"She had that curious mixture of the social and the artistic temperaments found often in two classes, society women and actresses. Her education, or, rather, her sophistication, had been absorbed from the boys who had dangled on her favor, her tact was instinctive, and her capacity for love-affairs was limited only by the number of the susceptible within telephone distance. Flirt smiled from her large black-brown eyes and shone through her intense physical magnetism."
---This Side of Paradise, F. Scott Fitzgerald
The bar was one of those overly-chic bars that is located in basements. Nothing is more chic than having to descend rickety metal stairs, to find yourself in a dingy little lounge with poor lighting and peeling plaster walls. This one's walls distinguished themselves with a skinned crocodile hanging on the wall.
Not a tapestry made out of shimmering crocodile skin, but a skinned crocodile, with head still attached. Think like: a bear rug in an old New England aristocrat's hunting lodge, except a crocodile, and hanging across the wall. The wide-open jaws are perfectly erected to make for a millennial's dream photo-op. Truly a selfie to die for.
The bar was a disaster, in terms of interior design. There was a velvet-curtained stage, a DJ's booth, several chic little tables with upholstered cubes to sit on, and no coherency whatsoever. The DJ was very into one thing:
The bar was populated by annoying young yuppies who spent their evening striking different poses, and wearing those ridiculous knit hats and Canada Goose Arctic Program coats; and, of course, your token Swedish Harvard graduates who were "photograph and film artists."
Give. Me. A. Break.
In the midst of all the mind-numbing unoriginality, was the bartender.
He looked like any other Lower East Side Bartender, with fashionably disastrous facial hair, gauges/gages and sleeves of color inked onto his skin.
But he drew faces on the eggs.
In addition to making the most excellent whisky sour I have ever experienced-- he drew faces on the eggs.
They were certainly not Da Vinci's, these faces, but I could call them Picasso-like, in a pinch.
He was one of those people that winks when they take your order, and takes just a second too long between making eye contact and asking you the question, and calls you "love" and gets away with it, not by virtue of his disastrous facial hair, nor by the way he droops his eyelids in the bar's low light, but because he draws faces on the eggs.
It's the incredible magnetism of someone who has nailed the art of flirting down to a science; a master of mixology, one could call him.
This is such a strange world; this world of incense-laden bars and candlelight tequila, and women and men striking various poses, hoping someone will see just how strong and important and So Very Interesting they are (and where did you go to school again? Oh, Just Outside of Boston. [aka Harvard. We get it already. The only person you're fooling by this "just outside of Boston" talk is yourself.]). But in the midst of all the inane self-promotion and simpering there are the adorable few who draw faces on the eggs.