"Killing Me Softly With His Song"

The Roberta Flack version. Not The Fugees' take on it. A couple of twentysomething girls — 22- ounce Bud Lights nursed in one hand, cordless mikes clutched tightly in the other — were warbling the '70s torch classic at Queen Bee. It was Friday night. Drinking and noshing kept conversations low. And Elton John was up next on the song queue. "Rocket Man?" Not quite.

"Don't Let the Sun Go Down on Me"

A half-dozen or so readers had suggested Night Stuff visit the Queen. Try the furikake garlic chicken! Try the pork chops! It's got a sushi bar! It's not a hostess bar! With such recommendations — including, in one case, an e-mailed pic file of pork chops I ultimately couldn't open — how could I resist?

"Bed of Roses"

The microphones are turned up loud at Queen Bee — a fact many an amateur vocalist took full advantage of. The athletic-looking Bon Jovi fan in a polo shirt passionately channeling his inner Jon Bon, for instance. Settled into one of Queen Bee's last available high-back booths not topped by a "reserved" sign 'round 9 p.m., we perused the food menu.

"I Can't Make You Love Me"

Queen Bee's pupu menu wasn't as large or instantly appealing as similar local sports bar/lounges we'd visited. But once our orders began arriving, I understood why the place was quickly filling with twenty- and thirtysomethings. Selections were tasty, inexpensive and generous.

"The Closer I Get to You"

Roberta Flack and Donny Hathaway wannabes got their deserved post-tune props. The furikake garlic chicken ($8)? Hard to go wrong with deep-fried boneless chicken dipped in a tangy garlic-shoyu marinade and dusted with a layer of furikake. The fried rice ($8)? Hardly exceptional, but loaded with bits of bacon and Portuguese sausage and topped by two over-easy eggs that oddly raised its game. Pork chops ($10)? Rolled in seasoned flour, fried until crisp outside and juicy inside and topped with grilled onions and mushrooms, these thick chops were up there with the best in town.

"Only the Lonely"

The one by The Motels, not Roy Orbison. We were admiring the music tastes of a couple of girls sitting at the bar, taking turns at the mike. Elsewhere, it was girls' night out at a few tables; pupu and beers with friends or couples at the rest. Seats at the sushi bar were always filled.

"We Danced," "Papa Loved Mama," "Strawberry Wine"

Listen to enough country songs and you realize 1) where the great lost art of the pop story song has disappeared to, and 2) that country music — unlike, say, hip-hop — isn't so much about the booty as what happens when you lose the booty. For a brief 15 minutes, tunes about meeting the right one in a country bar, murdering husbands and lost first loves rule.

"Are You Gonna Be My Girl," "Don't Know Why"

The women with good music taste were taking on Jet 'round 11 p.m. I suddenly figured out why the mike volume at Queen Bee was turned up so high. Late night, conversation in the very full bar threatened to drown out singers unable to seriously belt. The crowd temporarily hushed for Ms. Norah Jones; Westlife was next on the queue.

"All or Nothing"

Take-out boxes! Now!

Reach Derek Paiva at dpaiva@honoluluadvertiser.com.