by Ian Froeb
A Saturday night, and not one, not two, but three bachelorette parties crowd Lola, the four-month-old restaurant in the loft district. Given that a lesser-known postulate of the theory of relativity predicts grave consequences for the space-time continuum if more than two bachelorette parties occupy the same place at the same time -- you likely slept through that lecture in Physics for Poets -- the mood is understandably tense.Visit the RFT restaurant page later this afternoon or check back here tomorrow morning to see what I think.
The brides fidget with their veils. The mothers of the brides mutter into their glasses of white wine. One party has been lingering over dessert for a while. The second party, in personalized black T-shirts (Bride, Maid of Honor, etc.), is finished lingering and looks around impatiently as the beleaguered server splits the check eight ways. The third party, the women all decked out in black dresses and expensive heels, clusters around the bar, staring daggers at the other two. I'm at a two-top tucked against one wall, sipping a cocktail called "The Printer's" (Maker's Mark, ginger beer, a dash of bitters, named for the nearby loft) and hoping for a knife fight.