The first time I went to Orient Express—then known as Andy’s Diner—it felt as if I had passed through some sort of energy field. It was the first bar I had ever set foot in. I was 16 at the time, and was attending a party I discovered through a mailing list called Party Volcano that required wearing a wig. I bought a neon-green used one from Value Village for the occasion.
Outside the bar—which is composed of seven antique train cars, one of which was once Franklin D. Roosevelt’s personal transport—flashing neon lights and a Candy Land color scheme reminded me of the dives near the house I grew up in. I’d stop in their parking lots on my way home from school and try to imagine who or what was inside.
Andy’s lobby was cast in a deep-red glow. Someone in a silver wig that looked like a glittery pile of whipped mousse…
