Dragon Lounge

From there we got onto the subject of mojitos. Oh God, if you go to the Dragon, don't play rap music, and don't make Bobby drink (or have to make) a mojito.

"I don't care for them," he told me. "I tried it once, and after about the third one I realized it wasn't my thing."

An older lady came in and sat to my left. She was from London, as it turned out, and she ordered a hot toddy. What a strange mix of characters I had plunked myself next to. Each bar in San Francisco is its own little universe, and places like the Dragon Lounge are drifting farther and farther off into the distance.

I realized that I had to get going if I was going to avoid terrible traffic. I asked Bobby what driving route he preferred, and we both came to the conclusion that there really was no "good" way around the city at rush hour. "Just stay here and have a few more martinis till the time passes!" he offered. I made a joke about not wanting to barf all over my date and sadly demurred. A bar writer has to have her limits.

"See ya, sweetie," he said to me on my way out.

Now there goes the last of the red hot San Francisco bartenders, I said to myself.

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