I am very familiar with the esoteric code of “swank” that comes along with certain NYC establishments: the aloof hostess; the indifferent wait-staff; the Studio 54-ish clientele filter. That’s fine, and so long as 30 something windfall types invest in urban establishments, it will always exist…..but I just wanted to have a drink…maybe even…(shutter to think)..a few. When you walk into this “hip-joint” it looks like you want to have a drink….because there is a bar….where you drink? I was immediately informed by the freezing, automaton of a hostess that “there are bar reservations”, and asked “would I be eating?” “No, do I have to eat?” I replied, reeling from the infinite awkwardness. “While we don’t force people to eat, if you’d like to look at a menu I can offer you one.” While I waited for Rod Serling and a spinning vertigo-wheel to swish through the bar - I politely exited.
The bartenders in Fedora happen to be accommodating, fun, and down-right fantastic. I would rethink that whole “eat-or-die theme night”, however.
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