We have/had a favorite bar. And much like a favorite band, brand, movie, whatever, because we fancied we were one of the first to really have found it, we claim some sort of ridiculous man-on-the-moon-with-an-American-flag ownership. Sure, we know it existed for a while completely independent of us, we know it will exist afterwards; we know we are just a couple of dorks who stumbled upon it mere months before the rest of the city, but come on, we’re twenty six years old! What thrill of discovery can we come close to that doesn’t involve getting married and having a baby at this juncture?
So the tipping point has officially been hit at PDT, the not-so-secret speakeasy-cocktail mecca-strange family portrait and taxidermy-adorned alcove just beyond the riot grrrl waitresses at Crif Dog, coincidentally my other favorite place in the world. (If you have not eaten cheese tots and a bacon-wrapped hot dog here at four in the morning, then you have not vomited, er…lived, my friend. Horrible, sweet relief is the moment when they come back up minutes later and glorious is the next morning when you wake up alive. )
In any case, back to PDT, which we figure, as we are annoying implant New Yorkers who work in magazines and film, respectively, has a shelf life of about another two weeks on the “under the radar” and, as we all know, makes the place a “total sell-out” and “not worth visiting” anymore*.
Friday night found us excited to finally have a reservation at the un-un-godly hour of eleven. And yet, when we got there, we could not get in.
Because about eight armed policemen were in there “checking the liquor license”. Because it sure does make sense for that sort of search to happen at primetime on a weekend night. And utilize half a swat team. Sure.
So we sat in Crif Dog for about an hour and a half, nursing PBRs, in the bright glint and in sharp relief seeing what the place looked like to the virgin and un-inebriated. It wasn’t pretty. But we did start some camaraderie with the other misplaced patrons. We did start playing a game of guessing who was coming in to get a hot dog, and who was there to push open the door to their reservation-only table just feet away. And after a few beers and sheer boredom, this game began (alternating people who tried to get in, letting half discover for themselves that they couldn’t, and telling the other half).
Which created the following situation:
Guy with a sweet, sweet camel jacket, gelled hair, and his bored-looking girl of the evening approach…
Me, cramped by the door: “Oh hey guys, you can’t get in there.”
Guy puffing up in his button-down and staring at me with a Herculean strain of disdain and a “do-you-know-who-I-am?” face: “Um, no, WE can, WE have a RESERVATION”
Smug girlfriend sneers a smile.
Me, holding two beers, and sweeping my arms around the room at the five people we’ve been waiting with, bursting into a fit of giggles: “Ha! So do all of us! Ha-ha!”
Group of people now laughing with me at poor gelled guy and his girl.
Guy, pushing through anyway, only to be promptly turned away by the hostess. He and his lady friend scurry back to the place from whence they came. I’m guessing Murray Hill.
Me: “Oops. I don’t think he’s coming back. Was it something I said?”
My friend: “Let’s hold off on the beer for a minute, huh?”
Me: “You’re not the boss of me.”
-----------------------------------------
Anyone have any idea what went down at PDT on Friday?
*Okay not really, but you know what I mean, when you don’t really fit into the crowd any more and your aunt wants to go there, it’s just a tad less fun than it used to be.
So the tipping point has officially been hit at PDT, the not-so-secret speakeasy-cocktail mecca-strange family portrait and taxidermy-adorned alcove just beyond the riot grrrl waitresses at Crif Dog, coincidentally my other favorite place in the world. (If you have not eaten cheese tots and a bacon-wrapped hot dog here at four in the morning, then you have not vomited, er…lived, my friend. Horrible, sweet relief is the moment when they come back up minutes later and glorious is the next morning when you wake up alive. )
In any case, back to PDT, which we figure, as we are annoying implant New Yorkers who work in magazines and film, respectively, has a shelf life of about another two weeks on the “under the radar” and, as we all know, makes the place a “total sell-out” and “not worth visiting” anymore*.
Friday night found us excited to finally have a reservation at the un-un-godly hour of eleven. And yet, when we got there, we could not get in.
Because about eight armed policemen were in there “checking the liquor license”. Because it sure does make sense for that sort of search to happen at primetime on a weekend night. And utilize half a swat team. Sure.
So we sat in Crif Dog for about an hour and a half, nursing PBRs, in the bright glint and in sharp relief seeing what the place looked like to the virgin and un-inebriated. It wasn’t pretty. But we did start some camaraderie with the other misplaced patrons. We did start playing a game of guessing who was coming in to get a hot dog, and who was there to push open the door to their reservation-only table just feet away. And after a few beers and sheer boredom, this game began (alternating people who tried to get in, letting half discover for themselves that they couldn’t, and telling the other half).
Which created the following situation:
Guy with a sweet, sweet camel jacket, gelled hair, and his bored-looking girl of the evening approach…
Me, cramped by the door: “Oh hey guys, you can’t get in there.”
Guy puffing up in his button-down and staring at me with a Herculean strain of disdain and a “do-you-know-who-I-am?” face: “Um, no, WE can, WE have a RESERVATION”
Smug girlfriend sneers a smile.
Me, holding two beers, and sweeping my arms around the room at the five people we’ve been waiting with, bursting into a fit of giggles: “Ha! So do all of us! Ha-ha!”
Group of people now laughing with me at poor gelled guy and his girl.
Guy, pushing through anyway, only to be promptly turned away by the hostess. He and his lady friend scurry back to the place from whence they came. I’m guessing Murray Hill.
Me: “Oops. I don’t think he’s coming back. Was it something I said?”
My friend: “Let’s hold off on the beer for a minute, huh?”
Me: “You’re not the boss of me.”
-----------------------------------------
Anyone have any idea what went down at PDT on Friday?
*Okay not really, but you know what I mean, when you don’t really fit into the crowd any more and your aunt wants to go there, it’s just a tad less fun than it used to be.
6 comments:
Drug bust. Has to be.
I haaaate that place. Such an attitude for what is essentially a bar inside a hotdog joint. Seriously overrated, and nothing special. And boring.
Please don't take that as anything other than my complete dislike for that bar. =+)
Oh no! Am I a big loser for liking it in there?
(shuffling foot)
Oh well, I was a big loser anyway...
I love hole-in-the-wall, barely legal, and weirdly decorated bars! Just don't drink from the tap :) Cheers!
No, you're not a loser at all!! We went there and got a ton of attitude from the hostess and then went in and decided it was lame, anyway. I was just mystified as to what the appeal was about the place.
I've *heard* about this place...but I'm afraid of Hipsters, so I've never gone...
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