By Jacob Katel
By Laurie Charles
By Nate "Igor" Smith
By Abel Folgar
By Kat Bein
By Jacob Katel
Waiting is a part of life in Miami. You wait in traffic, you wait in line, you wait for police to respond, and you will definitely wait for seats at the Kendall Ale House (11625 N. Kendall Dr., Miami; 305-595-7448). On a recent Friday night, the roar of shouting sports fanatics could be heard from the sidewalk outside the suburban nightlife staple. Listening to the debauchery, and waiting, was all one group of men could do as they complained about the two-hour standby for a table.
Those who chose not to wait still faced an obstacle course inside. Shouldering one's way through a suffocating crowd was the only way to get a drink at the bar. The Cheers-on-steroids joint was densely occupied with Kendallites connected in one way or another, as neighborhood watering holes often are. Alcohol-emboldened men stared, hissed, and broke neck at lone ladies navigating their way to bathroom. But the high jinks didn't stop there.
"Oh shit, are those tattoo tears?" Susan F. asked a girl waiting in line for a stall.
"No, they're moles," the girl replied.
"Oh, I thought you were a gangster," said Susan.
Those women might not have been channeling Tony Montana, but plenty who try to emulate his image still populate the bar. On Saturday night the scene was as rowdy as the night before, only this time a cat fight broke out. A blond woman slapped another female, who then threatened to tell police that her assaulter's boyfriend sells marijuana. Again there was more waiting: the victim for the police, the blond smacker for who knows what, and onlookers for a glimpse of cuffs shackling somebody, anybody. Those with a bit of sense waited simply for their drinks. And for the record, only a police report was written.