Cloud 9 at Bruno's Bar and Grill — The Rooftop Glow-Up Nobody Saw Coming (Including Us)

Nov 8, 2025

4 min read

Updated: Nov 15, 2025

Once upon a time — and by “time” I mean 2017, not the pirate era like the Tornado Alley story (although honestly, the deck looked like pirates had walked the plank on it) — our rooftop “patio” when we bought it was… how do we say this kindly?

Nope.

No kind way exists.

It was a crime scene with chairs.

Let’s begin with Exhibit A:

A deck so rotted that when you stepped on certain boards, they politely disintegrated under your feet like, “Oops! Didn’t see you there!” You didn’t walk across it so much as play a round of "Will I Fall Through?" every time you carried a tray.

And the decor?

My God.

Green plastic chairs stolen straight off the back patio of a dentist’s office in 1992. Tables made out of some kind of plastic “wood” that absolutely fooled no one. Weeds taller than a fifth grader. A view of the back of Nob Hill which—listen—we love Nob Hill, but no one has ever said, “You know what SCREAMS ambiance? Grocery store HVAC units.”

And then…

The Ashtray.

If Cloud 9 had a museum, this would be in it.

A square bucket of despair filled with so many cigarette butts it looked like a prop from CSI: Scotts Valley.

Just looking at it, we aged three years.

So that’s what we inherited.

Romantic, right?

Phase One: “We’re Broke But Let’s Try.”

We didn’t have two dollars to rub together back then.

Actually, we did.

We rubbed them together and bought three fire tables from Amazon — the baby ones, the kind you’d buy for a starter apartment balcony.

We thought we were Beyoncé.

The neighbors thought we were fancy.

People came up the stairs and gasped like they were entering Heaven’s waiting room.

So yeah… things were looking up.

We added cheap wicker chairs, a couple umbrellas, and we honestly strutted around like we were running the rooftop at the W Hotel. It wasn’t much, but compared to the “before” version? It was basically Versailles.

Then Came COVID… and Jo’s Fever Dream Became Reality

At the end of the pandemic, when everyone was exhausted from:

homeschooling
baking sourdough
making TikTok dances
wiping down Dorito bags like they were radioactive

…we suddenly had one thing people desperately needed:

A huge outdoor space.

And then—plot twist—Jo's heart condition gets worse and she's stuck in bed awaiting a procedure. Normal people in that situation: binge Netflix.

Jo in that situation:

“So anyway I designed a full rooftop lounge on my phone with layouts, seating maps, every plant, every pillow, every umbrella, and also Ro is building me a 7-foot illuminated fountain.”

And Ro, God bless him, said “Okay” and then built a 7-foot LED fountain like she casually asked for a glass of water.

Then came:

more fire pits
egg chairs
couches
string lights
a glowing LED ginkgo tree like something out of Avatar
a charcuterie board vision BEFORE charcuterie was trendy

Seriously — Jo introduced charcuterie to Scotts Valley and nobody was ready.

One guy came up to the lounge, took one look at the board, and demanded,

“Why can’t I have ribs??”

Sir.

Because we did not want BBQ sauce all over the blue couches.

We were trying to protect the vibe.

But people begged.

They wanted fire pits and ribs.

They wanted couches and burgers.

They wanted kids allowed and it to be quiet and adult-y.

So Cloud 9 evolved.

Then evolved again.

Then again.

We added:

fire tables (with actual eating space)
tons of seating for families
permission for kids, dogs, Aunt Mabel
more space
more shade
more music
more everything

And boom — Cloud 9 became what it is now: the ultimate rooftop escape in Santa Cruz County.

Cloud 9 Today: The Secret Everyone Knows and Nobody Knows...Huh?

Now, in the warmer months, it’s an absolute vibe:

Live music 4 nights a week
Reggae on the roof Sundays
Mountains glowing in the distance
Fire pits blazing
Drinks flowing
People who drove all the way from Aptos (which, if you live here, is like flying to Paris)

Guests tell us weekly:

“We had no idea this was up here.”

And honestly?

That’s the magic.

It feels like a secret, even though hundreds of people come through every week.

And every fall, when it gets cold and rainy, we pack it all up for winter and Jo sheds a single dramatic tear while staring longingly at the sky like she’s in a telenovela.

But when March rolls around?

Oh baby.

Cloud 9 rises again.

(Literally — we open it every St. Patrick’s Day.)