At the corner, a dude yelled to me, “Hey, Miss!”
“Hey, yeah?” I yelled back.
“You’re a fucking whore!” he screamed.
“Goddamn Brooklyn,” I thought and walked into the place.
Radegast was a beer garden, the German theme thicker than Bavarian crème. The space was huge, the ceilings high, with a huge bar at the center and tables off to the side. Everything was dark wood, flagons, and lager —above the mantle was a painting of a Hessian military man with impressive muttonchops. The busy bartenders resembled underwear models, with more tattoos. Das Calvin Kleinen.
As I took off my coat, the Blue Vipers of Brooklyn, an amazing swing band, started their first song. But something was missing: the dancers.
Das Calvin Kleinen Bartenders.
