The Subway Inn

One evening, after a long night of chasing “debutants” at some black-tie holiday ball at The Plaza Hotel and, subsequently, blowing all of our cash at The Oak Bar on Beefeater Gibsons, we came to the loaded question of the evening. Here we were, young and tuxedo clad, at one in the morning, with only five dollars and a subway token left in our pockets. Home was clearly not an option, but we really couldn’t afford anything else. What were we to do?

The Subway Inn.

The Scorpion Bowl

Anything that comes in a giant bowl with four extremely long straws and a gardenia floating in the middle must have something going for it, besides a whole lot of rum.

Buried in the basement of The Plaza Hotel in New York City was the legendary Trader Vic’s Polynesian lounge and restaurant. This was everything that you would expect from a 1950’s style “Hawaiian” inspired nightmare. Lots of dark wood, thatch covered bar and ceiling, tall tiki idols separating the tables, and a “genuine” King Kamehameha dugout canoe in the front foyer. The South Pacific at its Americanized kitchy best. This included such “island” specialties as the Menehune Pork Sliders, Crab Rangoon, and the ubiquitous PuPu Platter. Not to mention, the signature Scorpion Bowl.

The Scorpion Bowl is a “festive concoction of rums, fruit juices and brandy with a whisper of almond”, this according to the Trader Vic’s drink menu. In reality, it was an easy way to wind up on the floor with your friends rooting through your pockets to pay for the bar tab.

One particular evening, after our fourth Scorpion Bowl and realizing how little money we had left in our pockets, a very loud and very drunk party sat down at the table next to us. They ordered two Scorpion Bowls and a Rum Keg, another potent communal drink. My friend and I looked at each other and at our empty Scorpion Bowl and the half a dozen 18” long straws strewn on the table and immediately saw opportunity. When the other table got their cocktails and began sucking away, we began to piece together the straws. Three straws later we could reach the next table. We began nipping into one of their Scorpion Bowls. Victory! They were too drunk to notice an extra long straw leading to the next table siphoning one of their Scorpion Bowls, especially after they ordered two more full rounds.

Needless to say, we enjoyed two more Scorpion Bowls before reeling out of Trader Vic’s and nearly falling into the canoe on the way out.

My Weekend

“She’s a nice girl.” Bobby said.

“No, . . . really, . . . she’s a nice girl.”

Absolutely no one looked up from their newspapers, or down from the ballgame on television.

A Saturday afternoon at the Bar.

Business as usual.

The alcoholic's section of The Christian Science Reading Room.

“So which one is this?”, I asked Bobby, not taking my eyes off of Page Six, something about Britney Spears...

“Nina.” Bobby sighed.

“Which one is Nina?” . . . Cindy Adams, gossip, more about Bernie Madof...

“From over at the Cozy Spa.” he said.

Bobby prattled on about his latest sexual conquest.

“She was wearing these little red panties with matching bra, you know. She let me eat her out. She loves me.”

“She’s a whore, Bob. She works in a massage parlor giving hand jobs at sixty bucks a pop.” . . .  Liz Smith, sanitized gossip, a truly frightening photograph of Chelsea Clinton...

“But, she’s a nice girl.”

This was a familiar conversation. Last week it was Wendy. She was a nice girl too. Before that, it was Amy, and before that, Mona, I was beginning to have trouble keeping track.

I took a sip of whiskey.

“But what about Wendy?” . . . The Post’s Op-Ed page, some opinions...

“Oh, fuck Wendy.” he said.

“Didn’t you do that already?” . . . "The Mayor's", latest draconian plan on sex shops...

“Yeah, but that was months ago.” Bobby said.

“What about last weekend. Didn’t you go up to Chambers Street?” . . . More Op-Ed pieces, Staten Island wants to secede, again...

“No, I went up to Canal Street.”

“Now which one was this?” . . . school’s chancellor caught in threesome...

“Wendy.”

Now I looked up.

“Wait a minute, I thought that the last time you saw Wendy was months ago, but now you tell me you saw her last weekend??”

“Yeah, the Canal street Wendy.”

“Hold on. You mean to tell me that there are two Wendys?”

“Yeah.”

I took a long pull at my whiskey. This was getting complicated. I would definitely have to start writing this down.