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9 2 LOUISVILLE MAGAZINE 5.14 Photo by Lynn Hafele Photo by Gail Kamenish food bits drink Muddled History Te skyline of amber boxes shrinks into tiny polka dots behind me as I cruise be- neath the purple glow of the Second Street Bridge into Indiana. I follow signs to New Albany, the birthplace of an ex-boyfriend. Unlike our relationship, I decided it was time to give this town another chance by visiting the Irish Exit, the hot-boxed wa- tering hole for New Albany night crawlers. I slam my car door shut on Main Street, where parking is plentiful and the trafc lights are forever green. I jog through the cold to the door of the Jacob Bader Building, a historic structure built by one of Floyd County's swankiest businessmen in 1885. For more than 100 years it was home to wholesome bakeries, candy stores, supermarkets and furniture repair shops. Tonight, an Irish crest dangles above the sidewalk and squeaks as a chilling breeze chases me through the door and into a swirl of smoke. Behind the front window's green fogged glass, neon beer signs and arcade games illuminate extravagant tattoos, dam- aged pool tables and wobbly low-tops. The Irish Exit 207 E. Main St. (New Albany, Ind.) Dreadlocked hippies, Hello Kitty fanatics, athletes, and a couple in matching denim cowboy outfts weave between one anoth- er, braiding the conversations into one. At a table to my right, several 20-somethings passionately debate a technicality in their game of Magic: the Gathering. A man in business-casual dress dramatically enters with Wendy's to share. Te wizards pause their game and applaud. Te walls of the trapezoid-shaped room are covered in mirrors, beneath the elaborate wooden crown molding. It ap- pears as if someone unrolled a rug made of broken tile over a messy ground littered with abandoned children's toys. Trough the smoky haze I search for familiar faces. I wave to the back corner, where my friend Sarah has claimed a heavily dented alumi- num table. I plop onto what is essentially a soot-covered church pew and feel it dramatically sag beneath my weight. "Where's Eric?" I ask, looking around for Sarah's husband. She rolls her eyes and swings her thumb behind her. Eric is hunched over, slamming his fst against the Red Bull vending machine. "I guess the machine doesn't make change," she says. "I gave him a fve." I laugh and look down at my phone, which is inviting me to join an open Wi-Fi network called "beer." Eric fnally joins us after making a trip to the bar. "Man, you know why this place is great?" he asks. He holds out his hand, where his vending-machine change has been returned. A bearded man rises from the Magic table and drags his feet to the stage, where he takes his place at the turntables. He begins his set with the screeching static of South African electro sensation Die Ant- woord, followed by the funky fow of Carl Carlton's "She's a Bad Mama Jama (She's Built, She's Stacked)." After a fve-minute visit in a womp-wiggle bass headache, the triumphant horns of Paul Simon's "You Can Call Me Al" rescue the musical integrity that had been lost. Eric shoots out of his chair and embarks on a jerky moonwalk to the dance foor. I follow with a Prancercise. Our twirls and enthusiastic punch-dancing is not matched by anyone else in the Irish Exit tonight, but the DJ takes note of our taste and sprinkles it into his set. We sweat in the heat of the Irish Exit's melting pot, painting our moves into the history of New Albany's Main Street. — Wesley Bacon GINFIELD GARDEN MARTINI (Yes, last month's issue was all about Derby. But we just couldn't resist doing an infeld- inspired cocktail — Ed.) 1 sugar cube 2 fresh watermelon chunks 4 to 8 quartered cucumber wheels 3 basil leaves 1 ounce lime juice 2 ounces Hendrick's gin ½ ounce simple syrup ¼ ounce St. Germain 2 splashes blood orange bitters Muddle the watermelon chunks, cucumber and basil leaves in a pint glass. Add the lime juice, gin, simple syrup, St. Germain and orange bitters. Give it a hard shake, then double-strain into a martini glass. Garnish with cucumber. "I wanted to stick with dive-bar pricing, but I wanted the drink to be feminine," says Alison Freels, who owns the Cure Lounge on South Shelby Street. "It's earthy and grassy, like the infeld at Churchill Downs. Put your fancy hat on and drink your fancy drink." 80-112 BACK.indd 92 4/18/14 11:32 AM