On this Saturday, their hip-hoppiest evening, segregation was in the air. Behind the cover of two feet of angelic white mica are the bartenders and the cooks. Both groups are fresh out of school, but only one crew looked happy to be there (a grumpy bartender pours a short martini). The thirty-something professional gals struck poses in the corner. Muscle guys in tight shirts checked their reflections in passing wine glasses. Office parties aplenty quibbled over the size of the house tab in the dining area. And the bunnies made rounds to and from the bathroom in their fishnets, teasing the older men drinking Scotch between cigarette breaks.

It played out like a high-school dance. You remember, when everyone was too nervous to cross the floor to talk to anyone? Ah, it’s funny to laugh about it now. How we’ve all grown. Wait a second. I mean... damn. Nevermind. - C.L.