Schiller's, I hardly even know you any more.
There are certain places in New York that are schizophrenic. I, for instance, and I know other bloggers who do the same, often install myself in Schiller's Liquor Bar during the day. The wifi is free and strong, the service impeccable and the garlic shrimp worth all their artery-clogging deliciousness. During the day, light streams through the large windows and you never feel rushed. I'm now at Schiller's and have been for the last two hours. But something strange happened around 5:30. Almost instantly, the place has been taken over by douchebag assfaces. From where I sit, I can see three fauxhawks (sitting to my left), eight Marc Jacobs bags, approximately 12 buttons undone that shouldn't be distributed over 8 dark maroon dress shirts at the bar, exposing at least 900 follicles of chest hair. The clientele has gotten, largely, oranger, blonder, younger and louder. Dean, the South African manager, just gave me a coup of champagne but even his tender generosity can't mask the transformation. I feel like I married a hippie chick, all patchouli and laid-back vibes, and she turned into a fat asshole. Oh shit, another pot-bellied Polo-shirt clad goateed balding man walked in. Time for a divorce.
[Photo: JonnySD/Flickr]
Previously: Le LES Est La France, Territorial Pissing in NYC, Derisive Word of the Day: Benny, Street Food Showdown, STK: DCHBGS, SLTS, STPD
