Every once in a while I stumble into a bar that leaves me completely befuddled in either a good way ... or not. I call them "go-figures."

Lately, it seems the reason for my bewilderment lies in what passes for a bar, not to mention a drink, in certain parts of town. I've obviously misjudged the appeal of an anemic pour at an inflated price in a trendy place with pretty people. But then again, who hasn't? These places are not for real drinkers, anyway. They're flowerboxes; pretty pedestals for the Prada-prone to ogle one another.

Not that there's anything wrong with that. It's just not my lemon-grass-and-chai-infused-boutique-vodka-health-cocktail.

You don't stand a chance of getting that at the Baranof Lounge. Oh sure, you're welcome to try, but I'd advise against it. This bar's right out of George Bailey's alternate Bedford Falls. I can almost hear the line "we serve hard drinks in here for men who want to get drunk fast, and we don't need any characters around to give the joint 'atmosphere.'"

The Baranof leaves me a little bewildered right off the bat – but in a good way. I think it has something to do with the fact that the joint itself is a conundrum of sorts. And that's just the way they like it. It's a reflection of the neighborhood. The area around 85th and Greenwood appears to be cobbled together from odd leftover bits of other places even as the condos and big box buildings begin to crowd around like bullies at a playground fence.

The weathered sign over the door proclaims "The Baranof – a restaurant." The front section is a throwback neighborhood diner that's never had to be thrown back, so to speak. Inexplicably, a framed poster from "Crazy in Alabama" hangs prominently displayed from the ceiling right in the middle of the place. Ten people saw this movie. I know two of them. Like the rest of the joint it just seems to have happened.

The bar is in a word, nautical. In more than a word, it's old-school-dive-bar-tiki, only without so much tiki. There is quite a lot of netting hanging from the low ceiling and the wall is lined with a built-in wrap-around bench seat upholstered in Naugahyde and lightning strike slashes of duct tape. The walls are plastered with the kind of memorabilia beer and liquor reps take decades to disperse. The lighting is dubious, but appropriate. The clientele at the bar, sparse and eclectic – but what the hell, it's the middle of the week and this neighborhood works for a living. We order a round and let the ambience flow over us.

Regulars wander in and out. The barmaid occasionally reminds a hulking bearded fellow at the bar to "behave. Be nice." Everybody goes out back to smoke – a lot. A few guys stumble around one of the pool tables in the adjacent game room next to the big screen TV and NASCAR posters.

NASCAR.

Most of one wall is shrine to the boys of Thunder Road. As far as I can tell, bios and photos of every driver and team on the circuit have been downloaded off the internet and tacked up behind a huge glass-encased shrine. I hail from the cradle of stock car racing and I've never seen the like outside of the Joe Weatherly Museum next door to the Darlington International Raceway (the track too tough to tame), or maybe a Hooters in Vegas, once.

We are clearly out of our element here. That's the thing about "bar-bars." The people who populate them claim them. They've marked their territory with years of dedication to a particular bar stool. Some off the elite may even run a monthly tab, the dive bar Holy Grail. Even so, the service is prompt, attentive, polite and dang friendly. The drinks are healthy without being "healthful." Trends can't get in here.

As we're tabbing out I ask the bartender if the races are big draws. She looks at me blankly. I motion to the wall of NASCAR.

"Seems to be a big race spot," I mutter lamely.

"I guess. Couldn't really say," she replies.

And there it is, another "go-figure."

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