Birmingham After Dark

A neon mist slowly settles  upon the city, anointing the night with delectable dreams of legendary tamales, cool jazz, chilled martinis, and rainbow brews as Birmingham quietly tucks the sight.  This community embraces a variety of cultures and lifestyles, warmly toasting the future. And the pulse of the bustle swirling beneath the glow of Vulcan’s mighty torch beats strongest on the Southside, sometimes pounding relentlessly, other times purring romantically.

Here we go. The fountain of mythical creatures spewing forth smack in the Center of Five Points South attracts quite a diverse collection of humanity: kids sporting Mohawks as they rocket through the air on skateboards, artists painting colorful canvases, street musicians hustling a buck. It’s quite a carnival atmosphere as we stroll down 11th Street towards Surin West, where we feast on scrumptious Thai noodles and a splendid squid salad before diving into a seafood soup that would be a delicious way to drown. Two doors down we stop into Breckenridge Brewery, the latest microbrewery to call Birmingham home. Inside the pub huge metallic fermentation tanks add a futuristic touch to a turn-of-the-century warehouse, the seductive hum of the brewing process adding a flourish to a wonderful drinking and dining experience. The city’s first brewpub, the Magic City Brewery, is up 21st Street at 5th Avenue South, not far away.

Up 20th Street we stumble upon a little Mexican palace known as Mancha’s. The late Carl Mancha’s grandfather began hand-rolling his now legendary corn-husk tamales in 1929, selling them from a street cart. The cart eventually parked itself  inside the present locale, where Carl would later concoct the best Mexican sauces in town: the Wimp Sauce (though tasty, pour it in shame); the Nuclear Sauce (glowing green); and the flammable Agent Orange (menacing, fireball Habanero peppers). I’ve seen macho men accept the bartender’s challenge to wolf down one of Carl’s homegrown Habaneros for a paltry 20 bucks. Bear Bryant shares the walls with the heads of wild boar and elk.

A few blocks away we walk into the Nick, a dive so dark inside one expects to find Dracula pouring drinks in one of Birmingham’s prime spots for rock ‘n roll. The Nick has been knighted with a world-class reputation as one of the stops on the circuit for up and coming bands as well as musical combos with world-wide cult followings. Legends such as the Fleshtones, Johnny Winter, Alex Chilton, and Jimmie Dale Gilmore have performed on its tattered stage, and on any given night patrons have found themselves sitting next to luminaries as REM’s Peter Buck and U2’s Bono. Hidden around the corner from the Nick is one of the more fascinating places on God’s earth, the Garage Café. Nestled amongst the leftovers of an ancient, tiny antique mall, the Garage offers a courtyard covered in cascading wisteria, gargoyles, French iron gates, and marble baptismal fonts. A rather impressive cement counter is the interior center piece, creating an unusual spot to sit and drink. There is no truth to the rumor that Jimmy Hoffa is buried somewhere beneath the resting place for your gin and tonic. The 22nd Street Jazz Café is an intimate setting for jazz and blues. You might catch former Count Basie Orchestra bassist Cleve Eaton sitting in with the sweet, mind-numbing trumpet and silky voice of Robert Moore and his Wildcats.  More jazz can be found in the clubs along Second Avenue North at the French Quarters or Tee’s Place.

Cruising east on 7th Avenue we eventually find ourselves face to face with a new Birmingham phenomenon: the martini bar. At the Canteen, the price is an odd $6.42. Go figure. The Canteen offers more than 20 stylishly-enhanced martinis poured into tinkling glasses with long, slender stems. The interior décor is that of a plush living room: large, comfortable sofas illuminated by indirect lighting. A movie screen runs old films while the walls are plastered with black and white glossies of everyone from Frank Sinatra to Bette Davis. The fancy martinis reflect film star fixations, with one even dubbed The King Kong. — Ed Reynolds.

Originally published in Birmingham Magazine June 1997