The stereotypical gay bar is defined, accurately or otherwise, by pulsating techno rhythms, frosted follicles and buff, shaved pectorals -- which is exactly what made a place like the Drake Bar such a barrier-breaking breath of fresh air. A piano bar with an unspoken ban on Kylie Minogue and Cher, the Drake exuded class with its velvety interior and clinking tumblers of well-metered libations. Though this was most definitely a homocentric hang, the clientele was as varied as any streetscape. If a man here wanted to go home with a prospective partner's digits, he'd have to rely on a reasonable degree of wile and knowledge of Carole King ballads before canoodling ensued. To put it another way: The Drake was to chess as the Complex is to checkers. Too bad it's gone.