It's 6 o'clock on a Friday night and plenty of swell cars are pulling into the driveway at Trumps. The valets whisk them away as fast as they can while their occupants brush the wrinkles off their incredible clothes and make their way to the bar. These people are not here for dinner--it is far too early--but merely to relax in one of the hottest bars in town.
It's not an easy task. The crowd is three deep and just a pretty face won't get the bartenders' attention; there are plenty of pretty faces.
"You'd think they were giving away free hors d'oeuvres," says someone in the crowd.
"Are you kidding?"is the reply. "Have you looked at the prices?"
"Oh, who cares," says another voice. (It is hard to tell who is saying all this, the crowd is that thick.) Meanwhile, my friend Pat, in from New York, takes a long look around, heaves a satisfied sigh and says, "Now this is L.A."
Trumps is L.A.--an eclectic and kooky mix that attracts all the cognoscenti, from movie stars to business execs to secretaries on the prowl. The place is so popular that this month two new dining rooms and a garden terrace opened to enable them to feed more fans. Meanwhile, the bar remains constantly crowded with patrons drinking some pretty spiffy drinks (I'm partial to the margaritas), lounging around on oversized sofas (it's a very comfortable bar), ogling the art on the walls (modern and constantly changing), and trying to figure out which of the upscale snacks is No. 1.