by Kelsey W. on We drove out from the Westside. We paid $8 for parking. We came inside, it looked interesting. We sat at a table at the bar. And we sat, and sat, and sat but no one came. We walked to the bar. And we stood, and stood and stood but no one came. Then we left, went to the Piano Bar and had a good time.
by Kevin N. on There is, after all, a reason, finally, now I understand. There's a reason that Hollywood continues to crank out the latest Antonio Banderas vehicle where some Latin lothario is forced to prove himself ("how you say...sexy?") by dancing his way to the top. There's a whole saucy dancing subculture, and folks, though I'm clearly not part of it, behold...it's there. I can't rightly comment on dinner at Copa, and as such I'll save that addendum for another time, but ventured in for my first swipe at salsa lessons, and though much of the time I was the proverbial bump to Copa's log, I did notice this: they're not kidding about the sexy part. This place was packed to the stilettos with girls ready to get their suggestive and sultry dance on, and cool for them. Architecture on the inside is rustic and a little classic. In a word? Fun. And I can't believe the joint wasn't packed with fellas. Seems like, well, guys, we're always the last to know.
