So, back to last night. T and I were seated at the corner of the bar: around the bend, to T's left, were four seats; flanking my right, the long arm of the ell, were about six more. Initially, there were two lovely couples sitting at my ten o'clock, yet unfortunately, they were soon replaced by two more, and, as I was facing T, I was a box-seat patron to the theatrical spectacle happening off the port bow. Homme A: Robert Pattinson look-alike saunters in, all puffed hair and pomposity. He's sheathed in layers of black for that casual, "I might have just rolled out of bed but whether I did or not, you can bet these duds set me back some" look. He conspicuously peels off his sweater, revealing the lowest scoop neck tee I've ever seen on a man. Did he shave his chest for this or is he simply rather bare? I'm not sure but I was taken aback by his plunging neckline. He ruches each sleeve up as if he wishes it were a cap-sleeved shirt but primarily to show off a tat and some decently toned guns. I dare say it takes a real sense of "I feel cool" to set one's sleeves in this manner, and to repeatedly do so as naturally, they slipped. Insufferable!

He proceeds to ask for tastes of pretty much every red by the glass on the list, finally, feigning fluster and defeat, he declares, "just give me $20 by the glass, I'm just gonna go for it." Bartender, cool as a cucumber/hip/good at his job, invokes Vincent Vega's exclamation about the $5 milkshake (see Pulp Fiction) and ultimately serves the guy a glass for $18 (the $20 was a 1986 Italian, and I felt kinda glad he reserved it for someone who'd know what was being poured).

Dame A: Homme A's gal-pal, she comes in chewing gum like she's in a contest to see who can smack it the loudest and largest. Hey tonsils, how are you? And, as if she were an LA celeb, she is, despite the warm'ish weather, clad in an enormous knit sweater which she kept wrapping around her face, and on occasion in her mouth, like a toddler might with a beloved safety blanky. She finally, and to her credit fairly discreetly, gets rid of the gum, takes 2 bites of her sea bass crudo, and returns to her sweater.

Homme & Dame B: In one of those "you should really stop looking but can't" moments, I stare, mouth agape, at Fleshy-faced, Suit-wearing, iPhone-tethered, Buddy Holly Glasses as he assumes the position to sweater girl's right. He looks peevish and gruff, to put it mildly. From the band encircling his left ring finger, I take it he's married to the lass on his right, who is pouty and quiet and rather lacking in the top-lip department. She pulls out her glittery silver iPhone -wouldn't you?- at which point he actually looks at her and starts hissing in one of those more than audible anger-whispers about how obsessed she is and PUT.IT.AWAY. He then returns to his, and she pouts a bit more -wouldn't you?. They order some wine and eventually have one more intense conversation, so intense you're wondering if they're plotting to take over the world in five minutes but she forgot the briefcase with the codes back at home.