Nathan I.
Yelp
Soho Lounge ended up being our second and final stop on a truncated and somewhat lunatic trip down 6th Street.
When you last left us, Jersey, Tiffany and I were taking leave of the mess that was The Trophy Room, to wade down the mess that was the sidewalk, to end up at the mess that was The Soho Lounge.
Once again: lines to get in? Please. Tiffany worked her magic again. I like her. She's like the straight girl version of me when I'm bar hopping amongst the gays.
The place was packed from stem to stern. I'd like to point out, which I failed to do in the last review, that this was a Thursday night. It's not *quite* the weekend, but the sheer number of people willing and able to sling shots until 2 AM still astounds me. I mean, don't they have to work...?
We ponied up to a barely open corner of the bar by the one table in the place, and it became apparent that Tiffany knew A LOT of people here...not just the doorman. Once again: the straight girl version of me. We were promptly served another tequila shot, and I may or may not have met some random guys who I had zero interest in remembering. Once we'd tossed back another shot, we decided we just didn't have enough time to complete a trifecta, so we'd try playing out our hand at Soho Lounge instead.
Tiffany took on the role of Moses and helped to part the Red Sea, except in this case the Red Sea was a mass of schnockered humanity and Jersey and I were the two buzzed Israelites hurriedly following her before the people came crashing down around us. However, unlike Moses, we would have to repeat this little miracle every time we needed to go smoke outside.
The Promised Land ended up being the back of the bar, where we could catch our breath and roam a little more freely. This would be a double edged sword, as our newly forged friendship with two drunk girls flitting by ended up with the taller and prettier of the two insisting I booty dance with her. At first I demurred, but she was remarkably aggressive about it, so finally I ordered a vodka tonic and stood there while she rubbed her ass on my crotch and I sipped my cocktail. Thursday night and where am I? Getting a friction boner from a girl grinding me on Sixth Street. I could NEVER have predicted that one.
The female bartender who served me my cocktails had a nice pour, and was very polite. I may have been comped one sympathetic drink for being gay, yet adapting so well to the environment.
While taking cigarette breaks, I made small talk with the doorman who was very laid back and showed no signs of attitude at all. The manager was also outside, and I think his name is Andrew. We chatted some as well and he seemed genuinely friendly. These two plus the bartendress inside, by their actions towards me, literally saved their bar from the usual Sodom and Gomorroah-like verbal fire and brimstone I planned to rain down on a bar like this, as I am prone to do. Really, it's not their fault. It *is* 6th Street. But for future reference, if I am destroying a bar, don't look back while I'm doing it or you'll get turned into a pillar of salt; a pillar of salt I'll eventually use to rim my glass for tequila shooters.
Finally, it was 2 AM and some guy had fallen flat on his face. That was honestly more our cue to leave than the house lights going up.
Kudos to the staff. 3 Stars.