Dear PDT,
Thank you for finally letting me pass through the phone booth. Although I must admit I was having an alright time watching Olympic snowboarding and fantasizing about hot dogs in the next room. I was as impressed by Shuan White’s moves on the half pipe as I was by the brilliant menu of hot dog varieties. My god. I’ve got to get back there.
The whole speakeasy thing works. People are always lined up to get in that damn phone booth. Funny when there are dozens of bars with open doors nearby. I think really people just like the challenge of getting in. And like to feel special when they get through. It is kind of exciting I must admit. After being rejected and made to wait, it gives you a little rush to see what the mystery is all about. Like opening a Christmas present.
I liked your décor and intimateness, although I think really you are a bar for couples. There’s something romantic about the secretiveness of it, and it would be a lovely place to hole up in a corner for a few hours and exclude the rest of the world.
Our table, on the other hand, spent the last hour of the night talking about the fading of love. Ah, shit. The beginnings are always so much more fun.
Also, what did you put in my Pisco? That drink sent me from mild incoherence to full-blown drunkenness in like five minutes. Although admittedly I was probably right on the precipice upon arrival. I wouldn’t recommend the Pisco to anyone. In fact, thoughts of it made me queasy the next day. Perhaps it was the fact that it was so sweet.
Hope to see you again sometime. Next time I’ll come with a handsome man, eat a hot dog and stick to beer.
Con amor,
Rachel M.
hot dog?