Now that Light Rail can drop peeps off almost front and center at downtown's fanciest drinkin' spot, you'd think the swanky digs would be as jumpin' as their rich, thin, and beautiful big sister of a martini joint in Snottsdale.
And why not? They're sharin' the same DNA -- furniture, DJ, and bathrooms you find via the braille method. Seems like a recipe for kickassery, yes? One would think. We're thinking no. Sure, they can rock a drink or three of the house cocktails (thank you for the un-Scottsdale prices) but friends, please, we'd pay $14 bucks if we could get the friggin' drink. You heard us - if we could GET the drink. Like on a recent Saturday night visit. Our server was workin' it, but the bar was "busy". What?
Sorry, toots, but there were more people standin' in line for world class pizza mere miles away than were packed in your not-quite-happenin' joint. And who cares -- no one waits 30 minutes at 11:15 PM for a drink at your other restaurant, or, at the same hour, runs out of limes. It's not some high-falutin' ingredient at a billion dollars an ounce because it's picked by virginal nuns on some tiny island. IT'S A LIME.
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SHOW ME HOW
And while we're at it, can't you just bring us the buffalo chicken sandwich from your other place across town? We noshed the pizzas, munched some beet salad, and even ate fried egg on an English muffin. Meh. Dudes, we think we speak for everyone when we say just give us the freakin' cross-cut french fries and burgers already.