I'm as yuppie as yuppie gets, living in the Pearl and all. So if any of you bottom dwellers want to come and hang out with my wife and I, this is how the evening might shake out. Just be sure to wear something designer, 'kay?
Last Wednesday, we did happy hour with gimlets and Earl Grey martinis at the Vault (226 NW 12th)—it aspires, if you know what I mean, and we fit right in with the crowd by discussing what's hot at Banana Republic, our salaries, and that new Al Gore movie, before hopping to the designer bathrooms for a urination (which, naturally, smelled like roses).
Next, to the Low Brow Lounge (1036 NW Hoyt), which has caught some stick lately for not really being lowbrow at all. I disagree—it's truly a dive, dark and seedy and with all kinds of tattooed customers, like they just let anyone in. We left quickly.
The Paragon (1309 NW Hoyt) is more our cup of tea—my companions ordered the raspberry mojito and a superbly made Manhattan (just like they do in New York, Paris, or London—my kinds of places). The waitress was also charming and I'd have ordered six oysters to go with my pinot gris, if she hadn't told me they were two days old. However, this gave me the chance to look good and bring up the question of, "Where exactly does one go for good seafood in this town?" Which made me feel great about myself.
After crossing the 405 (which, personally, I rarely do—it's so down-market over there) we braved Yur's (717 NW 16th), an all-American bar that doesn't seem to have changed much since 1970. We managed to tolerate its retro-chic qualities—comforted by the fact that a round of drinks and some excellent mini corn dogs were just $13— but Slabtown (1033 NW 16th), up the road, which was just too much for our delicate sensibilities. People were playing darts and smoking in there—and we were reduced to eating chicken strips, washed down by a pitcher. We played pool until somebody put "That Smell" by Lynyrd Skynyrd on the jukebox and we fled. I shall never go there again.
Crêpes and a bottle of Spanish Tempranillo at Le Happy (1011 NW 16th) were sufficient to numb the existential pain, although I'd rather have been eating angel hair with truffle oil back at the Paragon. Still, at least Le Happy has a highbrow name, you know, French, like it's going somewhere. Unlike you lot.