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| - Oh, blessed Scottsdale. If only ye were as slick as ye has imagined. Therein lies the problem with Barcelona and her patrons.
I've long heard this place was THE place to see and be seen in Scottsdale. I knew that wasn't true and had no plans ever to go there. But a birthday party for a fine young man fueled my trip on a Saturday night.
Thankfully, we arrived shortly before 10 p.m. --- ahead of many of the plastic millionaires and their shiny chariots. Being the lame, tongue and knuckle dragging fools we are, of course, men had to shell out $10 while women were spared. Once inside, we could see where it was all heading.
It's an older crowd at Barcelona than, say, whatever club on Mill Avenue in Tempe. But that's not to say they are grown-ups. In fact, it is a lot more like high school than anything else. The uncool cool people prance around while spiced up oldies make communicating with anything other than hand gestures and swirling hips worthless. The black-suited security guards talking into their sleeves every few seconds also offer a real --- if not short-lived and ultimately comical --- feel that this place is actually hip.
In a word: Underwhelming.
Make no mistake about it, though, Barcelona is beautifully appointed. Leather chairs and sofas make for comfy private lounges for the lucky (or wealthy) few who occupy them. The sprawling patio is an excellent place on a late summer evening in Arizona. Multiple bars make for relatively speedy service. And the overall gargantuan size of the place makes the crowd seem less, well, crowded.
But alas, this is no place for me. By the looks of the joint, it's no place for diners either. Middle-aged partiers with bulging eyeballs and well- yet artificially endowed gold diggers, on the other hand, are apparently welcomed with open arms. Cha, cha, cha.
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