Forget
“It’s after nine Paris time, and Lindsay and I have already snagged a few seats by the first floor bar, ordered drinks, and are making ourselves at home. It’s an eclectic joint, a bit of a hipster-infused circus, so to speak, housed on three levels, separated by narrow staircases. The second floor is a lounge, and from what the bartender told us, the basement is a dark and intense dance cave where the house band is currently playing. I’m digging the fun and energetic vibe of the crowd milling ab...out the first level. It reminds me of an old British salon. There are worn second-hand sofas and a vintage piano lining the walls of the cramped space.
The minute we sit down, a well-coiffed bartender clad in a leather jacket takes our drink order. Lindsay orders a vodka tonic and two boilermakers while I order my typical vodka and Sprite. The bartender gives me a strange look, which isn’t anything new; people generally crinkle their noses at the odd combination, but I love it. It’s always been my go-to drink.MoreLess
The minute we sit down, a well-coiffed bartender clad in a leather jacket takes our drink order. Lindsay orders a vodka tonic and two boilermakers while I order my typical vodka and Sprite. The bartender gives me a strange look, which isn’t anything new; people generally crinkle their noses at the odd combination, but I love it. It’s always been my go-to drink.MoreLess
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