It's not a Bar &
Grill, you common slime, it's a Bar &
Refuge. A refuge from what, though? Surely not a refuge from
the scene, as when I stumbled into this place, I was happy I stumbled in wearing Betsey Johnson. Trendy little scenesters crowded the sparse leather seating, and the bar itself was packed -- some people even had to wait in line outside the bar, like we were in a real city or something! But despite the fact that I think I'm just too old for posturing, I did thoroughly enjoy the drinks at this place. They're all about mixology. A bartender handed me a paper menu and I asked for a First Growth -- try saying that one three times, fast. From what I could tell, it was pineapple juice and gin, but the bartender shook my drink so vigorously and poured it with such love through the most delicate strainer into my itsy cocktail glass, garnishing it with a shapely sage leaf. I felt utterly taken care of. Later I had a Pimm's Cup, and the bartender spent literally three minutes making it -- he beat the hell out of some cucumbers and handed me a drink that looked like a mother's day plant. I'm told the drinks are strong, but I'm too Irish to be able to tell anymore. The Curve tastes like delightfully alcoholic Scope, and the Pisco Sour looks like an elaborate dessert. I'm no scenester, but despite the Manhattan-circa-2004 prices -- $8-$9 for specialty cocktails -- I would return. It's refreshing to go to a bar without rats running overhead.
RATING: 82%
Yes, you have taut, coffee-coloured skin, the thick, straight, black hair of an Egyptian princess and you look great in a postage stamp-sized slutty Hallowe'en costume. But in 20 years you'll be covered in stretch marks and hairy moles like the rest of us, and no one will like you because you're mean to everybody. Perhaps I'm too judgmental and the real reason you're so rude is because you stayed up all last night reading Sense and Sensibility while caring for your ailing mother, but that still wouldn't explain your raging sense of entitlement.
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