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Pulling up in a cab to a hipster dive bar is a major social faux pas. This was news to me. You see, hipsters have an image in their heads of what guys piling out of a cab on a Friday night look like — either Georgetown clones or A|X wearing K street club monsters — so when a cab pulls up to their favorite hole in the wall eyebrows are raised. Any hipster worth his calculated pose of cynical detachment would walk to his bar of choice since he authentically lives a few blocks from it. I’m pretty sure the doorman laughed out loud when he saw our cab.
Speaking of hipsters, it is now considered retrograde to actually call them by their rightful name.
Me: This place is pretty much hipster central, huh?
Girl: No one calls them hipsters anymore.
Me: So what do you call them?
Me: OK, then I guess you guys like to hang out in a bar full of nothings.
Irony doesn’t make it taste better.
I plan to go to the same place next weekend and test their patience by wearing pointy shoes.