Blame the honeymoon. Ray and I went to Hawaii in 1987 and we have never really come back. We got home to a split-level with a chain-link fence and a patio the size of a bath mat and Ray said, out loud, "we should build a tiki bar back here." I said sure, honey. That was eleven years of "sure, honey."

Then in the spring of 1998 our neighbor took down an old fence and offered us the bamboo poles he'd had along it, free if we hauled them. Ray hauled them. And that was that. By the Fourth of July we had a roof on it. By Labor Day we had a name, a sign, string lights, a stack of records and the whole cul-de-sac out back on a Saturday night. Now we're the house where everybody ends up, which is exactly what Ray wanted, and I have to admit I love it.

This page is for the people who keep asking "how did you build that?" and "what's in this drink?" and for our two kids, Marisol (12) and Danny (9), who are the Hut's official bartenders on the non-alcoholic side and take it very seriously.

Lorna writes better than I do, so I'll keep this to the nuts and bolts. Total cost was under $400 and most of that was the thatch and the lumber. It took about six weekends, one of which was rained out and one of which I spent mostly at the hardware store.

1. The frame. Four pressure-treated 4x4 posts, set in concrete, in a rectangle 8 feet by 6 feet. Yes, I checked the setbacks. Yes, I called before I dug. Do both. The posts are 8 feet tall in front and 7 in back so the roof sheds rain.
2. The bar. A 2x4 frame at counter height (42 inches) along the front and one side, topped with two layers of 3/4-inch plywood and then a bamboo-slat mat glued down on top. Six coats of spar urethane over the whole thing so spilled pineapple juice wipes right off. Front of the bar is faced with the neighbor's bamboo poles, cut to length and screwed on side by side. Pre-drill every hole; bamboo splits if you look at it wrong.
3. The roof. 2x4 rafters, then plywood, then a layer of roll roofing for actual waterproofing (thatch is decoration, not a roof). Then the thatch.
4. The thatch. Here's the trick everybody asks about. It's palm-leaf thatch panels from a craft and party supply outfit, sold by the roll for luau decorations. We stapled it in overlapping rows starting at the bottom edge, like shingles, so it looks like the real thing from ten feet away. Two rolls did the roof and the skirt around the bar. It is dry and it is near a grill, so: the grill lives 15 feet away and there's a fire extinguisher under the bar. I mean it.
5. Stools. Four wooden bar stools from a yard sale, $5 each, painted with the leftover urethane.
6. The back bar. Shelves of 1x8 pine on brackets for the mugs, the records and the blender. The blender has its own outlet, run out from the garage on a proper outdoor circuit by an electrician, who was also the first customer.

Things I'd do differently: build the bar one foot deeper, put the sink in (I didn't; Lorna says next year), and buy the thatch first, because once you see the roll you understand how much you need.

Lights are everything. A tiki bar in daylight is a shed with a haircut. A tiki bar at night is a movie. We've got three kinds: plain white Christmas lights woven through the underside of the thatch; a string of those big plastic paper-lantern-style patio lights along the front; and two strings of the little chili pepper lights our sister-in-law gave us, which I thought were tacky and now cannot live without. Everything plugs into one outdoor power strip on a timer. Dusk to midnight. Citronella torches around the edge of the yard for the bugs, and for the look. Put the torches away from the thatch. Yes, I'll keep saying it.

The mugs. We have 23 tiki mugs and counting. The first four came from a thrift store in 1994, back when it was a joke. Now every relative who goes on vacation brings one home for us, and we hunt yard sales and flea markets every weekend in summer. The one with the chipped ear is the best one because it was Ray's mother's from a restaurant in 1962.

Everything else: a fish net on the back wall with glass floats in it (the floats were $2 each at a flea market, the net was free from a bait shop that was tossing it), a carved wooden tiki from a garden center that's about three feet tall and named Stanley, a ukulele nobody can play, and a hand-painted sign that says THE HUT, which Marisol lettered.

You cannot run a tiki bar on the radio. You need exotica: the jungle-drums-and-vibraphone lounge music of the late 1950s and early 1960s, with the bird calls and the bongos, that every rec room in America once had one album of. It is corny. It is perfect. Ray plays it on a portable record player that lives under the bar in a plastic tub.

The two names to know are Martin Denny and Arthur Lyman. Between them they've got a couple dozen albums and we own about half. Les Baxter is the other big one, a little more lush and orchestral. After that it's Hawaiian steel guitar records, anything with a hula girl on the cover, and a few Don Ho albums for when the crowd wants to sing along.

Where to find them: thrift stores, church rummage sales, estate sales, and the dollar bin at the used record shop. Nobody wants these records but us, so they're cheap. Look for the covers with the palm fronds and the ladies in leis. Check for scratches; hold it up to the light. Some have been reissued on CD in the last couple of years, which Ray considers cheating but Lorna considers convenient. There is a fellow on GeoCities with a whole page on record collecting if you want to get serious about the hunt.

These are the house drinks for anybody under 21, which is most of the people at any given party. The kids make them, the kids name them, and the kids put the umbrella in. Every one of them gets a paper umbrella. That's the law here.

First, the serious part, and then we'll have fun. These are strong. Tiki drinks are famous for tasting like fruit punch and hitting like a truck, and the fruit juice does not make the rum go away. At the Hut the rule is: nobody who's been drinking drives home. Ever. We're on a cul-de-sac and half the guests walk. The other half has a designated driver, or the couch, or a cab, and Ray has the number taped under the bar. Two-drink limit on the mai tais, because the second one is where people get brave. Adults only, obviously. Please drink like a grown-up.

Not on the menu: anything with three kinds of rum and a flaming lime. We tried it once. Look at the roof. Use your head.

We've done four now, and here is what we've learned, in the order we learned it.

• Leis at the gate. The cheap plastic ones from the party store, a whole box, and every single person gets one put over their head when they walk in, including the mailman if he's late. It changes the mood instantly. Nobody in a lei stays grumpy.
• The pig. We do not dig a pit in the yard (the cul-de-sac has opinions). We do a pork shoulder in the oven, low and slow all day, with salt and a little liquid smoke, then shred it, and it's the closest a suburban kitchen gets to kalua pig. Pineapple grilled in slices on the side. Sweet Hawaiian rolls. A big bowl of rice. That's the meal.
• Potluck the rest. Ask everybody to bring one dish "with a tropical theme," and then enjoy the ambrosia salad, the seven-layer dip with a pineapple on top, and the neighbor's Jell-O mold shaped like a fish. It's a party, not a restaurant.
• The limbo. A broomstick and two people who take it seriously. Do it before the mai tais, not after.
• Hula lesson. This is the surprise hit every time. Our friend who takes classes gets everyone in a line and teaches one basic step for ten minutes and by the end the grandpas are doing it. If you want to learn it properly, and respectfully, there's a real teacher with a lovely page at Hula for Beginners. Please read her note on respect; we did, and it changed how we do things.
• Torches lit at dusk, records on at dark. The moment the lights come on under the thatch and the first bird call comes off the record, the whole yard goes "ohhh." That's the moment you built the thing for.
• The kids' table is at the bar. The grown-ups can stand.

If you've been to the real thing, we'd love to hear how ours compares. A family here on GeoCities wrote up their Hawaii trip and reading it made us want to book a flight, which we can't, because we spent the money on thatch.

1. Shoes off or sandals on. No dress code beyond that. Hawaiian shirts earn a free umbrella.
2. Kids order first. Always.
3. Every drink gets an umbrella. Even water. ESPECIALLY water.
4. If you've been drinking, you are not driving. You may sleep on the porch swing.
5. The bartender picks the music. The bartender is whoever is behind the bar. Plan accordingly.
6. No fire near the thatch. Ray will remind you. Ray will remind you again.
7. Bring your own tiki mug and it lives here. We'll put your name on the shelf.
8. Last call at 11 on weeknights. The neighbors are the guests.
9. Stanley the tiki is not to be moved, dressed, or given a beer.
10. Aloha means hello and goodbye. Use both.