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With its unassuming bookstore façade, I predicted speakeasy-cool with pretty drinks and prettier people. Not so much. The Eldridge is the size of my shoebox-esque apartment, jammed to the horribly low ceilings with sweaty wannabes and their rich friends. Expecting a blend of indie rock, electronic and chill beats from the DJ, the brazen dirty-south rap blasting from the speakers invaded my ear canal like US troops in search of WMDs. All that aside, my lady friend and I wouldn’t have even breached the door if we weren’t with a pro-athlete. This place suffers from serious multiple personality disorder.
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