The Blue Room
Where: 18th Street, Adams Morgan
Pluses: crowd isn’t too skeazy
Minuses: cover and expensive alcohol
The Bar Belle made a pact with herself that she was not going to drink for a week. No one believed she could do it – they all doubted her commitment to saving her dad’s cash. And guess what? They were right. Thursday rolled around and, with the hour of 5 o’clock, happy hour arrived. The Belle tried very hard not to go, but somehow she magically ended up with some friends drinking at a fine establishment.
Moral of the story: you shouldn’t quit drinking cold turkey . just slowly wean yourself off, like a baby from a bottle. Who knows if that works? But a roommate gave that sound advice, so it had to be acknowledged.
On Saturday night, convinced that her churning stomach, low-grade fever and chills were only a sign that the weather was changing, the Bar Belle headed up the elevator to a friend’s apartment to celebrate a birthday. It was way fun, and when everyone was amply drunk, they all headed to Adams Morgan.
Not wanting to go to Adams Morgan, the Belle used all her persuasive devices to convince the party not to go. Somehow the birthday girl won the battle and with a pout on her face the Belle followed the group out the door.
No one could decide where to go . Brass Monkey can really get old, so a bunch of people decided to try the Blue Room.
From the outside, it looked just like the other cheesy quasi-clubs in Adams Morgan. But at that point anything was better than the Monkey. So while the boys stayed behind, a few girls decided to try their luck.
The bouncers were slightly too serious and at first wouldn’t accept any negotiations on the cover charge ($10). But after the exchange of a few words, we gave them our “numbers.” Not wanting to deal with the ramification of giving out her own personal number, the Bar Belle used the old trick of giving out an unsuspecting friend’s phone number. With that, the cover was waved and they ascended to the Blue Room.
Inside it was dark and there are a few levels. Everyone was really toasted when we got there, so it probably seemed cooler than it really was. It wasn’t overly crowded and the people who were there seemed relatively normal. It was a young, professional crowd with the occasional shiny shirt, overbearing cologne and hair slicked back. But those types could easily be avoided here.
There was dancing, but it wasn’t a huge spot. The ladies walked upstairs to a small lounge where they relaxed on a big sofa and watched the crowd. One of the shiny shirts bought them some drinks, so the girls made small talk as a sign of their gratitude.
After a while everyone got a little bored and decided it was time to head back to good ole Midtown to the trusty Madhatter. With that in mind, they left the Blue Room, and as they walked into the street to a hail a cab, the Bar Belle tripped on a concrete block and made the spill of the year on 18th Street. Yep, she fell flat on her face, sprawled out like a rug. But she recovered like a superstar with minimal bruising to both her pride and body.