The sounds of cars, horses, and jazz become silenced once I close the door of The Vital Juice Lounge. There is a shop on St. Ann that sells numerous items relating to pseudo vampirism, including, but not limited to, imitation blood bags (made with highly concentrated forms of B vitamins), jewelry work by actors in Vampire movies, and the works of Anne Rice.
There is nothing pseudo about the Vital Juice Lounge. Nothing here is Hollywood. Nothing mentioned on the New Orleans Vampire tours has been uttered by myself or my staff.
This place is a place of history, of class, and exclusivity.
Many otherworldly venues in the Crescent City attract those yearning for the ultimate Halloween items. Others capture the attentions of amateur magicians or religious fanatics.
I have been in this business from the birth of this city. And it's vibe has remained the same. The Vital Juice Lounge has neither sold out by sleeping with post-modernity nor has it become inclusive to just anyone. Only the best of the best may enter. The meek do not inherit entrance here.
"Lucius?" The waiter has just approached the oak counter I now stand behind.
I nod. I understand all too well what is expected of me. Table 9 is expecting their bar order.
I turn my gaze to the woman below the counter. When she emerges, she smiles widely and wipes her mouth with the edges of a cloth napkin. To an outsider, she would appear to be in her early thirties. This woman has a delicious, curvy figure; her breasts are fully exposed above her corset.
She delicately extracts a wine glass from the shelf before going in for the bite from my heavily scarred wrist.