The restaurant has a dark interior and woven mats hanging on the wall. It always looks closed, and there are no consistent hours or days of operation. The bar and the tables are stapled with a skirt of raffia that traps pieces of battered coconut. The service is slow, and the waitstaff always acts persecuted. Their food is made carelessly and greasily, and the way you order (baked, grilled, sautéed) is an unnecessary choice because it doesn’t matter how you want your fish: You are getting it battered. Tiki’s is my favorite restaurant on Kauai. My father would take me here. Sometimes after dinner he’d sit at the worn bar and I would stay at our table, listening to the ukulele club and coloring on the paper tablecloth. Now there’s no tablecloth, just wood, and kids whose fathers sit at the bar carve into the tables with their steak knives. The ukulele club still meets here to practice. They’re here tonight, old Hawaiians who smoke cigarettes and snack on boiled peanuts in between their jam sessions.
