My boss, a former Frenchy, wants to have a party celebrating the fifth anniversary of her becoming a citizen of the world’s newest pariah state. She envisions a small , intimate gathering of fifteen to twenty close personal friends to spend the evening festively avoiding questioning her judgment. There will be food, wine and cake. She’d also like to have a bit of space for swing dancing to music provided by CDs. I have been charged with the responsibility of finding a suitable location. We’re looking either for a small bar or café that we can rent whole for the night or a place with a backroom. We’re in New York in the Flatiron district but would be willing to go uptown as far as the 50s and downtown as far as the water.
The problem is, I don’t know anyplace. My knowledge of the Big Apple had decayed remarkably in the last few years. I must confess to having devolved into another out-of-it, stay-at-home middle-aging fart who could care less for the decadent enticements of big city life. But you people aren’t like me. You’re young, vibrant and alive — too full of yourselves to fully appreciate the true, daunting tragedy of existence (oh, you think you do, but it’s just another adolescent pose — wait!). Surely you must have some apt suggestions up your sleeves to help me escape the natural consequence of my all too typically tired libido and intellect.
Won’t you please help?