The lounge we slip into next door to the Hotel Chelsea is dark and tacky, with art brut murals adorning the walls in broad-stroked caricatures of the Spanish countryside. A faux Spanish tile roof overhangs the bottles behind the bar and the surly, prematurely balding bartenders idling there. The drinks menu insists that the establishment is renowned for its margaritas, and who are we to argue?
The drinks plunked perfunctorily before us bear only the faintest resemblance to margaritas, or indeed, anything meant to be consumed by humans, and though I finish mine with a grimace, Katie is unable to do so, leaving it behind, perhaps to be offered as libation to the dozen or so Don Quixote statues that stand blind guard over the Dulcinea Room, the badly breaded calamari, the terrible cocktails, us.
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