11% ABV (March 2008 release)
The night had begun so innocuously. Freddie, Maz, and I sat around Maz’s Gramercy apartment having a few quality beers and catching up before heading to the Bowery area for some Thai food. After dinner we walked the neighborhood looking for any interesting place to drink at, finding none. Then, I recalled a nearby bar I had recently read about, the semi-iconic Remote Lounge.
Here’s the lounge’s concept: every single table at Remote has a television monitor plus buttons that give the table’s drinkers the ability to personally control one of the sixty surveillance cameras set up throughout the space, panning and scanning them, zooming in and zooming out, and thus “spying” on other patrons in the bar. See someone you like and you can buzz them, alert them, even try to get them to pick up the phone at their table and speak to you for some childish flirting.
We paid the $10 cover and entered to find a pretty dead bar. Didn’t matter as we had a blast for about a half hour as we futzed around with the cameras and flirted with the only other group of people in the bar, some girls actually sitting at the table across from us–girls we could easily just talk to as opposed to using the overly complex camera and phone system.
By 11:00 we were getting a little irked. We’d paid the cover and shit wasn’t happening. Then, slowly but surely, women starting funneling in. Lots of them. Hot women, skanky women, semi-clad women. What the hell was going on? Soon, the entire upstairs of Remote was packed, several hundred women getting wasted and dancing lasciviously with each other, and us three perverts using the camera controls to zoom in on their sexiness.
“Sorry fellas, you can’t stay up here.”
The beefy bouncer informed us we had to go downstairs. This was a private party.
“We can’t stay?”
“Not unless you guys are lesbians. This is a lesbian singles mixer. Downstairs, boys.”
And thus we were shuffled to the downstairs bar where we again found ourselves alone with our drinks. But at least we had the camera controls to monitor the upstairs lesbian party which was getting quite randy, many of the girls going topless if not more, climbing on tables and the bar, bumping and grinding, pouring water all over themselves and the others. It was a wild party and all we could do was watch it via grainy surveillance cameras.
Nevertheless, we tried our damnedest to flirt with the lesbians upstairs. We zoomed in on them, encouraged them to use their cameras to look at us. We scribbled notes on cocktail napkins and held them up to the downstair’s surveillance cameras, trying to communicate with the lesbians in any way possible. Rude, drunken notes:
“We’re lesbians too.”
“Surely some of you guys are bi???”
“I can scissor-kiss just as well as any of you.”
Eventually, we’d angered the lesbians and they banded together, gathering like a mob posing for a picture, standing in front of the most prominent camera and giving the three of us the finger, before turning around and mooning us, before all the upstairs cameras went to static. They had clearly told the manager to not let three heterosexual idiots ruin their fun.
Again, we were alone and bored.
Maz, never much of a night-owl, wanted to leave.
I insisted he stay til at least midnight. Why? Because the downstair’s bar had huge sign plastered everywhere:
“TONIGHT!!!! MIDNIGHT!!!! BBW PARTY!!!!”
“What the fuck is a BBW party?”
“I have no clue, but we might as well find out.”
We continued tippling beers and soon enough some others started filtering into the downstairs bar.
I was drunk so my Sherlockian skills weren’t exactly at their strongest, but after a while I started noticing something: “Say, am I crazy or is everyone but us black?”
Indeed, the entire downstairs bar had become African-American. Sophisticated New York buppies.
Then, midnight struck, and a Lil John-looking pimp took the stage:
“Are you niggas ready for some BBW?!”
“I said, are you ready for some BBW stylee?!”
And then, a half dozen of the most obese, gigantic black women took the stage and began droppin’ it like it’s hot. The women, clad in thongs and lingerie had moves, putting their palms on the floor and shaking their giant Jell-O asses in the air and toward the crowd. The men were going absolutely apeshit.
I looked around the bar. BBW. BBW. BBW.
“OH MY GOD!”
I turned to Freddie and Maz.
“BBW? Big. Black. Women!!!”
And the skinny men that fucking love them.
Lesbians upstairs, Big Black Women downstairs, buppies bumping around us, and three nerdy white guys sipping their beers. Truly a night to remember. We stayed and got steadily drunker as the surreal scene continued around us.
I wish this story had a splendid denouement that involved me getting on stage and tripping the lights fantastic with some 500 pound Nell Carter, but not all stories have great endings and we existed as nothing more than passive observers that night.
NOTE: Remote Lounge is now, unfortunately, out of business for good, replaced by some rock joint. Shame really.
Just recently I had the newest release of Curieux, Allagash’s Jim Beam-barreled tripel. I’d had this ages ago and since then had hailed it as one of my all-time favorite beers, though this batch wasn’t quite as great as I recalled. A bit less bourbony and flavorful, the vanilla and coconut characteristics not shining through quite as much. Perhaps this one is best drank a little more aged. I think it’s slightly below Interlude in the Allagash family, but, whatever the case, it is still another outstanding brew from the boys up in Portland, Maine.