TikiBarn Stories

Waikīkī After Dark: Where the Palm Trees Whisper

( from: www.tikibarn.store )

Step into Waikīkī at twilight and you’ll discover more than the perfume of plumeria in the air—you’ll hear the hum of laughter, the ring of steel guitar, and the clink of glasses at a little bar that locals simply called The Palm Tree Inn. Perched at the entrance to Waikīkī on bustling Kalākaua Avenue, this wasn’t a flashy palace with flaming fountains and massive tikis. It was smaller, scrappier, and infinitely more authentic—the kind of place where legends were made and memories were born.

The Music Man of Kalākaua

At the helm of this tropical refuge was none other than Barney Isaacs, the steel guitar virtuoso whose shimmering touch defined the sound of Hawai‘i. Barney wasn’t just a bandleader—he was a magnet. Musicians gravitated to him, and so did travelers in search of real aloha. By day, he shaped the island’s soundtrack as musical director for Waikiki Records. By night, he transformed the Palm Tree Inn into a stage, a clubhouse, and a family gathering all at once.

Stories still circulate about spontaneous jams that lasted until dawn—Barney trading riffs with passing ukulele strummers, hula dancers kicking off their slippers to sway by the jukebox, and even visiting servicemen adding a verse or two after a night on the town. “You never knew who might show up,” one old-timer recalled, “but you always knew it would be fun.”

Even the great Dick Jensen—before the Vegas shows, the tours, and the fame—cut his teeth in this cozy room, belting songs over the clatter of glasses and laughter. To the regulars, he wasn’t a star yet. He was just Dick, the kid with the big voice, trying out numbers on an audience that cheered him like family.

Waikīkī’s Democratic Spirit

The Palm Tree Inn embodied the democratic spirit of Waikīkī. There were no velvet ropes, no stiff dress codes. A barefoot surfer fresh off the beach might slide onto a barstool next to a visiting Hollywood producer in a Hawaiian shirt, and the bartender would serve them both the same frosty drink with the same easy grin.

Regulars remember a barman named Tommy who could spin a story as easily as he could shake a mai tai. His favorite trick was to pour two rum punches while recounting a wild tale of Duke Kahanamoku paddling past the bar’s back window. Was it true? Maybe, maybe not—but with a second round in hand, no one much cared.

One night, so the story goes, a power outage swept down Kalākaua. While other bars scrambled in the dark, the Palm Tree Inn simply lit its tiki torches, pulled out a ukulele, and carried on by candlelight. “Best blackout I ever had,” a patron later laughed. The drinks tasted sweeter when you couldn’t see exactly how strong they were.

Thanksgiving, 1969: The Last Round

But Waikīkī was changing. The bulldozers were circling, high-rises were climbing skyward, and little wooden bars like the Palm Tree Inn were living on borrowed time. On Thanksgiving Day, 1969, columnist Dave Donnelly recorded the last hurrah: Barney Isaacs’ Palm Tree Inn would pour its final drinks. He called it the oldest bar in Waikīkī, and locals lined up to give it a proper send-off. Rumors say the closing night ended with half the city’s musicians crammed into the tiny space, playing “Aloha ‘Oe” until the sun rose.

By 1971, a new high-rise stood on the site—today’s Luana Waikiki. The Palm Tree Inn vanished, swallowed by progress, its laughter and music echoing only in memory.

Legacy of the Palm Tree

Though the building is gone, the Palm Tree Inn’s legacy lingers in song, in stories, and in the hearts of those who knew it. It was never the biggest bar or the fanciest, but it was Waikīkī’s friendliest living room, a place where aloha was poured as generously as the rum.

( via: www.tikibarn.store )

Long before bamboo bars and flaming cocktails became the hallmarks of mid-century Tiki, Los Angeles was already experimenting with exotic escapes. One of the earliest and most glamorous playgrounds was The Tropics — a cocktail lounge and dining spot that proudly billed itself as “the informal cocktail lounge and dining room of the motion picture industry.”

In both its Beverly Hills and Hollywood incarnations, The Tropics was less about faux-Polynesian idols and more about creating an atmosphere of adventure, leisure, and cinematic flair. It was a place where Hollywood’s brightest stars could slip away for an evening that felt both informal and exotic.

In the 1930s and ’40s, America was fascinated by the “South Seas.” Movies like Mutiny on the Bounty and travelogues of the Pacific filled imaginations with sandy beaches, swaying palms, and romance under tropical skies. Restaurants capitalized on the trend, borrowing just enough island décor to transport guests without straying too far from familiar comforts.

This was the era before carved tikis and flaming bowls. Pre-Tiki venues like The Tropics relied on bamboo accents, rattan furniture, and murals of palm huts. It was atmospheric, escapist, and perfectly suited to Hollywood’s glamorous elite.

The story begins with charismatic entrepreneur Harry “Sugie” Sugarman, who opened the original Tropics around 1934–35 on North Rodeo Drive in Beverly Hills. Mixing American fare with Chinese dishes and serving cocktails with a whisper of the exotic, the venue quickly became a fashionable hangout.

By 1939, Sugarman expanded into the heart of Hollywood with The Hollywood Tropics at Sunset and Vine, one of the busiest intersections in the city. With NBC, studios, and nightclubs nearby, it was the perfect magnet for producers, actors, and starlets looking for a stylish but casual retreat.

And the stars came. Charlie Chaplin was spotted dining under its bamboo beams, while a young Shirley Temple was photographed enjoying dinner with John Agar. For Hollywood insiders, The Tropics was both a watering hole and an extension of the industry itself — a place where contracts could be discussed over cocktails and gossip flowed as freely as the rum.

The advertising for The Tropics painted a vivid picture: palm trees swaying, bamboo lettering, and a promise of connection to the movie industry. Inside, guests sipped cocktails beneath Chinese lanterns and tropical plants.

Unlike the immersive Tiki palaces of the 1950s, The Tropics struck a balance between novelty and sophistication. It was, in many ways, Hollywood’s exotic living room — close enough for stars to stop by after filming, informal enough to ditch the formality of supper clubs, and exotic enough to feel like a tropical movie set come to life.

Though it never reached the legendary status of Don the Beachcomber or Trader Vic’s, The Tropics was a proto-tiki powerhouse. Its menus featured playful movie-themed names and the famous “three wise monkeys” motif. Its Hollywood run lasted until about 1945, while the Beverly Hills location endured longer. In 1953, Sugarman sold it to Steve Crane, who transformed it into the iconic Luau, helping ignite the postwar Polynesian craze.

In the story of American cocktail culture, The Tropics occupies a critical transitional space. It wasn’t yet about carved idols or waterfalls. Instead, it was about atmosphere and escapism, filtered through Hollywood glamour.

For the film industry, The Tropics was more than a lounge — it was a statement. Hollywood wasn’t just making movies about the exotic; it was living them. Before most Americans had even seen a tiki torch, stars like Chaplin and Temple were already sipping cocktails beneath bamboo beams at Sunset and Vine.

Today, The Tropics is mostly a footnote, overshadowed by bigger tiki names. Yet it deserves recognition as the warm-up act that set the stage for tiki culture — an exotic detour with a distinctly Hollywood twist.

We’ve recreated The Tropics logo and vintage ad art into a limited-edition graphic tee — a wearable tribute to one of Hollywood’s forgotten pre-tiki havens. Slip it on, pour a rum cocktail, and keep the story alive.