Jef of the Zebulon Jefs

All over New York there are these little neighborhood joints, gems really, that offer a small dose of the quirky cosmopolitan flavour one expects from this city. Their hidden nature is a cyclical thing it seems, at times the massive quirk of an era explodes with hot spots of culture and fun laid bare for all to see.
In recent years New York has gone through the other end of the cycle. With the corporate incursion of chains and the fragmentation and redeployment of immigrant culture along the lines of increasing "gentrification" of neighborhoods within spitting distance of Manhattan, the cry has gone up to retain "Old New York." The backlash has resulted in a rash of forced and manufactured alternative culture, resulting in a speakeasy approach to everything from shoe stores to coffee houses. As any lucid observer will surmise, this is gloss and polish, covering up a lack of depth, aimed at profit and commercial accumulation. The effect has been a red herring of that elusive "quirk explosion." Basically, the veneer looks cool, mysterious and keen, while the whole thing turns out to be the sort of facade found in fashion magazines. While I cannot say the motivations are necessarily suspect, the outcome has a less sincere edge.
But this is neither here nor there really.
Just go to Zebulon and listen to the music. Drink a sparkly white wine or some Pastis or a 1664 or a soda with bitters. They won't look at you funny for dancing like the African Anteater Ritual. They might look at you funny if you don't.