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There's certainly something
magical about Grand Central. It's the essence of New York. It's hustle
and majesty. It's the center of everything. Hidden in one of its many
nooks and crannies is a bar that perfectly typifies the glamour of
the place. Once the office of '30s tycoon John W. Campbell, the whole
place has been restored to its original glory, complete with tons
of ornate oak, velvet sofas and yards of leaded glass. One could stand
and gawk for hours, if he wasn't being jostled by some complete asshole
in a $1,200 pashmina. It's such a damn shame when pinstripe-suited,
cigar-chomping pricks and their power-skirted, perfectly made-up,
cosmo-toting, stomp-on-your-manhood compadres have to invade places
like this en mass and turn it into some kind of fashion show/I-can-afford-$8-beers-all-night
kind of joint. We guess it's inevitable that a classy joint like this
would attract snooty white folks. Then Mr. Hipster shows up soaking
wet in his jeans and t-shirt after getting caught in a storm. Man,
what an entrance. On top of that, I had to take out a bank loan just
to buy a drink. Luckily, I have pretty good credit and was able to
secure a $12 Kettle One from one of the out of work actresses posing
as an out of work porter. [MF]
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