Why, oh why, did I do the number 3?

It’s a well-known fact amongst regulars hat you can only have two martinis at Martuni’s. (Try saying that ten times, really fast.)

I’ve always limited myself to two of these monstrous, strong libations with every visit, yet still wound up going to dinner/dancing/home in a completely mad state. And I have a ridiculously high tolerance.

Well, ladies and gentlemen, enter martini number 3. Or maybe it was 5? Six? To this day it’s a blurry night.

I don’t remember walking the five blocks back to my place. I don’t remember what I said, whom I may have molested, nor anyone I may have punched. All I know is that there laid a trail of destruction from the front door, up the stairs, and to the bedroom. And I awoke in my boots. Without having closed the front door.

Yes, Martuni’s is an ideal place to punish your liver, cause yourself sever brain damage, and make a complete ass of yourself - all to the soundtrack of a professional grand pianist accompanied by a whole boatload of unprofessional singers. It’s like a piano bar meets a karaoke bar meets the Betty Ford Clinic.