Sometimes I wonder what I am doing. Saturday night was one of those nights. I put on a little black dress, made myself a vodka concoction and then strolled over to the Maryland apartment for the evening's festivities: a dinner party at Nic's in Beverly Hills.
Nic's is known for its martinis, supposedly the best in Los Angeles, but who knows how objective that rating is, or if Nic's advertised in the magazine that gave them such praise. They are also known for worldly cuisine and extravagant ambiance: over sized chandeliers, walls painted in candy-colored stripes and other such peculiarities. They also have something called a VodBox: essentially a glass-walled walk-in freezer where they house tons of vodka. They give tours of this freezer and offer the ladies fur coats to fend off the 20 degree chill, or however cold it is. We never made it to the freezer (strange to say!) but I'm not sure if I'd be the best vodka taster, so that was okay with me. I'd probably embarrass myself by giving my best Russian impression.
I liked the scene at Nic's. I thought it was charming and cozy and warm and inviting, all the things it should be. The stripes on the walls weren't obnoxious like I envisioned them to be; even the fat orange ones were of a subdued hue. Their martini list was extensive, but I am not a martini whiz. My pomegranate martini, or "Pomegraniting" was delicious, but I'll admit: what do I know? I don't order martinis often when standing in a bar, because I'll be the first one to spill it--the glasses are such an awkward design, and require balance and a clear head. Wine suits me fine.
I wasn't impressed with the service or the food. A friend of mine ordered soup and a sandwich and the sandwich was literally the size of a single bite (teeniest little sandwich I ever did see, but it was in fact a sandwich: two pieces of bread with a dab of cheese in the middle). We took a picture, and if I had that image, I'd post it here to show you. It was one bite. That means I'd need to order about 20 sandwiches to fill my tummy and feel sort of full. No wonder those Beverly Hills women are so skinny...they must eat at Nic's. My monkfish (yes, monkfish) was just okay. I'm indifferent to it. A flaky butter fish or tender halibut would have done just fine. Maryland kids ordered ahi but it came with potato chips, which I found odd. The menu mentioned something about roasted potatoes...
But the music almost made up for the night. A live band filled a large portion of the bar with the sweet sounds of jazz-rock fusion. The music might make Nic's worthy of a return visit, but only for a drink...
Nights like Nic's makes me wonder what type of person I am. I enjoy life's luxuries, but sometimes I feel I'm kidding myself and am most at home in the chaos of our local dive bar, where I'll become best friends with whomever is sitting near me that night, can be wearing something far warmer than a dress and meet a normal guy. Not those ones who look prettier than I, with hair with too much gel, waxed eyebrows and expensive shirts that make me want to ask what cup size they are.
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