tradition

The “Cultural Re-existence” column will provide insights into how our ancestral practices, habits, customs, and traditions remain alive today because Venezuelans preserve them through the human spirit they embody and amplify. These are expressions of women and men grounded in reality, history, and a consciousness of their subjective revolutionary role, as well as their responsibility and commitment to defending life.

March, in addition to being the month honoring women, is a month of celebration centered on Venezuela’s most widespread traditional rhythm: joropo. (1) And although this is a community tradition with unique variations throughout Venezuela, on March 19 the town of Elorza in Apure state hosts a ten-day festival that draws thousands of people from all over Venezuela and other countries, to participate and enjoy concerts until dawn, joropo llanero singing and dancing contests, sports and recreational activities linked to the Llano culture, as well as culinary and artisan fairs. Another iconic date this month is March 15, since in 2014 the Bolivarian government declared “Traditional Venezuelan Joropo in All its Diversity” to be part of the nation’s cultural heritage. From that moment, this date has been commemorated as National Joropo Day.

As a community-based festival, the Venezuelan joropo in its various forms—in the eastern, north-central coastal, llanos, western, and Andean regions—has seen Venezuelan women become committed cultural creators who are conscious of their community’s identity, the very identity that has allowed them to endure since colonial times, keeping alive the feelings, thoughts, and actions that extend beyond their own lives, into the lives of their children and grandchildren. 

Venezuelan women, as practitioners of the various joropos, have had to fight—as women and as joropo creators—against the Inquisition, the nation-state, and the cultural industry for their right to exist. It is well known that these institutions demonized them for “disturbing devotion,” and even today they compel them to adopt a masculinized representation of their own identity or impose the sexualization of their aesthetic expression. There is a historical debt to acknowledge the heroic insurgency that the practice, creation, and celebration of the various Venezuelan joropos have meant for the Venezuelan people, and this debt is owed primarily to the joroperas [female joropo practitioners] for their unrelenting commitment to our identities, even during the most complex moments of our history as an insurgent people.

For these reasons, we wanted to inaugurate our column with the perspective that Venezuelan women have on this popular community festival. Through Fabiola José, we were invited to the 3rd “Mujer Joropo” (Joropo Women) Gathering, held in honor of singer Cecilia Todd and dancer María Ruíz. This was our cue to attend the “Joropazo” organized at the San Carlos Barracks in Caracas on March 15, and to participate as singers and spectators in this gathering of women, an artistic-cultural initiative that brought together singers, dancers, and musicians of all ages, with repertoires integrating both the traditional music and dances of our communities and more contemporary musical and choreographic expressions that speak to multigenerational dialogue and the enduring relevance of this popular art form.

Honoring women’s role in joropo

Carolina Veracierta is the organizer of Mujer Joropo. A dancer, writer, designer, and singer, she explained to us that the project “focuses on women not just in a supporting role but as a protagonist, a creator, and carrier of ancestral knowledge.”

“For me, the joropo isn’t just a musical genre or a dance; it’s the language through which my body and my voice express my very essence. It’s the echo of my childhood in Monagas state and the strength that has sustained me on stages far away,” she explained. “When I dance the joropo, I don’t just move my feet; I shake off my sorrows, celebrate my victories, and honor the women who, before me, kept the rhythm in their skirts and in their songs to accompany the milking of cows.”

Asked about the importance of an event featuring women exclusively, Veracierta argued that joropo has historically had “a very masculine narrative” but that women have always been present, “sustaining the rhythm and in tandem with the man’s foot-stomping.”

“Celebrating it among women is an act of sorority and empowerment,” she concluded. “Joropo has the soul of a woman.”

Amaranta Pérez, another artist featured in the event, told us that joropo brings her an immediate jolt of happiness. “It takes me back to my family’s roots between Parmana and Valle de la Pascua [Guárico state], it is a sort of therapy,” she said. “I especially cherish the lyrics that express the love for our people, landscapes, history, and the folk tales from our wonderful authors that are turned into songs.”

Amaranta defended the importance of events like Mujer Joropo to help correct women’s “unequal” participation in the artistic sphere.

For her part, singer, professor, and bassoonist Luisana Pérez affirmed that “joropo for me is synonymous with Venezuela, from its history to the yellow, blue, red and eight stars that make up the national flag.”

Concerning Mujer Joropo, Luisana explained that “it was unusual to see women playing the mandolin, the harp, or the cuatro” and that these kinds of events “are a beautiful way to reclaim the role played by women in joropo.”

More than 20 artists participated in this third edition of Mujer Joropo, demonstrating the commitment of contemporary Venezuelan women to their own history, to the artistic legacy of their ancestors, and to the responsibility of preserving and promoting the heritage they now hold.

From underground communal festivity to national identity manufactured by the music industry

On April 10, 1749, the governor and captain general of Venezuela, Don Luis Francisco de Castellanos, published what may be the first documented reference to the joropo. He did so in the form of a decree banning the Xoropo Escobillado, “…due to its extreme movements, insolence, heel-stomping, and other indecencies, it has been frowned upon by some people of sound mind…”. The official decided to consult the Royal Audience on this matter, likely due to widespread controversy, and in the meantime, warned that those who violated the ban would face public scrutiny plus two years of imprisonment, and women would be “…confined to hospitals for an equal period…”.

Although this is the first formal ban to explicitly name joropo, we cannot overlook the fact that, as early as 1532, the Catholic Church’s published constitutions regulated and prohibited popular festivals in general, especially those where the music and dances of Mulatto, Black, and Indigenous women “…disturb devotion…,” or where both sexes mingle in dance, or those where the veneration of saints was a pretext for throwing a party. 

If we consider that there is evidence that the first vihuelas [medieval Spanish string instrument] arrived in 1529 in the territory we now call Venezuela, and if we acknowledge the express order of the Catholic Monarchs to ship instruments and musicians starting with Columbus’s second voyage (1493), we could infer that between these dates and Governor Castellanos’s ban, there were some 220–250 years of incubation for what would eventually become an irreversible trend in popular culture, which the colonial order had no choice but to accept.

Although the term xoropo has been interpreted as coming from Arabic as jarabe ( شراب , sharab), for the Andalusian researcher, poet, and musician Antonio Manuel Rodríguez Ramos, the root is undoubtedly that of drinking ( شرب , shurib), and he explains that initially, this is how the festival of drinking, singing, dancing, and eating might have been called. And the fact is that drinking –alcohol– was the best way for converts to avoid suspicion from the Tribunal of the Holy Office of the Inquisition, which was formally operational in our country between 1610 and 1821.

Related to other rhythms including fandangos, jácaras, folías, jarabes, and sones, Venezuelan joropos were documented in the independence struggle that led Bolívar’s armies as far as Peru during the nineteenth century. In the mid-twentieth century, one of these joropos, the llanero, was established as the national music style and dance, though it was a version that had certainly lost its communal and rustic character. By then, the music industry, aware of the deep roots these sounds had in Venezuelans, marketed a series of commercial products featuring music, lyrics, and singers stylized to fit institutional, urban, and bourgeois tastes.

As we noted above, on March 15, 2014, the Venezuelan government declared “Traditional Venezuelan Joropo in All its Diversity” as part of the nation’s cultural heritage, recognizing it as an element of identity and unity –not only in many of our festivities and collective expressions throughout the country, but also as a collective process of community organization. The declaration of the diversity of joropos as cultural heritage was the result of a series of debates that took place both within the community of cultural workers and among research specialists.

With the same strategy of asserting the joropo not only as a dance but as a complex cultural system that integrates music, song, dance, poetry, and oral traditions passed down through generations, Venezuela proposed to the UNESCO Intergovernmental Committee for the Safeguarding of the Intangible Cultural Heritage that the Venezuelan joropo be included on the Representative List of the Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity. The committee approved the proposal on December 9, 2025.

Venezuelan joropos thus allow people to come together and reclaim their humanity through the recognition of their own dignity. Through parrandas, festivals for singing, dancing, eating, and drinking, joropo expresses a communal setting where agriculture, cattle rearing, and fishing were the means of sustaining life. Persecuted by the colonial order, homogenized by the nation-state, and commercialized by the music industry through jingle-franchise schemes, Venezuelan joropos also survived the journey from the rural countryside to the oil-driven urban environments.

This continuous history of persecution, denial, whitewashing, and normalization has actually pushed joropo women and men to sneak away, resonate, hold firm, reinvent themselves, and stand out in a permanent process of self-consciousness, recognition, and realization. It is not merely a connection to the land, to love, to our mothers, but to the dream of living in a free land, and the will to produce a cultural liberation project.

Note

(1) With a myriad of local expressions, joropo is the most widespread traditional rhythm in Venezuela. Its execution typically features at least one singer, maracas as percussion, the Venezuelan cuatro [four-stringed instrument], and other string instruments such as the harp or the mandolin. The most well-known variations are the joropo llanero, from the plains region, joropo oriental from the eastern coastal areas and Margarita island, and joropo central from Miranda and Aragua states in the center of the country. Listen to the songs above for examples.

Fabiola José is a Venezuelan singer. She has performed in countries across South America, Africa, Europe, and Asia. Her singles and albums are available on all digital platforms. She hosted and produced “Cantante y Sonante” for Radio Nacional de Venezuela. In 2018–2019, she created a series of videos for social media, published on her YouTube channel #HechoEnCasa. She holds a bachelor’s degree in Music from IUDEM, Caracas (2005); specialized under Maestro Tom Krause in Spain (2007); and an M.A. in Arts and Cultures of the South from UNEARTE, Venezuela (2020).

Fidel Barbarito is a Venezuelan musician and researcher, with a bachelor’s and master’s degrees in music and history, respectively. He teaches in the undergraduate and graduate programs at the National Experimental University of the Arts (UNEARTE). Together with Fabiola José, he promotes several musical projects aimed at disseminating traditional folk repertoires, integrating them with contemporary compositions inspired by these sounds. Joropo llanero. Parranda de reexistencia is one of his published essays.

The views expressed in this article are the authors’ own and do not necessarily reflect those of the Venezuelanalysis editorial staff.

The year was 1975. 

On a quiet afternoon in Bare, a farming community in Numan Local Government Area of Adamawa State, northeastern Nigeria, Clement Coleman sat beneath a neem tree with an old friend. Alhaji Sadiki, a herder from the nearby village of Sabewa, had come to visit.

Clement had recently bought two calves, and he believed that Sadiki was best positioned to raise them. There were no contracts to sign, no witnesses to summon. By the end of their conversation, he handed them over to Sadiki. At the time, this was not unusual in Bare. It was the system.

Farmers routinely bought a handful of calves and entrusted them to herders they knew. In return, the herders were given access to farmland within the community, land they could not cultivate themselves because of their nomadic life and the demands of managing large herds. Farmers, in turn, worked those fields on their behalf. 

It was an arrangement built on mutual dependence. At harvest, farmers handed over the yields to the herders. When they needed money or access to their cattle, they turned to the herders to whom they had entrusted their animals. Over time, the cattle multiplied. Farmers who never grazed a single animal came to own sizeable herds. Herders, meanwhile, secured steady food supplies through farms they did not till themselves. Risks were shared, and so were rewards.

That afternoon, Clement and Sadiki sealed their agreement with a handshake.

The pact that fed generations 

For years, the system worked with remarkable ease.

Clement recalls how Sadiki managed the cattle as though they were his own, alerting him whenever one fell ill. “One time, the cows entered someone’s farm and destroyed their crops. Sadiki told me, and I went to the farmer and covered the loss in cash,” Clement told HumAngle. 

A decade on, by 1985, his herd had grown to four cattle. By 1990, it had increased to six. The herd continue to multiply. 

“They were healthy and big. I considered myself a rich man back then,” he recounted. 

The cattle became a financial lifeline. One time when Clement was short of funds and needed to pay for his children’s education, he went to Sadiki and one of the big cows was sold. He paid his children’s fees and used the balance to support his household. He continued to use the system for years to support his family. 

Others relied on the same system.

Buba Sarno, a lifelong herder in Mararaban Bare, never had time to farm. Yet, for four decades, each harvest season, he received about 25 bags of rice and 30 bags of maize. It was simple. All he did was seek land for free and reached an agreement with a local who tended to the farm on his behalf. If the farm required manual labour or fertiliser, Buba sorted it through the farm attendant. “With time, I also cultivated soya beans and other crops, and my family never had to buy food,” Buba told HumAngle. 

Magaji Yakubu, another herder in Mararaban Bare, told HumAngle that he combined grazing with both rainy season and irrigation farming, relying on locals to manage his fields. “I cultivated rice, guineacorn and soya beans,” Magaji noted. Like Sadiki, he tended farmers’ cattle.

The same arrangement played out in Bwashi community in Adamawa’s Demsa Local Government Area, where Theophilus Tapu built his livelihood around it. The 80-year-old farmer is a father of 10 and grandfather of over 40 children. He is considered an accomplished cattle rearer in his community, but Theophilus never led a herd to graze. Instead, he bought young male calves, handed them to trusted herders, and sold them at maturity. 

“I sold them to sort my needs and purchase more young ones, then hand them back to the herders,” he told HumAngle, adding that when some of the herders were migrating, they would hand over his herd to him, and he would entrust it to a new batch of herders. 

The cycle sustained him for over 60 years. 

By 2000, he had lost count of his herd. He explained that his relationship with the herders thrived to the extent that he didn’t have to follow them to the market; the herders sold the cattle and brought him the proceeds. 

It was, in every sense, a shared economy rooted in trust.

From trust to tension 

The trust began to fracture in 2017. 

That year, violence broke out between farmers and herders in several communities in Adamawa State, with Numan and Demsa among the hardest hit local government areas. What had once been isolated disputes escalated into deadly clashes, displacing communities and destroying livelihoods. 

Despite government intervention and multiple peacebuilding efforts, the violence has persisted for almost a decade. 

At its core, the conflict is about land and water. Farmers have accused herders of encroaching on farmlands. Herders, in turn, said grazing routes had been taken over.

In Bare, the turning point came in 2017, when a confrontation between a farmer and a herder spiralled out of control. “The herder took his cattle to the farm, and when the owner of the farm confronted him, things got out of hand, and they started fighting,” Jackson Amna, the District Head of Bare, told HumAngle. 

What began as a verbal confrontation that day turned into full-blown violence, leading to deaths and displacement. The clashes now follow a pattern, according to locals; they subside during the dry season and resurface when farming resumes with the rains. 

HumAngle has extensively covered the conflict in Bare and Mararaban Bare.

With each recurrence, trust erodes further. 

The long-standing system, in which farmers entrusted cattle to herders and herders relied on farmers for farm produce, is steadily collapsing across Numan and Demsa. Even though a few farmers still hand over farmland to herders, the District Head of Bare explained that it is rare. 

“During the 2017 conflict, some herders ran with people’s cattle and have not been seen to date,” Jackson said. “My herd was also taken away by the herder I entrusted them with, so I won’t give my cattle to somebody who can run away with them.”

Strained lives

The consequences have been profound.

When clashes between farmers and herders continued in Bwashi, Theophilus’ relatives urged him to retrieve his cattle from the herder he had entrusted to them. He noted that most herders had already started leaving the area at that time. 

“They [herders] were considered our enemies, and we could no longer trust them, but I knew some of them were good, but my people wanted me to do nothing with them,” he said. 

Theophilus succumbed and took over his cattle from the herder.

Not long after, thieves stole the animals he had struggled to manage himself. The old farmer doesn’t have a single cow to call his own. “I lost everything,” he said. “I’m very poor now, and survival is hard.” 

Theophilus had a well-planned retirement. He was to stop farming in 2024 and live off his herd, but now he says his entire life has been altered, and with many mouths to feed, he had to go back to the farm that yields little. 

Things didn’t change only for the farmers. In 2019, two years after the conflict began, the man who had given the farmland to Buba Sarno in Mararaban Bare told him never to set foot on the land again, so Buba migrated with his herd and family to Lamurde, a nearby local government area. In Lamurde, he tried to rent land for farming but couldn’t get any. 

“I went to a hill and established a farm there, but unfortunately, the soil is not good, and the land is not fertile, so my crops didn’t yield,” he said. 

Like Buba, several other herders who once lived in Bare have been displaced to settlements such as Sabewa, Ubandoma, and Mararaban Bare. However, since they are not indigenous to those communities, they told HumAngle that farming has become restricted as locals have taken over their lands and broken the pact that existed between them for generations. 

Magaji Yakubu, who lost his farmland at Mararaban Bare after locals took charge of it, has also retired all the cattle he had been tending for locals. “Feeding has become very hard for my family and me since the conflict began,” he stated. As someone who had access to large harvests in past years, Magaji said navigating a new life without owning farmland or grain is difficult. 

For Clement, the loss is both economic and deeply personal. Sadiki, the man he trusted for decades, disappeared with his cattle during the 2017 crisis. Although his phone rings occasionally when he dials it, no one has ever responded. Clement says he is not sure whether the man is dead or alive.

“Some say the herders around here migrated to Cameroon for safety due to the recurring clashes. We also heard that some have moved to other states. I’ve looked for Sadiki everywhere I can in the past nine years and haven’t seen him,” he said. 

He had planned to fund his children’s education by selling cattle. Without them, those plans collapsed. Even if Sadiki returns, Clement believes the relationship might not be as usual. 

“Right now, I believe he intentionally ran away with my herd,” he said. 

Searching for solutions

Efforts to restore peace continue, but progress remains slow.

The Justice, Development, and Peace Commission (JDPC), a faith-based organisation affiliated with the Catholic Diocese of Yola, has worked for decades to address the crisis. According to Jareth Simon, JDPC’s Project Manager in Adamawa State, land and water were the initial triggers, but new pressures have emerged.

“The one that is glaring to us now is the climate-related issues,” he said. “We’ve also seen where there is an increase in population, leading to more people wanting to cultivate more land.” Additionally, Jareth noted that displacement caused by the Boko Haram insurgency in the region has further intensified competition for resources. 

While most of Adamawa’s 12 LGAs have been affected by the farmers-herders crisis, Jareth said that JDPC’s engagements have identified Demsa, Numan, and Yola South as the hardest hit areas. “This is as a result of the number of cases that have been reported,” he said. 

To mitigate the crisis, JDPC’s approach focuses on community-led solutions, bringing together local government representatives, religious leaders, women, and persons with disabilities. Currently, about 415 stakeholders in conflict-prone areas are engaged in this initiative. 

“These are people who cut across the local structures at the local government level. That includes the local government representative and religious leaders from the Muslim and Christian associations. We have women’s representation and persons with disabilities,” he said. 

Jareth explained that people meet at least once a month to discuss issues related to peaceful coexistence, social cohesion, and community protection, and to identify local actions to mitigate them. “We don’t dictate to them. We only strengthen their capacity, and they themselves identify the leadership structure,” Jared said. 

In some communities, such as Namtari in Yola South, the approach has helped reduce clashes. “We have programmes for children like Peace Clubs, and we also have the one that targets adults using informal education and informal approaches,” he added. 

But challenges remain, particularly around funding and sustainability. “So we’ve seen where we’ve intervened, and then the projects have to end, but you also see that there is an increased need for you to also go out and support, and the funds are limited,” he said.

Jareth said that government authorities should set up and maintain multiple community-based interventions. “Because one of the gaps we’ve noticed is that from the community to the local government, from the local government to the state, there seems to be some gaps sometimes even in terms of information sharing,” he said. 

Government interventions to resolve the farmers-herders conflict across Nigeria have struggled over the years. For instance, the Rural Grazing Area (RUGA) scheme, introduced in 2019, was derailed by mistrust and controversy and later suspended by the former President Muhammad Buhari’s administration. 

Another intervention, the National Livestock Transformation Plan (NLTP), remains largely unimplemented. It was initially introduced to “create a peaceful environment for the transformation of the livestock sector that will lead to peaceful coexistence, economic development, and food security…” 

The Plan, whose first phase execution was budgeted at ₦120 billion, has not been actualised. 

While Jareth acknowledged the efforts of the Adamawa State government in establishing a peace commission comprising committees across the LGAs, he said there’s a need to strengthen security across the locations. “We also want to see the government come out with policies […] that help resolve some of these tensions that arise as a result of scarce resources within these communities,” Jareth stressed. 

Government interventions and community-led peace initiatives continue, but the deep scars of mistrust, competition for land, and recurring violence make reconciliation slow and fragile.

What is being lost in Adamawa is not just a livelihood, but a way of life. 

Before becoming a global phenomenon in the 2000s thanks to artists like Aventura, Monchy y Alexandra and Prince Royce, and before being declared an “intangible cultural heritage of humanity” by UNESCO in 2019, bachata was — and continues to be — the soundtrack of the Dominican Republic.

The importance of the genre to the people of the Caribbean nation is at the heart of “Agridulce,” a music documentary that had its world premiere at this month’s South by Southwest Film Festival in Austin, Texas. Filmed over the course of five years, the feature follows four young students at Academia de Bachata, a music conservatory in the beachside resort town of Cabarete. It’s the only school of its kind in the world.

Academia de Bachata was founded in 2013 by music producer Benjamin De Menil. After traveling to the Dominican Republic to record for nearly three decades, De Menil says he wanted to create something that would ensure that the next generation continues the traditions of bachata.

“One of the things I loved about the bachata musicians I was working with early on is that they were such natural musicians. There was never any sheet music, so whenever we were going to record I would say, ‘Let’s do this song and it goes like this,’ and they would listen to it for a little bit before they figured it out and they were playing it,” he said. “I thought that we could somehow harness that energy in a more organized and educational format and make a school where we’re helping young children become professional musicians within this genre that has a lot of opportunity.”

De Menil partnered with DREAM Project, a nonprofit organization that did work in Cabarete, and launched Academia de Bachata in 2013. Since then, the school has provided hundreds of children with a free musical education.

“There were a lot of things we were trying to figure out along the way about what the best way to teach this music was because this wasn’t your typical conservatory. We were focusing on the traditions passed on rather than some style of music that there are already textbooks for.”

To make “Agridulce,” De Menil, who produced the film, reached out to Frank Pavich, director of the 2013 “Jodorowsky’s Dune,” the cult classic documentary about avant-garde filmmaker Alejandro Jodorowsky’s quixotic and failed attempt to adapt Frank Herbert’s 1965 sci-fi novel “Dune.” It didn’t take much to bring him on onboard.

“Ben contacted me and told me about the project. I responded with what’s Bachata?,” the Croatian American director said. “I had never even heard of the musical genre. And then he sent me some music. He sent me footage that he had shot of [Cabarete] and of the school. And it was unlike anything I’d ever seen. It was so colorful and so incredible that I just wanted to jump on right away. I was like, ‘Great, when can we go down there and start shooting? It was really that fast.”

Pavich says now he hears bachata everywhere.

“I live between Switzerland and Croatia and now that I know how to pick it up, I hear it in cars passing by a cafe in Geneva and in Croatia,” he said. “It’s everywhere, it’s infiltrated everything in the best way possible.”

“Agridulce” is an ethnomusicological documentary — it captures the music of a specific place and people and shows how the tradition is kept alive — that also doubles as a coming of age story. The film follows students of varying ages — Edickson, Frandy, Orianny and Yerian — out of the classroom, showing us moments of intimacy with their families and friends while also giving us a slice of quotidian life in Cabarete.

As such, “Agridulce” doesn’t shy away from the political tensions of the beachside resort. Much like in the U.S., immigration is a contentious topic in the Dominican Republic — the country shares the island of Hispaniola with Haiti, which has seen an exodus of its people over the decade.

De Menil and Pavich said that nearly a third of Academia de Bachata’s student body is of Haitian descent, and that they would have had to go out of their way to not include one of them in the film.

This tension plays out in the storyline of Frendy, a magnetic student of Haitian descent who uses bachata to fit in.

“Many young people are in that position of being made to feel they don’t belong at that time in life when a person most wants to find their place,” De Menil said. “We see that music can help kids, particularly immigrant kids, find belonging.”

“The film ultimately speaks to the way that culture and shared history contribute to the development of authentic, lived creativity,” said South by Southwest consulting programmer Jim Kolmar. “It’s something innate and inevitable, and ‘Agridulce’ really explores that beautifully. Obviously it’s full of incredible music, but the deeper cultural context is essential, and seeing it through the perspective of the students at Academia de Bachata helps us connect the dots.”

I have never managed to score a reservation to Bar Cecil, the restaurant that opened in April 2021 as an homage to Sir Cecil Beaton, the famously flamboyant British photographer, designer, author and all-around Renaissance man who died in 1980. It remains, almost comically after five years in business, the most difficult place to book a table in the Coachella Valley. Long ago I made my peace with lining up before the restaurant opens at 5 p.m. and starting early at the unreserved 12-seat bar, or slipping in between 6:30 p.m. to 7:15 p.m. when the first wave of bar seating turns over. We all show up, whenever we can, for potent drinks and chef and partner Gabriel Woo’s menu, a worldly mix of Continental swagger, global-minded modernism and California realness.

In January, the same team branched out with Beaton’s at Bar Cecil, a posh affair next door that flips the script on the restaurant: more cocktail-centric, mostly snacky food you stretch into a meal. Tufted red velvet cascading from the ceiling drives the louche vibes. The mid-20th-century-era sketches and prints adorning the walls are significant enough that the staff composed a booklet full of descriptions and biographies. (You’ll need a phone light to read through it.) There’s an enclosed terrace where VIPs seeking privacy tend to hang out as the night wears on. Precision-engineered cocktails cover the spectrum of tastes: not-too-sweet Singapore slings, a sharp-tongued Vesper with lemon oil, a retro-chic grasshopper blending Creme de Menthe and pandan for a nightcap. I have always been fascinated that certain Hollywood hangouts serve pigs in a blanket, and here they are, mustardy and easy to down one after another alongside shrimp cocktail, duck-meat bao, oysters, fries and, of course, caviar. Beaton’s also takes reservations but walk-ins, however variable the wait, are welcome. Try your luck. This is absolutely the place to be in Palm Springs right now.