It is definitely time to go.
CHAPTER 16
We totally missed out on the pineapple whips thanks to Ruby’s talent for turning public art installations into fire hazards, but Koa and I have made a secret pact to track down that sweet frozen paradise later—preferably without telling Ruby and Lani, lest we give the fire department something else to do tonight.
The drive to Kapaa takes us through humidity so thick you could practically swim through it, it’s the kind of tropical air that sticks to your skin like a warm, wet blanket you can’t shake off.
Thank goodness for the pineapple express breeze that occasionally gusts through Koa’s truck windows, saving me from completely dissolving into a puddle of sweat and regret.
“The Bamboo Bar & Grill,” Koa announces as we pull into a parking lot that’s seen better decades but still manages to maintain that authentic local charm tourist guidebooks try so hard to capture and usually miss entirely.
The bar looks like it grew out of the red dirt naturally—weathered wood siding, tiki torches that actually work, and enough character to make you forget that most restaurants these days look as if they were designed by committees and assembled in factories. Local pickup trucks outnumber rental cars three toone, which in my experience means the food will actually be worth eating and the drinks won’t cost more than a mortgage payment. I hope.
“Is this where you and your brothers hang out?” I ask, climbing out of the truck and immediately feeling the humidity wrap around me like a nice warm hug.
“Yup. Best huli huli chicken on the island,” he confirms, leading me toward the entrance where the heavenly scent of grilling meat and tropical spices makes my stomach remember that virgin daiquiris and honeycomb don’t actually constitute dinner.
“Oh wow, if the chicken tastes half as good as this place smells, then I’m going to eat an entire henhouse.”
“It’s better even than that,” he confirms.
Ruby’s ancient Cadillac pulls up just as we reach the door, ejecting Ruby and Lani along with what appears to be a small convoy of cats who’ve somehow managed to follow them across half the island. The gray tabby emerges from the backseat with the dignity of royalty while Spam, my sweet orange furry wall, conducts a thorough inspection of the parking lot like he’s considering a hostile takeover of the establishment. And he might just be.
“How do they keep doing that?” I mutter, watching the feline entourage arrange themselves around the restaurant’s entrance.
“Island cats have excellent networking skills,” Koa says with a resigned acceptance. Clearly, he’s learned not to question the transportation methods of local wildlife.
The interior of The Bamboo Bar & Grill embraces its tiki heritage without an artificial tourist trap feel. Genuine bamboo covers the walls, carved tikis that look like they’ve been here since the volcanic activity settled down preside over the dining room, and the ceiling fans actually work well enough to make thespace habitable for humans rather than just decorative for social media posts.
“Bruh!” a voice calls from a corner booth, and I turn to see two men who could be Koa’s doppelgangers if Koa had been manufactured in slightly different but equally devastating variations.
Shaka rises from the booth first—all muscles and his man-bun firmly in place. Tattoos wrap around his biceps in traditional Polynesian patterns, and when he moves, you can tell he’s spent years building things with his hands and probably lifting weights that would require mechanical assistance for most mortals.
“Aloha.” Loco stands and gives a slight bow our way, clearly happy to see us.
They may as well be triplets, these Hale brothers—all dark eyes with gold flecks, all built like recruitment posters for careers that require actual physical capability, all carrying themselves with a natural authority that makes you want to beg them to handcuff you to a bedpost. Okay, so that’s just a fantasy of mine, but I digress…
“Ladies,” Loco says, pulling out chairs with old-fashioned manners that suggest their mother raised them right despite the fact that they could probably bench press small buildings for entertainment.
“Hope you don’t mind if we join you,” I say.
“We’d be insulted if you didn’t,” Shaka says, and Loco is quick to nod. “In fact, the tab is on us. We need to thank you, ladies, for letting us fix up that resort of yours. Mahalo.”
“Mahalo to the both of you for that,” I say, settling into a chair that’s actually comfortable and mercifully positioned under a ceiling fan. “I’m pretty sure the whole place was held together by electrical tape and a prayer before you showed up.”
“Mostly electrical tape,” Shaka confirms cheerfully. “But we’ve upgraded you to duct tape and actual structural support, so you’re moving up in the world.”
A server appears, a gorgeous woman who can’t stop smiling at the handsome men among us. “Huli huli chicken all around?” she asks, recognizing the Hale brothers’ usual dining pattern.
“Make mine a double,” Ruby announces, “despite the fact that I’ve never been here before and have no idea what huli huli chicken actually involves. I’ve had a very exciting evening and need sustenance to recover.”
“Exciting is one word for it,” Lani mutters, still traumatized by whatever artistic catastrophe Ruby unleashed at the art walk.
Twenty minutes later, we’re surrounded by plates of what can only be described as poultry perfection. The huli huli chicken arrives glistening with a glaze that catches the tiki torch light, seasoned with a blend of soy sauce, ginger, pineapple juice, and brown sugar that makes every bite taste like a luau in your mouth. The meat falls off the bone with a tenderness that requires either excellent technique or divine intervention, while the char from the grill adds just enough smokiness to make you moan with approval.
“We can make soft tacos,” Shaka explains, demonstrating the proper technique with warm tortillas and an assortment of tropical accompaniments. “Island fusion at its finest.”
I construct my own version—tender chicken, crisp cabbage, mango salsa that tastes like sunshine, and enough cilantro to convince my taste buds they’ve died and gone to flavor paradise. The first bite is so amazing I actually make involuntary appreciation noises that sound suspiciously like ecstasy.
