The Fez is dead. Long live our glorious city.

Ladies and Gentlemen, its time to put the joking aside for a moment. Joking – please go sit in the corner with all of the unwanted pregnancies and Italian aperitifs. We have a serious issue to discuss. The world changes without us. This is wholly unacceptable to a delusional debutant – and mildly irksome to the reality obsessed sage that we are.

We read about the closing when it happened. Fez, a beloved downtown performance space was to be shuttered. Replaced by one restaurant or another - we stopped keeping track after BLT ‘Chitlins opened on 138th street. Burlesque dancers were put out of work. Miss Astrid had to start temping. But, New York would go on, just as it always has. We’ve proven that we’re a hearty bunch. The world watched us survive perhaps the worst disaster in the history of modern man: an indoor smoking ban (never forget). One less burlesque venue – that would be a breeze.

We visited on one of the last nights and sat in the back booth. We sipped our martini to the tinklings of BabyFace on the piano. We even shed a solemn tear into our cocktail as our hostess crooned “is that all there is?” one last time. When the lights dimmed and we shuffled out, we felt sad, but we also walked forward with resolve. As magical as Fez was, New York is never about one place. It’s about the invisible icy mist that floats up from the perfectly poured martini – the facts that places like Fez existed at all. On countless nights since, we’ve heard that music wafting by as we walked into the unexpected. On countless nights since, it’s comforted us. Sometimes as much as our third martini.

That is, ladies and gentlemen, until another sound recently drowned out Fez’s precious song. It sounded like stilettos clicking down a marble staircase. Of water trickling into a ridiculous coi pond. Of overpriced drinks being poured into plastic glasses. The sound of money and trash and mediocrity all converging – it was all we could hear as we entered the Chinatown Brasserie and glimpsed the monster that now sits on the corner of Great Jones and Lafayette.

We walked down those stairs and gasped. We hadn’t been back since that last show. This is what they did? Fez hadn’t been replaced. It had been obliterated. The tables that used to be filled with laughing patrons were replaced with a carpeted dance floor. The corner booths were now banquettes – the Ikea inspired knee level tables perfect for that extra bottle of $300 vodka. The quaint spotlights were gone. The piano no longer tucked into the corner. The stage, our heart, was ripped out. In its place was a small bar. Plastic glasses were stacked neatly behind the bartender. We don’t know about you gentler reader, but if we are going to be hoodwinked by an $11 vodka tonic, we prefer to be numbed by the chill of an actual glass.

So, we danced a bit. Had a few. Tried to feel what all the gleeful girlies and boys saw about such a tepid place. Are we behind the times? We understand that New York can’t always be the same. But, what’s the point of change if everything gets made into the same soulless second-rate club? We suddenly could empathize with the old crone who sits in their house all day and complains that ‘things ain’t how they used to be’ as they finish off an eighth of whiskey. Maybe the old coot’s not crazy. Maybe things really were better.

We bid the coi adieu and got on our not-so-merry way. As we emerged on to the street our ears rang from the thumping of the sound system. We walked around the block, lit up a cigarette, tried to put distance between ourselves and that place. Is this what New York is becoming? Are all the glorious stages soon to be replaced by overpriced banquettes. We jumped into a taxi. Oh, how lovely, maybe this flashing television screen could tell us. We started pressing, mindlessly staring into the lighted void as we followed the GPS. The blip that was our taxi drove forward toward who cares where.

The driver seemed to sense our frustration “you can turn that thing off you know”. Oh. We mashed the digital switch and cracked the window. Sitting back into the seat we watched the city travel by. There was a crisp in the air, the seasons were changing. A sound gently crept though the divide of the cab. The driver had turned his radio up, ever so slightly. It was piano music. A woman singing. The city blurred by as we traversed the avenue. Yellow street lamps and red break flashes illuminated our path – stage lights that they could never tear down, now matter how much bottle service is going for.

We got out three blocks early. Our local bar. Drinks in glasses. Chinatown Brasserie would never last. It’s New York, it wouldn’t survive the changes. Hopefully, when they inevitably shut it down, they’ll think of something a little bit inspired by what Fez had. Inspired by the special thing that all of these other places lack. Hopefully, they’ll think of something different.