In the spring of 1999, this recent Pacific Northwest transplant was craving the energy of a 24-hour city like Chicago, where I grew up. Thus, when a work trip took me to New York, I was overjoyed. I was also broke and knew nothing about the place. The concierge at my touristy hotel probably sniffed that on me when he recommended a joint within walking distance, which wasn’t so much a nightclub as an establishment with a velvet rope by its entrance.
That velvet rope wasn’t cordoning off anything but wishes and dreams. Luckily, the bouncer recognized that I had been misled and invited me to peek inside to decide if it was worth the $20 cover. He was a good man.
