Few things bring evil to mind like fire—in fact, Hell is filled with it. It’s a panic-inciting, trance-inducing element that most people have dreaded since the cowboy days when it was needed for warmth on the prairie. For Benders, the Mission district bar at South Van Ness and 19th St., it’s the great Satan. Completely gutted at the hands of an arsonist in 2006, Benders closed its doors for eighteen months. The motive for the blaze is still unclear, the perpetrator still at large. But after literally rising from the ashes last year for a re-opening Halloween blowout, Benders is celebrating its five-year anniversary and raising both middle fingers to the black curse that plagued the popular watering hole for years.

Started in 2003 by veteran local bartenders, Johnny Davis, Liam Martin, and Cameron Bryce, Benders filled a void in the Mission. Just as gentrification and the subsequent invasion of bridge and tunnel hipsters was threatening to suck the last remnants of personality and grit right out of the neighborhood, here was a dark and rowdy rock and roll bar for hard drinking locals who were sick of standing in bar lines next to yuppies out for a night of slumming.

“There’re not many places you can go anymore,” says David Stein, sound man and long time Benders patron. “The hipsters are killing me. I just want to fucking drink.”

To celebrate the anniversary Benders is throwing a three-night party featuring live music and a Jell-O wresting smack-down competition. By Sunday evening many of the patrons have been drinking at Benders for about three days. It’s 10pm and the crowd looks toxic but happy as they gather in the middle of the room around a big blue inflatable pool filled with what looks more like cherry Slurpee than Jell-O. The wrestlers (pretty much anyone willing to sign up for guaranteed pain, discomfort, and humiliation) begin stripping down to their tight-and-sexys and gearing up to throw down. Local rocker Heather Zero, her face sprinkled liberally with glitter, waits her turn and states her purpose. “My plan is to get as much glitter into the pool as possible,” she says, “purely because I don’t give a fuck.”

It seems the other wrestlers are equally without inhibition. The first two gladiators, both women, hit the pool and proceed to tear each other apart as DEVO’s “Whip It” blares from the sound system. There are cheap shots and there is straddling, vindictiveness and vengeance. It’s three minutes of barbarism, voyeurism, and punishment. When the match ends, both women get out and shake off as much of the icy pink liquid as they can before stepping out the back door to hose off the rest. The crowd keeps cheering as, two by two, men and women, big and small, down there shots and jump in the pool. Johnny Davis is the last to take the plunge, diving from the stage wearing just a cape, a mask, and a pair of red shorts. When it’s all over just about every inch of the floor is covered in red slime, and the drunkest people in San Francisco forward-moonwalk (as not to slip) back to the bar to order up for last call. Anniversary or not, it’s really just another night at Benders.

Four nights after the Jell-O smackdown, half a dozen men dressed head to toe in Viking battle garb, and led by Davis, charge out the front door of Benders and march two blocks to the neighboring Homestead bar, where they demand, receive, and chug a round of shots to the delighted cheers of on-looking patrons and staff. The whole scene lasts three minutes before the Vikings walk out the door, followed by customers snapping pictures.

By the time they return to Benders more Vikings have arrived and the reason for all the pillaging becomes clear: Benders is hosting a bachelor party for one of its regulars, who decided that a Viking funeral, complete with live hard rock accompaniment, would be an appropriate farewell to the single life.

This type of ludicrously themed drunkenness is Benders’ forte. The bar is quickly becoming the go-to place for people who want to spice up the typical night out drinking. In addition to Viking ceremonies and Jell-O wrestling competitions Benders has hosted everything from Burlesque shows to moped conventions. On the last Halloween before the fire, Benders allowed local filmmaker Cecil B. Feeder to take over the bar, turn the basement into an impromptu make-up studio, and film a hundred blood-drenched zombies dancing to live music for one of his movies. The first Halloween after the fire Feeder turned up in a silver flame-retardant suit complete with head covering and a gold shield mask. If you’re thirsty and looking for something weird, Benders is probably the place for you.

***
Before Martin, Bryce, and Davis bought it, the place was called Sacrifice, a Goth bar owned by musicians from the band My Life With The Thrill Kill Cult. Dark stuff, no question.

The owner before them was shot to death inside the bar. Word is, his spirit never left.

Virginia Ramos (a.k.a. the Tamale Lady), a beloved Mexican immigrant who sells homemade tamales to bar patrons throughout the Mission, visited Benders when it first opened, felt that it was haunted, and asked Davis and Martin come with her to San Jose to visit a holy man who would help lift the curse. They agreed and found themselves in a strip mall storefront with an elderly sage, rolling dice made from bones before driving away with seven gallons of flower water and clear instructions: mop the entire floor of the bar with the blessed liquid each day for a week and do not waste a drop.

Davis and Martin weren’t born yesterday. Serving drinks all these years, they’ve witnessed their share of human kind’s spiritual bankruptcy. “The flower water smelled terrible,” Davis says. “I think [the holy man] was soaking roses in a plastic kiddie pool in his backyard.” But Ramos was a dear and trusted friend, known for imparting sound wisdom and advice, so they gave the plan a shot. “We were really trying to put Virginia at ease,” Davis says.

So the floor was mopped and the seed of the Lord was sown. But Benders’ swamper (the guy who cleans the bar each morning) thought that for a laugh (or some quick salvation) he would drink some of the flower water. This, according to Ramos, corrupted the ritual and rendered the will of God all but impotent.
In the early morning hours of June 11 2006, someone poured gasoline under the front door of Benders and the fire started there. Flames engulfed the bar destroying everything but the office, bathrooms, and basement. The identity of the arsonist became fodder for the rumor mill. Jilted lovers, neighboring prostitutes, and gang leaders were all mentioned as suspects, but no arrests were ever made. “It was the worst thing that had ever happened to me,” says Davis, who went into a deep depression. “I couldn’t sleep. Every day I didn’t know if I was going to make it through. I couldn’t believe that someone intentionally, maliciously did this.”

***

At twenty-three, Davis was working the door at a night club called Rock Candy in Seattle. When he learned that the club’s owner was just twenty-eight, he realized what he wanted to do. “I moved to San Francisco to open a bar,” Davis says.

When he got here he went to work pouring drinks at Toronado on Haight Street. He also took shifts at Treat Street, the Coyote Bar, and El Bobo, where he worked with Martin and Bryce. Davis says that when a new owner took over the Coyote Bar and started mistreating the staff, he decided it was time to open his own place. He told the new owner, “Dude, you’re fucked. Good luck ever getting anybody as good as the crew you have.” He took some of the Coyote staff with him, including Cassy Fritzen. She was Benders’ first employee. These days Benders’ staff is a who’s-who of the Mission’s favorite bartenders.

“It starts with the owner, Johnny,” says Tommy Carty, a regular, sitting with a pint on a recent afternoon. “He doesn’t just put anybody behind the bar. I have great respect for that. Johnny’s well liked all over. No bullshit out of him.”

***

For a year they didn’t know if they would rebuild. Martin went back to his native Australia and Bryce got his construction company going. Then they caught a break. The landlord gave Bryce’s company the contract to rebuild the bar. Davis says: “Our contractor had a vested interest in getting things up and running as soon as possible.”

By all accounts the facelift Bryce gave the bar is mind-blowing. Gone are the low ceilings and the wall that separated the bar into two rooms. The place feels twice the size that it did before and warm light pours in from the backyard patio. When customers belly up to the bar they lean over what looks like a bowling lane stretching from one end to the other, complete with boards and arrows. It’s a work of art. Rock Posters and the labors of local artists adorn the walls and Davis is planning a photo exhibit in November to showcase pictures taken in Benders before the fire. The basement is pretty much the same as are the freezers, which were spared by the fire, their contents kept chilled. “You’re drinking burnt beer, mate,” Martin said last Halloween in his thick Australian accent, smiling and relishing the fact that his patrons were literally swallowing the last remnants of his bar before the fire.

“We had our hope set high that we could come back from what we went through,” Davis says, “and so far we’ve exceeded them. We’d still be a dirty little rock bar as opposed to a neighborhood rock lounge. The rock hasn’t changed. It’s just not as small and dirty.”

Tonight Johnny Davis is doing what he does best: pouring drinks and making everyone feel like the most important person in the room. His hair is dark and hangs just past his shoulders, a far cry from his trademark spiky blonde flat top. He vowed the day of the fire not to cut his hair until Benders reopened. When it did he said, “I’ve got to grow it long enough to donate it to the kids doing chemo.” He plans to chop it right after Halloween.

A customer walks up and tells Davis “I need an eye opener.”

“Talk to me,” Davis replies, smiling. As he fills a shot glass for the man, another customer compliments him on the renovations. Davis looks around with a look of amazement in his eyes and says, “This place is almost too nice for me to own.”