“Silas, if you see a young woman in a mini-skirt sitting comfortably, with her legs crossed sipping a cocktail, run, her name is probably Trouble,” a man who joined us at the table told me, after the introductions and learning that we were eyeing the girls seated next.
That was last week, on the eve of Madaraka Day. The women looked 26-27, in their first good job to afford them pricey cocktails and the overpriced snacks at the quaint bar that serves cocktails with names like Slippery Nipples and Screw Driver.