Barcelona Bar

I tend to judge people on the bar or restaurant they choose to meet at. This is a typically flawless system in gauging: character, interests and itinerary. Yesterday evening, I was summoned to Barcelona Bar, in Hell's Kitchen. The name provokes images of low-key wine bar, perhaps refined?

Greeted by a reasonably virile bouncer flashing a blue light in my purse and a chalkboard screaming "Best Shots in Town! Over 100 hundred Shots! $3 Silk Panties," I no longer regretted my choice to wear a flannel jacket and Frye boots.

(Queue 50 Cent's The Massacre)

I ordered a Silk Panties (when in Rome!) and suddenly came to terms with the fact that the men next to me had outrageous black wigs that could have easily been rat's nests. Mid 80's rock jammed the air and the bartenders were enthusiastically singing + dancing in time.



Barcelona Bar is best described as Coyote Ugly, if the bar keeps were dressed as wizards and allowed to use flames (yes there were flames, and the spraying of patrons with water from the soda gun!)

If I haven't sold you on the hot mess yet: there is a white gorilla story involved.