As I make my way to the door, I pass several upscale guests mingling outside and am greeted by my friend Martin, the PR guy for the event.
"This is way too nice a place for you to be letting people swing sledgehammers around," I tell him. That probably seems like an odd thing to say, but swinging sledgehammers is precisely what we plan to do. This is Vox's pre-demolition party, and rumor has it there's even going to be a chainsaw.
I swung the sledgehammer once before at such an event, during the Freakin' Frog's recent expansion. Remarkably, no one was hurt, although unsurprisingly, with people swinging with one arm and swigging with the other, there were several close calls. I think it would be horrible to accidentally hit someone in the face with a sledgehammer, but if it had to happen, this would be the occasion. Plausible deniability. We step inside, and I find myself surrounded by gorgeous models dressed in hard hats and overalls. Martin hands me a glass of champagne.
"Sorry," he says, "we don't have Chardonnay tonight." Man, you order Chardonnay one time, and you're labeled as the girly drinker for life.
When the lounge opens to the public next month, it will offer a variety of fancy wines—Old World Spanish Reds, Italian Whites, exceedingly dry champagne—both by the bottle and by the glass.
Continuing the tour, Martin describes the renovations and improvements they plan to make to what already appears to be an exceptionally elegant room. The only blemishes are strips of yellow caution tape that hint at the carnage to come. Even the Vox logo, which sports a simple V and X on either side of a circular wine stain, looks sleek and sophisticated, and it's quite a feat to make a spill look sophisticated.
While my friends dine on hors d'oeuvres, a precursor to the tapas-style world cuisine that will be offered when the place opens, I spot the sledgehammers and become increasingly excited. This will be the closest I'll ever get to being a rock star trashing a hotel suite. It will be quite possibly the most fun I'll ever have without getting arrested. It'll be—
"They decided they're not going to break down the wall," Martin says.
"What?"
"No, they decided the party's going too well. They're not going to do it."
"Ah, don't tell me that saner minds prevailed!"
But they have. Defeated, I retire to the patio and pout at the dancing crowd, including two women shaking a tambourine to James Brown's "Super Bad." Why'd they have to have so much fun? I was going to get to break stuff. I didn't even get to spill anything.
A friend and I leave around 10, and an hour later, Martin texts us to say they changed their minds and have begun to knock the wall down. Crap.
Oh, well. Vox is still a classy joint, and when it opens in late June, I'll doubtless stop by to enjoy a nice glass of wine, gaze at the spot between the bar and the hall where a caution tape-covered wall once stood, and dream about what could have been ...
Sigh.