Bartenders will tell you that floor space in any of the city's up-market lounges is tantamount to real estate.
Well, they might not say "tantamount" and "real estate," but they recognize the value of a prime bar spot, high-visibility table, dark corner or bit of ground in between--value that wavers according to market vagaries. A patron reclining in a leather booth is more likely to attract positive attention than, say, some chump buffeted in the middle of a crowded room.
This equation helped create such abominations as bottle service, the McMansions of the alcohol trade, where monied sorts purchase a premier seat in exchange for a wad of cash...usually something in the nature of $300 for a $20 bottle of booze.
Human nature created the bottle service beast. Certainly you've noticed
that no one--or, rather, very few stalwart types--wants to be the first
person charging into a bar. So people will poke their heads through the
door, see empty space, and turn tail vowing to come back when the
destination has more of a scene. Yet they know from experience it will
pick up in an hour, maybe two.
Now, the lounge equivalent of
cheap land is amongst the anonymous masses trapped between bar and
those high-rent tables. Like a house in Lewisville, it provides access
to important things such as drinks and the restroom, but generates
hardly a blip on the wow factor scale. Standing room space is, however,
what's left after the crowd finally arrives. The only option for those
returning to find a packed and rollicking scene is to elbow their way
into the melee, shell out what's left of their credit for the one
remaining bottle service area...or just quit and head over to The Old
Monk.
While the latter may be the most sensible thing to do,
there's another trick available to those hell-bent on the lounge
experience: settle in early, stake out a prime space at the bar and
chat up staff members to get on their good side. Then when the crowd
shuffles in, you hold deed to envied see-and-be-seen real estate.
Oh,
I know. This involves a commitment...not just of an hour or two before
things pick up, but in the art of purposeful small talk. One must be
able to show something more than designer duds and the right attitude.
For a grueling sixty minutes (at least until the DJ begins to drown out
conversation), one must handle self-assurance and character. Or at
least fake it. But the reward is similar to buying a plot in Uptown
thirty years ago.
And cashing in about three years ago.
So why don't more people do this? I mean, barhoppers know in general which venues click on what nights, right?
Perhaps
we're not that sure of ourselves. Maybe some folks crave validation
through others...masses of others. I don't know--but if this kind of
behavior represents the highest evolution of human nature, how did we
survive prehistoric wilds?
