Whip it

Saturday night, hipster night. Although the very act of labelling it hipster negated any shred of hipster credibilty and we very quickly had to adopt the term 'whipster'...wannabe hipster. I'm ok with that, I don't have nearly enough ironic tattoos or 80s facial hair to really carry off hipster-ness. Nonetheless, we did wait on Mamasita's uber cool stairs for the rite-of-passage-40-minutes to get a table and some Mexican street food. Street food is the new black. So Mexican street food, well, need I say more...? It's the giddy heights of edginess. What Scott Eddington does to corn is nothing short of a gastronomic miracle. Very tasty.

Then it was down an alleyway past street art and dumpsters to the dead-end and The Croft Institute where they make great cocktails in a science lab ambiance. I declined the possibility of the syringe drink where you get a glass of something with a jauntily placed syringe of something else in it and you add whatever the syringe has to whatever is in the glass and then nonchalantly drink from the glass while the syringe bumps agains the side of your face. I just went normal cocktail. Normal but with a bushel of mint stuck in the top, which did end up bumping, or mintily brushing, the side of my face as I drank it. I just adopted a bored expression and I think I carried the whole thing off ok.

Then on to another bar in China town with no name on the door but it's just known that it goes by the moniker, New Gold Mountain. Old world glamour with asian flourishes. Up rickety stairs to the first level which revels in its resplendent jade luminosity...and the poppy bar on the next level, pulsing in a sanguine cocoon-like way. And perhaps, as a result of plunging into the vermilion, I opted for a tempranillo instead of another cocktail. I easily lose interest in mixed drinks, clearly another nail in the coffin of ever aspiring to hipster-ness.

And that was the night. What sub-culture simulation is next?