And We're Off

We find the secret entrance to the place after convincing our cabby that he has really and truly reached the correct destination, even though it does not appear to be a social establishment of any sort. Thanks for your concern, Habib, but the meter is running.

A long elevator ride and a few secret turns later and we are in the penthouse bar. Very dimly lit, very hip vibe. We go to the bar.  We order drinks. Kate takes out some kind of list.

It is the recommended Pub Crawl published by her magazine. 

Oh.

My.

Gawd.

We are all looking over the list for familiar names. Places we've been to. Places we love. Places we'd sooner avoid.  Narrow the list. Make a plan.  We've got ground to cover.

The bar tender, returning with several drinks asks what we are examining so closely.

Kate shows him the list and mentions that it is from her magazine.  (She omits the part about her being in Advertising Sales and not a Food Critic...)  He looks over the names, makes a few suggestions, states his conviction that we are already seated at the bar of the best place on the whole darn list. But of course.

As everyone is discussing the list and mapping out a tentative plan, I look around the room.  The bar is elevated in the middle of the room. Boxing ring style. There are small tables in front of a plush banquet encircling the bar. Set up for people watching. Seeing and being seen. And there are small romantic dining tables beyond that to one side. But the most interesting part of the room is behind me.

A sunken section, several steps below the banquet.  Softly lit with tiny candles.  Huge floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over the entire city, with all of its twinkling lights and varied skyline.  Deep, generously proportioned chairs and low-backed sofas that are close to the floor. 

It is the picture of romance. The perfect, dimly lit place for a clandestine meeting or a hushed conversation. Maybe a little public affection.  There is one couple nestled in one of the chairs together. Her ankle crosses his. Their faces are whisper-close. They clearly adore each other.

And I am acutely aware that I am out with my girlfriends and have no one to call and suggest a romantic evening to. I am so envious of the ga-ga couple I have pangs.

But am soon rescued, as I generally am by my gal pals. Someone has begun to set place settings in front of each of us, despite the fact that we have  not ordered food.

Seems the bar tender, seizing the connection Kate has with the magazine that can make or break a place like this, has asked the chef to prepare some small plates for us. And has asked that he come out and say hello.

Time to forget the pity party and join the living. Must. Be. Charming. No one likes a party pooper at Girls Night.