In an age when our moral guardians have set the blood-alcohol limit at .08, it shouldn't be surprising that the best biker bar around isn't a bar at all. Replacing the Hell's Angels' recipe of coke and rum-and-Coke with the essential ingredient to a poor man's speedball--a strong cup of joe--Bob's Java Hut serves every grade of motor oil demanded by the hipster chic. (Bonus: You can catch South Park there on Wednesday evenings.) El Niño winters aside, drive time in our blustery city is seasonally limited. In response, this coffee haus offers its leather-clad clientele large tables and plenty of elbow room, enough space for the denizens to pine collectively for their summer-daze. Once the thaw hits, the garage-door window wall rolls back. Motors rev. BMWs make pit stops en route to (tree-lined) mean streets and other suburban thoroughfares. The bikeless may sit and mock the crotch rockets, but even these folks can't help but ride vicariously--eyes closed, caffeine fueling the engine of envy.


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