Masterfully schizophrenic, Round Midnight starts each evening as a neighborhood bar, darkly larval to the more seeking barflies and pool obsessives. Not a place you would want to die in, but a place to consider death, objectively. The corner booths are a frequent site of brilliant loquacity, spewed by pool sharks or any of a number of desperate characters overschooled in the sorts of esoterica (middleware? Indian Law? viniculture? porn?) that give drunken barroom conversation its good reputation. Drop in for a visit off peak hours and you’re as likely as not to find a free table and a bloke at the bar who wants a game. Stay late, though, and be prepared to get yer groove on. After ten on weekends the place turns into a fashion show and all sorts of gorgeous, sometimes tiresome, glamour comes out to play, and if that’s your thing, you go girl. We haven’t mentioned the crack bar staff, who own the place, and if you can get Chuck to smile, you win.
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