Picture yourself on the beautiful pacific islands of Hawaii. The sun is shining, the trees shake and leafs rustle above. An exotic bird flys by. You stumble down a secluded road to the perfect beach bar filled with tiki-style drinks and Hawaiian shirted servers. You sip a delicious rum drink and waste away. This is not Lee's Hawaiian Islander. This is a made up place. Now picture yourself in New Jersey, its raining, you duck into a decaying red building to see bright blue cocktails, reasonably priced American Chinese food, fake leather crunching beneath your ass and a sterno burning in the middle of your poo poo platter. An elderly couple in matching, "I'm his. I'm her's" t-shirts sing Frank Sinatra on the karaoke machine. For a moment, a sip, a song, you've escaped the slog of tri-state living. You're at Lee's Hawaiian Islander.