Finding Community and Kava at ‘Awa Hou Kava Lounge

The kava bar in the old Glazer’s Coffee spot is an ideal space for socializing, relaxing and exploring kava from around the Pacific.

18 hours ago

Katrina Valcourt,

Photo: Katrina Valcourt

The first thing you see when you walk into ‘Awa Hou Kava Lounge on South King Street is the living wall, populated by almost 700 native plants from Hui Kū Maoli Ola. Lauhala mats cover the sides of the counter, while the Progress Pride, Hawaiian and Palestinian flags hang on the wall and in the window.

“I’m building new couches,” owner Rami Kayali says as I check out the books and games under some of the seats. I sit at the bar, beneath coconut shells—my favorite spot when feeling chatty, and Kayali does not disappoint.

Photo: Katrina Valcourt

I’m not a big kava drinker, but I am interested in seeing how folks are revitalizing it as a cultural practice amid the rise of canned kava seltzers and mixed drinks around the nation. Here, it’s about community and the effects of the drink itself. After all, people don’t drink kava because it’s yummy. “It tastes like licking a potato,” Kayali says. “It tastes like pencil-shavings tea.”

Kayali is studying kava as a graduate student at UH Mānoa and is a wellspring of knowledge about the plant, its uses and the misconceptions that have tainted its reputation.

He first became familiar with kava in Florida; he now owns two kava bars in California. ‘Awa Hou is not a third branch, but its own separate space that celebrates local ‘awa in ways he wouldn’t feel comfortable bringing elsewhere. For instance, ‘awa he gets from Hawai‘i Island farmers is only served fresh, unlike dried varieties from the South Pacific. He works with farmers to bring in new varieties daily and offers them made with water or coconut water.

During happy hour, kava is $5. Photo: Katrina Valcourt

From 1 to 4 p.m., an 8-ounce ‘apu (coconut cup) of kava is $5 instead of $7.50–$8.50. I try all four offerings, noting how the coconut water changes the depth of the drink, how local ‘awa tastes grassier than the peppery Silese variety from Vanuatu, how my lips go numb when I drink quickly.

I feel mellow; Kayali says he notices how relaxed I’ve become, though I chalk that up to his affability. We chat easily about how he went from pre-med to aviation to kava. The space also hosts pop-ups with groups such as Niu School and Poi to the People, along with workshops on how to weave and make nets, live music and community gatherings. On a rainy Wednesday afternoon, the space is quiet; he hopes more students from UH will discover it.

Owner Rami Kayali behind the bar. Photo: Katrina Valcourt

For Kayali, kava helps with the anger he carries about what is happening in Gaza. Whenever I mention something he’s fired up about—those misleading kava studies, its detrimental association with kratom—he pours another cup. Unlike alcohol, “kava doesn’t make you say something stupid,” he says. (Though it can still give you a hangover.)

Beyond straight kava, ‘Awa Hou sells a side of ginger syrup that you can mix in, plus muffins made by his wife and local Sky Kombucha on tap.

‘Awa Hou fills a bit of the hole left by Smokey’s Pipe & Coffee, which also served kava across the street, and Glazer’s Coffee, which occupied this space for 17 years. But while Glazer’s felt warm and cozy, ‘Awa Hou is bright, welcoming and inclusive. There’s free Wi-Fi, parking and student discounts, plus it’s open late, making it an ideal gathering spot, especially for those 18–20 who don’t have third spaces, or anyone who just wants to chill.