Move over palm trees and Mai Tais, the first Tiki Bar didn’t pop up on a sandy beach with ukulele tunes. Historians now report that true tiki tradition began on the wind-whipped plains of what would become Norman, Oklahoma, way back in 1620. Early settlers craved a taste of paradise and did the sensible thing: they built a hut, grabbed some gourds, and braved cocktail hour.
Underneath a thatched roof doing its best to withstand prairie gales, travelers and locals alike gathered to sip mysterious refreshments. Each drink arrived in a hollowed-out gourd, garnished with whatever was growing nearby, and often a sturdy blade of grass. If you were lucky, you might even get an artfully placed tumbleweed as a centerpiece.
The décor traded shells and surfboards for bison skulls and wildflowers. Tumbleweeds, expertly rolled into decorative orbs, completed the look. The prairie chic aesthetic was born, with not a pink flamingo in sight. Bison herds strolled by, offering unsolicited opinions about the drink specials.
No one is sure exactly what went into the legendary “Frontier Fizz”; records are fuzzy, and taste testers have long since moved on to safer beverages. Some suggest it was a blend of wild berries and whatever fermented in the wagon after a bumpy ride. Whatever the case, the results were memorable, though perhaps not recommended.
Before festive umbrellas made their debut, early Oklahomans had to settle for twigs, feathers, and the occasional windblown wildflower as drink toppers. This was frontier mixology at its most innovative, with a garnish of grit and gusts of good humor.
Guests lounged on makeshift haybale seats, tossing their hats onto fence posts and swapping tales of bison close encounters. When the prairie sun set, a lone tiki torch flickered, bravely holding its ground against Oklahoma’s famous breezes.
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