The lounge fills with the sparkly lights, fills with the perfume, fills with the phyllo dough wrapped around the mini-wieners, fills with tiny Gruyère quesadillas, and with tiny beef sliders, and with cheap
wine. The bartenders at the makeshift stations are friendlier than regular bartenders at regular bars. They ask earnestly if you want vermouth in your gin. The company has just gone public. Optimism and youth embalm the place with rank good cheer. You wonder whether you should leave, flirting with the idea that this isn’t your time or place. But two cute women have just parked themselves at the same tall table where you stand unsteadily. You miscalculated by not eating enough lobster rollettes.
It starts great; it ends in comedy.