ASL Party Patrol Post: Winstons

I went out last Saturday night with some friends to try a couple of new bars that have popped up in L.A. The first one was Bar Lubitsch. They were having a private party that night. So, we headed down the street to Winstons. When we got to the door, the doorman asked if we had reservations. "Reservations?!?!", my friend exclaimed.

You see, I'd just sent an article to my friends about Winstons. In the article the owner, who is also one of the owners of the Fairfax district bar the Dime, states:

"Our philosophy is the same as the Dime ... everybody's welcome -- no velvet rope. That's because we're in the industry but we're not. We know the industry, but we're not going to build all our business on celebrities coming to our bar or not."

Back to my story. The doorman tells us reservations are now required because of the popularity of the bar.

More on "Hanging Myself" after the jump...

My friend then says, "We don't want a table, we just want to have a drink at the bar."

"You still need reservations." he says.

So we leave.

I decided that I would make reservations for the following Saturday night. This time I would get in, write a review of the place and make sure to mention the bar owner's "philosophy" about Winstons.

Saturday night rolls around and I'm so excited about my reservations that I think I peed a little. I get up to the doorman and he asks if I have reservations. I give him my name so proudly, like I had just cured cancer. He thumbs through the list and to my horror, I'm not on it. I feel like I'm on a sitcom or something cause I can hear the collective GASP of the studio audience.

Of course he asks, "Did you make reservations?"

"Yes! I did exactly what you told me last week. I called the number which says to send an email instead of leaving a message on the voicemail," I said starting to get extremely irritated.

"Did you get a confirmation?"

"NO! THE VOICEMAIL DIDN'T SAY ANYTHING ABOUT A CONFIRMATION!!!! IT JUST SAYS SEND AN EMAIL. WHICH I DID!!!!!!!!!"

"Well, I'm sorry. You're not on the list."

Needless to say, I didn't get in.

I guess I can't get too mad since their damn "philosophy" didn't say anything about damn email confirmations. So I headed down to my friendly gayborhood bar where the only philosophy is determining how many olives I want in my dirty martini.

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