bar? Some drinkers are of the school that if there aren’t haggard regulars, PBR on tap and a jar of eggs, it’s not a dive. We think of The Simpsons‘ esteemed Moe Syzlak, who, when asked to describe his own dive, put it quite amusingly: “Uhh … is crap hole one word?”

Others contend that pickled items and a sketchy clientele do not a dive make; if there’s a good jukebox and a pool table, a core group of regulars and a comfortable feel, then it’s divetastic. Which was how the Lava Room was categorized to us by Michael, a thirtyish, pool-playing regular. “It’s a dive, but it doesn’t want to be … but it still is a neighborhood bar.”

“Well, it’s an eclectic dive,” countered manager Jimmy LeBlanc jovially. “It is midtown. It’s small, swanky and retroed out. Some guy came in once and said, ‘Nice dump’ — I took that as a compliment. If your joint’s clean enough, call it a dive and I’ll be happy about it.”

With its accouterments of swankitude, the Lava Room certainly doesn’t resemble the stereotypical dive. We loved the multitude of sputnik lights, the mesmerizing aquarium, the obligatory lava lamps and the swags of red fabric everywhere; the effect was kitschy but nice. What’s also dive-defying is the Lava Room’s martini menu.

We started off with the blackberry martini, made with Chambord and Stoli Vanil, which lent a pleasing hint of vanilla to the fruitiness of this lambent-pink drink. We followed that up with the chocolate-covered-raspberry martini, which was Stoli Raspberry and Godiva white chocolate. It was a thicker concoction, with an almost chalky texture. “I don’t know how I feel about that,” said Research Assistant Andrew. “It’s like Strawberry Quik and chocolate with a taste of Maalox.”

The Cream Soda would have made a nice palate cleanser had we known about it at the time. Made with Stoli Vanil, Sprite, soda and a splash of Kahlua, it’s served in a ’70s brownish glass with flat side panels, the likes of which we associate with Putsch’s Cafeteria. (At least we think the glass was brownish; the red glow from many neon signs altered our sense of sight. That, plus the alcohol.) The Cream Soda tasted just like its namesake, and of course, everything tastes better in retro glasses.

On a recent Friday night, the Lava Room was packed at around 11. But there seemed to be a mass exodus after midnight, which left a guycentric crowd. Jennifer, a 29-year-old clad in a red, V-necked tank top with spaghetti straps, told us that the Lava Room is “a cool place to come in, hang out, then go somewhere else or end the night here.” She added, “Everyone seems to show up here at some point.” She scoffed at the notion that it was a good place to pick up, though.

On Saturday, the crowd was more consistent throughout the night — as was the sausage-factory element. Among the guys, we spotted three ponytails and one man mule. Women were scant in numbers, but we especially admired Ms. Halter Top, who paired her midnight-blue velvet bell bottoms with an extra-wide brown leather belt thing that looked like a sleek version of a fanny pack.

After spending a couple of hours amid the chatty and amiable clientele, we headed out. We walked by the nice security guard, who made sure everyone got to their cars OK, and found our car, which, thankfully, we didn’t mistake for a red Neon.