It's easy to succumb when bars provide weeknight incentives, whether it's a show -- like a DJ at the Empire Room every night of the week -- or a cheap-drink deal. We think bars like the Empire Room deserve some blame for their enableage. But we're easy like Sunday morning when it comes to bread-and-circusy things like that.
We checked out the Empire Room's Tuesday-night DJ thing, which plays more rock. We'd heard that it was a mellow time with great music that attracted the likes of those who inhabit Arizona Trading Company. And sure enough, upon entering the dimly lit front room, the first person we spotted was the former Munchmaster of Big Jeter, nonchalantly standing around in his clunky black glasses, drink in hand, listening to Steve Tulipana DJing away.
The club's manager, Dawn Perkins, told us that Tuesday night draws the biggest weeknight crowd. Lounging on one of the plush wall seats was B.J. Banister, who told us the Tuesday night shindig "was good for a long time, but the scene dropped off. The newness had worn off." Now, though, it "seems to be back to the core crowd."
By "core crowd," we assume he wasn't referring to the Jessica Simpson look-alikes who came in after midnight towing man skanks in baggy pants. They were balanced by their Bizzaro-world opposites -- what appeared to be (but alas wasn't) half of the Donnas in a corner with a tattooed man group, one of whom was air-guitaring to the Cure. Then, like some nursery school rhyme, that group slowly whittled down to one.
"Awww. A Donna drinks alone," observed Research Assistant. "That would be Donna L., for loser."
We decided to join her in solidarity and ordered the French Silk martini, which the menu promised would be a "chocolate cherry dream." We were more interested in the fact that it was made with Guinness Stout -- as well as Bailey's, Godiva chocolate and amaretto. The beer was undetectable and added a thickness to the drink, which tasted chocolatey but still had a mysterious, acidic hint of cherry.
We suppose it was better than staying home watching, say, French Silk, the early-'90s Susan Lucci movie. If that's ever an option, we would much rather be enabled like the alcohol hussies we are.
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