Can You Keep a Secret? I Can but I Don’t Give a Shit
I like my bars simple. Walk in, sit down at the bar, order a beer. Maybe it’s a little dark and dodgy, with pictures of ex-presidents hanging on the wall. Drinks are a reasonable price. And I can wear sneakers and prosti-tot girls don’t judge me. If they happen to serve Mozzarella sticks, that’s a plus.
But lately, it seems that all these new and “hip” bars are secrets - thanks NY MAG!!! You know what I’m talking about. You walk through a hardware store, get to the back door, knock three times. An extremely attractive man who smells delicious opens the door and tells you that the bar is at capacity. He opens the door just enough so you can catch a subtle glimpse of what is inside. What? Is that Justin Timberlake talking to James Franco?! “DON’T CLOSE THE DO-” SLAM.
He will write down your phone number and text you when you can come back. You’re then forced to putter around for three hours, biting your lip anxiously as you await the news as to whether or not you’ll be able to join the secret society. All the while, you are of course wearing five inch heels, a mini skirt, and you blow-dried your hair. Flash forward three hours and you are sitting with your friend in a diner filled with questionable clientele, stuffing your face with disco fries.
Bars: WHY ARE YOU BEING SO COY? Don’t toy with me! I already have enough problems with boys and their mysterious behavior. I don’t need my liquor venue to play games with me too! Don’t dangle JT in front of my face and then snatch him away! I could have had my chance!
Fast forward a few hours later, you now have gravy from the disco fries on your new mini, your hair has fallen flat and the bouncer who you swore winked at you before wants to call the police on you for being a disturbance. You grovel and beg to be let in - if for nothing else but the chance to touch James Franco’s face. Just as the bouncer is about to physically escort you to the curb, you have an epiphany: who gives a shit? Would you even want to talk to the people at those speakeasys anyway? Knowing your luck, you’d finally get in and inevitably be surrounded by frat brothers who don’t get your jokes: “So, you ever heard this one? I’ll tell ya. A priest and an aborted baby walk into a bar…”
Like almost everything else in life, the speakeasy gains its reputation from its mystery. The speakeasy reminds you of that guy who had moved from Seattle and transferred into your 7th grade class - rumor had it that his parents got divorced when he started a meth lab in his basement; that still didn’t stop you from wanting to be his best friend. However, with the speakeasy the fun is over in a few hours, which is why speakeasy enthusiasts have to beat it to death for weeks. They will say things such as, “I can’t believe we had to knock on a steel door and talk to a man called Jamal to get in” or “It wasn’t just the food, it was the experience. The whole thing was to die! Amaze, just amaze.” The elephant will then enter the room and you will know that they have to hype it up to save their dignity and justify their three hour wait.
So now while friends, family and ex-cons are still scrambling to get to every speakeasy in the city before they become ‘public,’ I have learned that there is never a line at McDonald’s nor do they question you upon entering the golden arches. So, can I keep a secret as to the newest speakeasy out there? Yes, but I don’t give a shit.