Last night, Eric and I met some colleagues at Fearing’s Ritz-based Rattlesnake bar for drinks. Nancy will tackle the joint properly in our December issue, but let me horse-collar the thing here with a few words and photos. You don’t mind.
First, the valet area is poorly run and off-putting. I arrived at 9:45, and the place was overwhelmed by seven people leaving and four cars arriving, hoping to get parked. I stepped out of my running car and walked up to the front doors, where I stood for several moments before I could track down someone to take my car. I left shortly after midnight, at which time there appeared to be one valet guy on duty. As I handed my ticket to him, two cars — a Maserati and a convertible Bentley — pulled up. Their drivers got their valet tickets and entered the hotel, leaving their cars with their engines running. Which left me standing alone at the valet lobby, with about $500,000 worth of cars waiting for the taking. I fought the urge and waited for my Audi.
To find out what happened last night inside the joint, you need to jump, pardner.
I’ve got two words for you: call girl. Or maybe that’s really one word: escort. Remember Beaux Nash? Yeah, they’ve migrated to Fearing’s — and God bless them. Watching old guys get their groove on with younger ladies at the Rattlesnake Bar was worth the price of the drinks (but not the $20 order of crab cakes, which came five to an order, each one hardly a mouthful, and tasted like something you might get at Red Lobster, according to Eric, pictured above). Okay, really. We watched two separate parties at the bar — older guy, younger buxom girl — aggressively tongue-kiss each other. Then they wobbled off together. In one case, the guy returned solo. So there’s that.
Then there was Sammy Hagar. He was in town playing the Lakewood Theater. But he was staying at the Ritz. He walked by our table twice, and each time, one of us would say, after a brief pause, “Holy smokes. There goes Sammy Hager again.” At which point, both times, Eric swiveled his head like a linebacker at the line of scrimmage and said, “Where? Where’s Sammy? You know 5180 is my favorite Van Halen record.”
Anyway, as I say, Nancy will have the final word in the magazine. I didn’t eat dinner. Just came for drinks. But so far, I’m impressed in a very unimpressive way.
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