BAR BELLE: Skirts sketchy old guys

Lauriol Plaza
Where: 1835 18th St., NW
Dress: Swanky shirts, black pants
Cover: nada
Carded: not at all

I’m graduating this May and, if all goes according to plan, I’ll enter the yuppie world in June. I already have a good start with the black clothing and the cell phone.

My best friend turned the ripe old age of 22 on Saturday, so we left the college bars to the kids and headed over to the Lauriol Plaza on the border between Dupont and Adams Morgan (about four blocks past the Common Share) to hob-knob with the yuppie crowd.

Lauriol Plaza is a Mexican/Spanish restaurant/bar so trendy it boasts two-hour waits for a table on Saturday nights, and they don’t take reservations. When our cab pulled up in front of the four-story building, I knew dinner was going to be a late-night snack. But what did I care? I was there for the margaritas.

If any restaurateur ever wondered how to get throngs of 20-somethings to wait more than an hour for dinner, Lauriol Plaza has the answer: a big sidewalk patio with lots of tables and heat lamps, free chips and salsa and pitchers of strong but equally tasty margaritas and sangria, not to mention the nine different types of Tequila shots. Yuppies don’t seem to drink beer – they only have three on tap.

Despite the number of tables, none were free when we arrived, so we claimed a spot on the deck at this big ashtray thing that could work as a table, and I headed inside the bar to order some pitchers.

The danger with going to a yuppie bar is that some people in their late 30s still consider themselves young (the y in yuppie) and think it is cool to hit on 21 and a half-year olds. I tend to disagree, especially if they are not even going to buy me a drink.

Two men were speculating about the age of the patrons of the bar. The one with the most hair bet the youngest people at the bar were born in the late 70s. The other one, with the most forehead, said he was sure some were born is the early 80s. His eyes fell on me.

“Hey, sweetie,” he said. “What year were you born?”

“1981, sir.”

“Guess what year I was born,” he commanded.

My parents were born in 1952 and these guys looked their age, but I shaved off more than a decade in the hopes that a nice, young guess would get me a free pitcher.

“1964,” I said. I was wrong, but close 1965. But I guess he wasn’t pleased I thought he was 39 instead of 38. No free drink for me.

My friends and I forked over $22.95 for our pitcher of frozen Strawberry margaritas and headed back to the big ashtray with the chips and salsa.

The salsa was hot and the margaritas were cold, a great combination if you want to drink fast, but be wary of brain freeze.

We finished our pitcher quickly and I contemplated braving the older crowd again to order a round of sangria. But some friends called to let us know they were at the Common Share. While I do like Sangria, I love $3 rail drinks a lot more. I said “toodles” to the yuppies and said I’d see them in a few months. The college student in me has a few things left to attend to.

The Hatchet has disabled comments on our website. Learn more.