Inside the Speakeasy Theater #1
Watching Simon Pegg execute perfectly choreographed machine gun fury with a crisp beer in my right hand and an overburdened nacho in the other was the closest I’ve been to heaven. Last summer I had the great luxury of watching Hot Fuzz at the Parkway Speakeasy Theater in Oakland, California. I was in the golden state to attend a wedding, and I used my downtime to take advantage of all the sights the BART generously offered. Being an unrepentant movie hound, I booked it to the nearest independent cinema I could find with five friends in tow. I was primed for the usual dusty, cramped caverns in which I spend most of my leisure time. However, the Speakeasy was definitely unique to any other experience I’ve had in a movie house.
For starters (and entrees and desserts), they actually served edible food with a healthy respect for variety. Their specialty is pizza, but they refused to leave the vegans and mozzarella haters behind. The menu delighted with funky pseudonyms like The Hummus & Babaganoush Show, The Bugs Bunny Basket, and The Zombie Cow. This small feat would have been enough for me to cry “revolutionary,” but a thoughtful cadre of cooks was only the beginning of the miracles.
The Speakeasy is also a formalized “brew n’ view” happening, modified from the murky undergraduate classic. The patrons are trusted to drink responsibly granted they are legal. Underage scamps are not allowed, save for Saturday matinees and Sunday family nights. Otherwise, a perfectly adequate and affordable wine and beer selection is on the docket for the feature presentations. My companions and a majority of the audience, in a college state of mind, went in for the ceremonial pitcher of the cold stuff and a Daliesque plate of Nachos, unlike any I’ve seen before, with mountains of cheese and ground beef and valleys of guacamole and sour cream to navigate. It was too beautiful to eat, but alas good looks are fleeting.
The final opulence included love seat sofas, tables, and chairs for communal eating and watching. Honestly, it felt like the audience was in an extremely large living room or at least the home theater of a hedge fund manager before the economy tanked. The environs made the time-worn camaraderie of the movie screen flow easily. Laughter seemed more vibrant, gasps more pronounced, and talking back to the screen was de rigueur; the alcohol probably didn’t hurt. My companions loosened up so much that we felt obliged to invoke our own rusty version of Mystery Science Theater. Luckily, no baby flash light appeared to usher us out into the street.
The movie transformed into the grandiose dessert of the evening instead of the cramped main course it usually is at those chronically over-priced and under-cooked “big box” theaters. I can’t wait to return. Until then my flat screen on a Friday night, a Dale’s Pale Ale, and my bright orange Tylösand will have to suffice.
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