Jetset

Caipirinha. It's one of those annoying and labor intensive cocktails that bartenders despise. David made one for me on a slow hot night at Jetset, after I said I'd never tried cachaça. This was a monumental blunder on his part as it turned out to be my go-to drink every weekend thereafter (unless it was $5 vodka-Gatorade Fridays).

Jetset was just that kind of place: beautiful, well-stocked, and more than friendly. It was home. It was our out-of-the-way spot where we could dance to the divas way past closing time because nobody ever came down that street. It was a lineup of familiar faces on both sides of the bar - that bar lined with our favorite bottles just to keep us coming back.

It was the living room for a generation of stylish downtown misfits who'd rather die than show up to the Saloon too early. That's how it started, anyway. It was a waiting room until fashionably-late-o'clock. But then we stopped going anywhere afterward. We'd found a community, and generous and kindhearted bartenders, and a DJ with impeccable taste and timing. We found love, and heartbreak, and consolation from strangers. We found out who we were (as individuals) and are (a proud and noble lineage). We found each other.

It's gone now, but the Jetset diaspora is flung right across the globe. We're ambassadors from a place where nightlife meant community, sweaty dances with strangers made fast friends, and your favorite high-maintenance cocktail was served with a smile because they just wanted us to keep coming back.