Tom Tom
2333 18th St. N.W.
When choosing a bar in Adams Morgan, I typically look at two things: its proximity to a Jumbo Slice and the length of the line outside. Last Thursday, another factor entered my decision-making process – Group Therapy. The therapy to which I’m referring is the drink special at Tom Tom Thursday nights. For $10 you get four Bud Light bottles and four Kamikaze shots, one of the most economic ways to get wasted in the world of D.C. bars.
After taking my weekly early-Thursday-evening nap, I downed half a bottle of wine and met friends at the curb to hail a taxi. As we approached Tom Tom, I had an uncanny feeling I had been there before. But then it hit me – I had never actually been inside. Back in the days of nervously flashing an ID with a picture of a heavy girl from Georgia, I remembered that several of my friends had their fakes confiscated here. In fact, my friend had two IDs taken in the same weekend sophomore year.
No longer filled with trepidation at the entrance of a 21 and older bar, I strutted past the crowd sitting on the patio and flashed my legal ID. I stood there after he handed back my ID, waiting to pay the cover. Then I was informed that there was no cover. Sweet. I jammed my wallet back into my bag and walked past the front bar and dance floor to meet some friends at the back bar, where there was better lighting and less people. We hung out around the couches in front of a big screen TV airing ESPN. (Note: I didn’t say we sat on the couches, the reason being the array of stains from drunken mishaps soaked into the sagging cushions.)
Since I had come with three other people, we took turns paying for the rounds of beers and shots. By midnight, the crowd increased and our private area in the back was discovered. The eclectic scene was a refreshing change from the khaki and collar dominated Georgetown and GW bars. Also refreshing was the fact that despite the increased population, the high ceilings and fans warded away the normal sauna effect in crowded bars.
After our fourth or fifth round of Group Therapy and several failed attempts at sexy dancing, I decided to check out the upstairs. The steep staircase led to another bar area with a larger lounge with more gross couches at the rear. Although the same rap music from downstairs was blaring, no one was freak dancing here. A few people hung around the bar, 30-somethings played old school Nintendo and a couple made out on a couch in the corner. Just as I plopped down on my own couch, drunkenly unconcerned with my hygiene at this point, I was asked to leave my resting spot by a bouncer because it was last call.
The next thing I knew, I was at Jumbo Slice gorging my face with a parmesan-doused slab of pizza – the perfect way to end the night.
Bar Belle Rating: 4/5
