Red J's Colonial Lounge

No tri-corner reproductions of the Declaration of yellowed Betsy Ross flags...why the hell is this placed called a "colonial lounge?" But enough with the pettiness- let's get to the serious faults of this place. It is the first place that the Barflies have entered since this undertaking began where both customers and staff were smoking, in direct violation of city ordinance. The smokers, including the barmaid, blatantly ignored the large decal on the entrance door glass noting that it was "illegal to smoke in this establishment." Mr. Draft, Mr. Mix and Mr. Merlot sat down and ordered. As the draft selection was abysmal, Mr. Draft noted a bottle of Grey Goose and ordered a vodka martini. The barmaid, Debbie, extinguished her butt, and said she didn't know how to prepare a martini. Mr. Draft talked her through it. "Put some ice in a shaker. Add an ounce and a half of vodka. Shake it. Strain it in to a martini glass." Debbie put ice in the shaker. She put in the vodka. She didn't really shake it...she kinda sloshed it around...because someone had stolen the strainer lid. Mr. Draft told her not to worry- he'd drink it on the rocks. She apologized because she had no martini glass. Mr. Draft assured her that it was okay... a highball glass would suffice. Mr. Draft instructed Debbie to add a splash of vermouth...she couldn't...they didn't have any. Mr. Draft didn't dare ask her to garnish it with olives or a twist of lemon, for fear that her head would explode. She was, however, able to prepare Mr. Mix' rum-and-coke without directions. Mr. Merlot drank a bottle of was not a realistic option. Red J's was a disco back in the late seventies, complete with mirrored ball and illuminated dance floor, and Mr. Draft used to shake his booty to Donna Summer, KC and the Sunshine Band, and the Bee Gees there, before he discovered punk. Back then, it was a happenin' nightspot, with every available parking spot taken, in the lot and on the neighboring streets. Now, it is depressing and and has a reputation as a coke-slash-biker bar. A sign on the walls warns against illegal drug use, but if the patrons and staff take the same kind of heed in that sign as they do the no-smoking signs, then the place is a den of inequity. Debbie, although friendly enough, through the smoky haze, asked "Where do you guys come from?" I toyed with answering "from the DEA", but somehow Mr. Draft suspects his sense of humor might not be appreciated. For the lack of bartending skills, for the dingy decor, for the minuscule draft selection, for the secondhand smoke, and for the oppressive atmosphere, Red J's gets a 1. (Roll Call: Mr. Draft, Mr. Mix, Mr. Merlot)

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