By Jacob Katel
By Laurie Charles
By Nate "Igor" Smith
By Abel Folgar
By Kat Bein
By Jacob Katel
There's not much to say about Barracuda Raw Bar and Grill (3035 Fuller St., Coconut Grove; 305-448-1144). You can smoke inside, wolf down fries and greasy burgers, and chug cheap beer. Other than a few standard features (booths, jukebox, pool table), the bar is nondescript. But what it lacks in décor, it makes up for in human oddities. Lurking in Barracuda's many dark corners, desolate souls, for the most part, keep to themselves, while high-fiving frat boys try (and fail) to steal the show.
On a recent Saturday night, bright-eyed girlfriends in jean skirts clung to their men, pretending not to hear the perverse comments spewed forth from Donny, a 57-year-old war vet and former carny. "They call me the culo bandito," he sprayed. "I got three women. Can't keep up with them. I gotta get Viagra from the VA. 'Biatches' — I call 'em that 'cause you can't call them bitches anymore." Donny took out a comb and ran it through his long, gray hair and beard. Like rings in an old tree trunk, the dark circles under his eyes told the story of his life.
Billy, the resident goth, removed his trench coat and began collecting empty beer pitchers. His flowy white shirt, with its flared sleeves and ruffled collar, could pass as a costume from Interview with a Vampire. "Touch it — it's fuzzy," he said, referring to the strip of blue flames stitched into the outer seam of his wide black pants.
"Did you get that shirt from Seinfeld?" shouted Donny.
Nearby, bikers with skull apparel flirted with a girl in a short, dirty white dress. She acted as if she were on Ecstasy, raving with a blinking key chain and rubbing it all over her body. "Eeew," Donny said after catching a glimpse of the girl's crotch, which was on display to most of the patrons. But sometimes between his vulgar comments, Donny showed he has a soul. "I miss cuddling, all that shit," he said before exploding into dry, manic laughter. — Alexandra Quiñones