An after-dinner call from a friend on Thursday evening. I pick up the phone.
“Hello?”
“Hey, what’s up?”
“Nothing much.”
“Well, there’s a new bar that just opened. And it’s only three blocks from your house and it’s gorgeous.”
“Really?”
“Yes. I have no idea what it’s called, but it’s sooooo nice on the inside. There’s nobody there, but it looks like it’s going to be impossible to get inside in a week, if that. It’s that nice.”
“Wow.”
“You want to meet me there right now?”
“Sure.”
I get directions. Ten minutes later, we’re inside.
“You’re right, this place is beautiful. What’s the bar made out of? Shaved bamboo?”
“Looks like it.”
“Nice. Very nice.”
The bartender doesn’t know what a Cape Cod is. He asks if it’s a fancy name for vodka with cranberry. Sure, why not. Hopefully he will remember this before the weekend rush, when he’ll be asked to make any number of crazy things, including:
—”scotch and soda” (“What is that, a fancy name for whiskey and Coke?”)
—”Long Island Iced Tea” (“What is that, a fancy name for Snapple?”)
—”Hoegaarden” (“What is that, a fancy name for the stuff that comes out of this lever when I pull it?”)
—etc.
“Nice place, but I don’t know about the bartender,” I say.
“Yeah, he must be whoever the drug dealer who opened this place’s cousin.”
“Good point.”
“Don’t you see what I mean, though, about not being able to get in here in, like, a day or two?”
“Definitely.”
“It’s going to be overrun with people who want to dance. And it’s so nice in here that it’s a shame it’s just going to become just a cheesy late-night dance club.”
“Three blocks from my house.”
“Right.”
“I dunno. Maybe since we’re here early—before all the crowds—we’ll be able to claim it before the doofuses take over.”
“I wouldn’t count on it.”
“Why?”
“You know how they say you can tell what any society values most by its tallest structure?”
“Like a cathedral or a municipal building or a bank?”
“Right.”
“Yeah?”
“Well, what’s the tallest thing in here?”
“Ah, I get it.”
“Yeah.”
“The DJ booth.”
“Yup.”