The Crone, immediately post her makeover, decided to destroy her new found good looks by repairing to a local bar for something to eat. Think dewlaps, not dewiness with a Belfast tan (red nose and broken veins) replacing the golden orient glow so expensively acquired just moments before.
The bar, on 17th street DC, serves excreable food but is friendly, easy-going and very close to the Crone’s weekday home. It also serves a clientele that is almost exclusively gay and male. The Crone’s presence is like lime juice in a Gimlet –a bit of a shock, but nonetheless welcome. The economics of this bar are hard to fathom if, like the Crone, you are only ever there at 7:30pm during the week. It can only be assumed that late at night or at weekends it positively throbs, but the rest of the time, well, there’s barely a pulse.
Tonight there were six middle aged men in plaid shirts at the bar, a couple in their late thirties pretending to enjoy a shared salad, and the Crone. On the TV behind the bar, played Mrs Doubtfire–Robin Williams relayed via closed captions. The first couple of times laughter filled the bar, the Crone thought there must be a wit wisecracking on a barstool. But then, as the couple stopped chasing their dried cranberries round the bottom of their salad bowl to guffaw and gesticulate, the Crone worked out what was going on. The entire body was heartily enjoying the 1993 film, mouthing along with the subtitles and roaring with laughter. Their enjoyment was so wholehearted that it did the Crone good. They watched the film, and the Crone watched them and didn’t come home until the credits rolled at 9:30pm. Another wild night out at Dupont Circle.