![]() ![]() Later, the porter informs us that he lives here. It’s a little alarming, and he finally returns it with a hysterical laugh. ![]() ![]() This happens so many times it starts to feel like a setup, until - as though to one-up them all - an old man with two dirty white terriers tries, as a flirty joke, to steal her purse. ![]() “I just love your bow, your outfit, and you’re beautiful.” She says this almost reverently, then leaves, only to be replaced by another admirer. “Sorry to interrupt,” the woman interrupts. She is soon approached by a very sunburned woman. She is gap-toothed with a jaw that makes her look haughty, although she is not, and big black eyes that glint in the light of the fake fireplace. Granados - who wears a black slip and Fendi sandals that click-clack as she walks - slides her ponytail aside to take a sip of her French 75. That may be so, but the chances of baptism by martini are simply too high in here tonight, and no sooner had we entered did we seek refuge back in the Carlyle’s lobby. “I love that about New York - everyone’s having a situation,” says Marlowe Granados, the 29-year-old filmmaker and artist whose debut novel, Happy Hour, will be published by Verso on September 7. The piano man is thrashing at his keys, but it’s really a waste of time everyone is sloshed, and the crowd - a blur of wedges, polos, and pastels - suggests a midsummer bacchanale for permanent Hamptonites. Only so many add-it-to-my-tabs can keep a girl comfortable in a bar like Bemelmans on a Friday night. ![]()
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