Hunter Becomes Hunted
Now, a Toast to Hunter S. Thompson

You and Cedd Moses have a good thing going.

He gives you Seven Grand, Doheny and Broadway Bar, among others. He gives you whiskey. Really good whiskey.

You give him your money. Gladly.

Let the reciprocal generosity continue—Tony's soft-opens Friday.

It's an all-American saloon on a no-man's-land patch of Downtown road—and once you park in the free lot and step inside, you can't see a thing. It's as if they imported some extra darkness. Then you make out the chalkboards, each devoted to a liquor family in stock. (Plenty of whiskey, of course.) A cozy booth for you and your illicit date, where nobody's likely to see your hands. And what you just tripped over—that was a pool table.

Once your eyes are fully adjusted, you'll notice tributes to Hunter S. Thompson—dioramas with photo collages and playing cards in the back, and some Stranahan's whiskey that was made by Thompson's neighbor in Colorado. (That's a block we would've liked to live on.)

As for what you're drinking, it's a little less fussy here than, say, the Doheny—sure, you can explore the nuances of Oban or the day's special (likely a classic spruced up with finds from the nearby produce market). Or you can dial it down with a shot and a seven-ounce Pacifico chaser. Even Schlitz in a can.

It's dark. Nobody will see.