Give me an Applebee’s or an I-95 truck stop flapjack shack any day.
My ancestors were peasants. They didn’t need a lot of frills or any airs to have a good time, and I’ve inherited and modernized that mindset (any airs I’ve ever put on have been for comedic effect). When I choose the restaurant/bar, unless it’s for a special occasion, no reservations need to be made and the meal/drinks fest is never ruined by having to continually overhear proclamations such as: “Well, it’s official, Evan and Kit finally bought a house in the Hamptons – but not East Hampton.”
I just consulted a website that belongs to one of lower Manhattan’s finest dive joints to confirm tomorrow night’s happy hour time frame. Reviewing a dive joint’s website can be almost as entertaining as being at the dive itself. One of the house rules this place lists is “no dancing on the tables.” (I read it and wept.) But tomorrow’s supposed to be another scorcher, so I might bring my purple tin water bottle with me. It’ll go smack dab in the middle of the table, and nobody’s going to try and stop me.