 |
 |
Saloon
Montreal, Quebec |
Curly’s Vegetarian Lunch
New York, NY |
Dish
Charlotte, NC |
Casimir
New York, NY |
Chai
Brooklyn, NY |
Peasant
New York, NY |
Pat’s King of Steaks
Philadelphia, PA |
The Abbey Food and Bar
West Hollywood, CA |
Bar 89
New York, NY |
Restaurant Globe
Montreal, Canada |
8 Minute Dating
New York, NY |
Hamburger Mary's
San Diego, CA |
|
|
|
 |
| Bar 89 |
89 Mercer Street
New York, NY
212.274.0989 |
|
Bar 89 could be known for its tasty drinks. Or perhaps, Manhattan's most fascinating bathrooms (go and check them out — really fucking cool). But really, Bar 89 should be known for its massive drama potential (MDP). The restaurant/bar had to be designed either by the rabble from the lower sections of Shakespeare's Globe Theater, or by twisted designers who only wished such a place existed when their exes were treating them like shit.
 The Design:
Bar 89 is laid out like many, many other restaurants: tall ceilings, a very deep dining area, a parallel bar area — all standard. With one major exception: a small second tier of dining, which overlooks the entire venue. Good acoustics and dramatic lighting easily add to the restaurants overall MDP.
The Set Up:
You can't take it anymore. Not listening. Bad sex. Exes calling in the middle of the night. That 24-year-old co-worker with the voice that always seems to be in the background when "working late." You are fucking livid. Time to call Bar 89. Ask for a mezzanine reservation: if they are full, tell them it's for a surprise birthday party.
Wear something very, very sexy — it'll bolster your confidence. If you feel great, it'll be easier to crush someone's spirit.
The Execution:
The sky is the fucking limit at Bar 89. The built-in audience gives you the kind of dramatic flexibility I haven't seen since HBO's Oz. With all eyes on you, you can easily execute any number of severely damaging dramatic attacks.
Attack 1:
Face Slap. Think Melrose. Think Dynasty. Slap the taste out of that muthafucker. The acoustics are good enough that the diners below might actually hear the contact.
Note: If you date a boxer, a kung fu master, or a professional wrestler, DO NOT attempt the slap. Order a messy pasta dish, and overturn it. Don't throw it — you want them humiliated, not hurt; besides, those heavy plates make a great sound when they shatter.
Attack 2:
Always follow up face contact with one strong short sentence. (e.g. "You thoughtless bastard!") Curses are nice, but might offend your audience. They must know that YOU are the wronged party. DO NOT lose your nerve here — that muthafucka will start to look really pathetic, with a handprint upside the head and a lap full of pesto. Stay the course. You've been made to feel stupid, lonely, unattractive, old, and boring. Fuck that.
Attack 3:
If you can do it, cry. Loudly. Burst into tears, grab your shit, and head down the stairs.
If this is a relationship ender, go straight to the bar below. Bar patrons will console you, buy you drinks, and ask what happened. Tell the truth, and you will probably go home with a bartender. The useless shitbag you left upstairs was yesterday, and tomorrow might as well start tonight: besides, the bartender with the bright eyes is all ears.
If it is not a relationship ender, storm out of the restaurant, and immediately go to their apartment. When they return, pounce. Say nothing. You can't go halfway here; you must leap, unhinged, into a reckless, carnal frenzy. Enjoy the fruits of reconciliation sex. Knock shit over. Scream filthy things. Pull hair.
They will never, ever leave you. |
|
| mr. cArBon |
| December 3, 2002 |
|
|
|
