Last night, Miss Loopie's fellow employees decided that there needed to be a work excursion type thing, so I got to go to the Hookah Cafe.

It's a pretty cool place. Nice "garden of a thousand delights" type decor. Pillows and low tables and vaguely middle-eastern flavored ambient stuff playing, kind of Indian fusion cuisine, la-di-da.

Anyway, we were the first people in the party to get there, so we're kind of looking around, taking the place in when the hostess comes up to us and gives us menus and then floors me.

She takes great pains to explain that they only have import beers at the bar. That means no domestics. Then she starts murmuring while looking at the menu and then explains to us which beer is going to be closest to a Budweiser.

HOLY SHIT. I mean, by no means do I consider myself the embodiment of hipness and glamour and all that, but damn. It's not like I had on khaki shorts and a polo shirt and fucking beads around my neck. I guess I'm starting to look my age or something. No. I've got it. It was that sign on my back that said: Kick me- I live in the suburbs.

Besides that unsettling instance, I had a good time and certainly wouldn't stay away from the place. It's a little pricey for just a night of drinking, but for an occasion, I'd say it's worth it.