Nov
The Brick House
201Links.com sent an undercover reporter to The Brick House with twenty dollars. The reporter’s credentials consisted of being a former DINK who lived in Manhattan for fifteen years. DINK is an acronym for Double Income No Kids, and these couples are notorious for spending their money in restaurants and chattering about the quality of the food, the drinks, and the ambiance. It was deemed these qualifications surpassed those of most food critics in the United States.
What follows is the reporter’s first hand narrative:
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With only twenty dollars, I was tempted to by pass the valet parking in the hopes of saving that extra dollar which I knew was the minimum needed to get my car back. Seeking to preserve the integrity of the investigative report by not drawing attention to myself, I stopped and reluctantly handed over the keys. Intent on making the carhop earn his keep, I inquired as to the direction of the bar area hoping my tone of voice gave the impression I was meeting very important people to discuss important things.
The parking lot attendant provided me directions with exactness, and I strode into The Brick House with an air of authority. I took notice of the immense banquet area immediately to the right upon entering, and made a mental note of it should I ever win the lottery and wish to celebrate. Approaching the only area capable of sustaining me under the oppression of my twenty dollar budget, I glimpsed the inside of a medium sized dining room consumed by a party; I knew by the balloons that it was a private birthday bash I should not crash . Further down the hall I could see the main dining room where other people were eating, but ventured there only toward the end of the investigation.
Turning into the bar area, I was emotionally overwhelmed. The immediate response can only be described by those familiar with the television character Tubbs from Miami Vice, who upon his return to New York City utters the memorable line, “Ahhh, the core of civilization”. I too, was home again. Being a recent transplant from Manhattan to the FLOW area, I felt an immediate threat to my new incarnation as suburbanite dad -and felt my credit card calling out.
The bar is long, elegant, with a wave like design. This detail cried out that someone cares, someone said lets make this special so people do not feel like they are lined up like cattle. Someone cared about people with only twenty dollars. The time was approximately 6pm on a Monday evening. Two other men were eating dinner at the bar, and I attempted not to ogle their food too much as my wandering eye might be misinterpreted. I had to forgo conversation with anyone eating food, as I am strong but not a saint, and food for the soul is not just a metaphorical term for me.
The main bar is augmented by a fairly large table area where patrons can either just drink or also dine. A large group of young men occupied a table and appeared only to be drinking. I hated them, their disposable income, their freedom and only wished they had invited me over to join them. Two other couples sat at different tables drinking and eating, but the spaciousness of the room, and my lack of spectacles, prevented me from discerning whether they were sharing appetizers or just very much in love over their entrees. Other small groups, apparently friends or colleagues, appeared to be meeting after work or for pre-dinner cocktails
Uninterested in the images displayed on the flatscreen televisions, I engaged the bartender in a little banter. My brief experience as a bartender, and my lackluster enthusiasm for the position, has made me sensitive to the personality and skills required for the profession. The bartender on duty that night was extremely polished in appearance, so I held little hope for any entertaining distraction in the conversation department. It was a pleasant surprise to find an engaging, intelligent and witty persona under the formality of appearance. Although our conversation was occasionally interrupted as he kept a close eye on the needs of the other patrons, I felt welcomed, accepted and entertained. The twenty dollar budget was already becoming less a challenge and more a nuisance, and it required strong willpower to maintain fidelity to my assigned task. I nursed my draft beer and continued my investigation.
The other area which would allow for some interaction was the cigar bar which I describe as being “underground”. I have not experienced anything like it in suburbia. If the upper bar was the core of civilization, then the lower bar was sin city. I am a couple of generations removed from the era of prohibition, but my impression is that the inconvenience of the law also led an element of excitement in social drinking; the taboo nature of alcohol now being assumed by having a cigar or a cigarette indoors. The scandalous nature of such an opportunity made me giddy. Knowing in advance of the cigar bar’s existence, and the financial parameters set by the editors, I procured a cigar prior to my arrival. I lit the foul product, indoors, in public, and felt a crown upon my head. I was king of the castle.
The bartender in the lower levels was not of the Barbershop Quartet type that I enjoyed upstairs, but instead was of Costa Rican extraction. The difference in skill or personality was non-existent. Nursing my tap beer, I had great fun discussing the trials and tribulations of child rearing, the variances in Caribbean travel, and the offerings of local food establishments. The other denizens of the cigar bar were engrossed in their own conversations, but soon welcomed my participation in conversation ranging from politics, to sports to film. Other patrons of a more artsy type looked on with amusement at our jocularity, but were obviously engaged in more high brow discussions.
With great sadness I informed the bartender that I needed to settle my bill and go home. While making the transaction he asked if I wished to see a menu, and feeling it my obligation as a reporter I agreed to review the offerings. I studied the document, and the astute bartender could read the longing in my eyes and suggested I could order just an appetizer if I wanted. Trying to maintain my cover, I demurred saying my wife would surely be upset if I were to have appetizers at The Brick House without her. His reply was that no one would know, which was followed by explosive laughter from both of us. It is the truth in humor that makes us laugh, and it was obvious that it was not twenty dollars stopping me at this point–poo-poo on your twenty dollars, dear cheapo Editors– it was the reality that it was something I would want to share with my wife, not necessarily the kids.
I felt it necessary to peak in the main dining room before leaving. It was a mix of generations. Lucky couples were dining alone, others had children who could go potty by themselves– a milestone greater than any school graduation– and a table full of people near retirement age. They looked so happy, so free, their children grown, time to enjoy their own lives; my future looked good.
Remembering the obligations to my editors, I quickly gave the dining area the once over, side to side, so as to report back properly. It was reminiscent of restaurants I’ve been to in Boston. They are often hidden away in one of Bean Town’s many historic buildings, and they cater mostly to a clientele that is somewhat aristocratic. . The openness of the space preserves the integrity of the architecture. The building itself defines the space rather than a contemporary designer. It brought back memories of corporate expense accounts and bosses who gave me credit cards instead of cash and coins
The Brick House is an attractive seductress. Even though there were people upstairs enjoying a solitary dinner at the bar, and I envied that experience, I was a different person now; I had to get home by 8pm. But the budgeted twenty dollars had given me more than a few beers, it gave me back memories of opulence glazed with the urbane sophistication that says we are all the same. Alas, I stuck it back in my pants, my final dollar, and began my journey home.
I had three beers and left appropriate tips, and I believe I stayed under budget. I may have spent twenty one dollars, but by the time I left I didn’t care. My advice is people must experience The Brick House themselves, lest their destiny be controlled by paupers engaged by publishers.