a pop-up bar

I remember when I first heard about pop-up stores.  

It was 2006 and I was working at PHD Media.  Mostly everyone I worked with was young and hip. They knew all the latest trends, hottest restaurants, and best music. It was easy to feel old.

Now pop-ups are commonplace.  Just a couple of years ago I went to a pop-up hair styling bar. Free blowouts in midtown.  It was great.

Tonight I am meeting Eric W for drinks.  He lives on the westside, but graciously offers to meet somewhere in my neighborhood.  He impresses me even more by picking a new (as in opened six days ago) bar.  In fact, this new bar will have a short life; it closes January 24th.  It is described as a mescal den and is called Bar Illegal.  Something trendy on the eastside — that doesn't happen often.

I walk over. There isn't even a sign on the door, making the place feel even more special.  Though I'm not a big frequenter of bars, this is exactly the kind of bar I like.  Dark, cavernous, candle-like lighting, quiet, crowded enough to know you are somewhere good, but not too crowded to be loud.

Eric is already there when I arrive, sitting with two shot glasses of tequila infused with ginger (one is for me). He is easy to talk to, interesting, and knows a lot about a lot of things. Our conversation is all over the place: current news stories, photography and cameras, football playoffs, the death penalty, theater and movies, family enigmas, and some personal reveals.  We flip from topic to topic, comfortably and often.  And the two additional shots of tequila taste better and better.  

As we are about to leave, someone at the table next to ours says, "Is that your glove?"  I look over and see my favorite fingerless leopard glove sitting on the red leather banquet I just vacated. But there is only one. The other is gone.  I check my pockets, the floor, and my bag. Nada.  The iPhone flashlight with its laser beam is pulled out by more than one person and an earnest search begins. Everyone is treating this as a major loss, making me love this new bar even more.  But alas, I leave one-gloved.

I come home, take off my coat, and snuggled in the arm is the second glove.  A good omen, I'm sure.