As Saturday evening blooms across the city, the vibe here is decidedly posh. The Hidalgo manzanilla smells wild and smoky, but touches the palate with a dry note. A Kir Royale strikes as precisely as a touchdown pass from God. The Les Cent Vignes Beaune premier cru 1993 is just beginning to mature, exuding a clean, clear earthiness with hints of ripe plum. She's probably right, but to be fair, weekdays draw a younger, more casual crowd, and everyone seems nice, with one exception.
Rich people are just bitchy sometimes.
If you're looking to avoid the upper crust, Hayes Street's tony boutiques and stark parking lots hide a mishmash of drinkeries, including a rowdy little joint called Place Pigalle . Here the lighting is dark, and dozens of young bohemians sprawl on couches or shake their heinies to mambo tracks and scratch-heavy hip hop. The combination of 18 beers on tap and one bathroom can lead to some uncomfortable moments, but those long waits give people time to admire Deborah Gibbon's tastefully disturbing collection of erotic paintings. He says the great thing about Pigalle is that he can wear his flip-flops. He's just come from a party across the street.