Friday after work, I walked around Union Square. The night was perfect, not cold at all. There was clearly a buzz in the air. People peered into the glittery window displays at Tiffany’s. Others hailed cabs. Families and kids posed all along the giant Christmas tree. What merriment!
Intent on having a drink at the hotel’s Clock Bar which was in full swing happy hour mode, I found a lonely single seat at the bar and texted Dean and Keith to meet me there. Living right in hotel mecca, I’ll need to stop into a few of the big ones and see what festivities they have going on for the holiday season.
After the first round of drinks, the CDK threesome bickered over what next and I bemused that this would be a recurring theme for our upcoming London vacation. Anal Keith pulled out his never-ending list of restaurants and bars, and we opted for the Burritt Room three blocks away from our apartment.
Well hello lovely Burritt bar, never knew you even existed. Can’t beat a Prohibition-styled bar that feels hidden and tucked away with a jazz band playing while you sip mixologist-crafted cocktails. New favorite bar in the city. I don’t say this often, but thank you Keith!
We capped the night off with dinner at Morton’s Steakhouse which I won’t get into because, please it’s a chain with standard fare that’s overpriced, but the only restaurant we could all agree on. I will mention that we were seated at a booth and the table directly in front of us was quite the entertainment. Two people dining: a young man in his early to mid-twenties and a woman in her late sixties or seventies (hard to tell with all that plastic surgery). At first we didn’t pay them much heed, figured a grandmother dining with her grandson, until they started caressing each other. It took all my effort to keep from staring.
Bordering drunkenness, Keith blurted, “OMIGAWD, are they holding hands?!”