Going to a bar for a solo drink is a risky proposition. It can go in several directions. In an ideal world you find a bar peopled by a few quiet, well-heeled customers with a low-key sympathetic bartender and music at just the right level. It should be quiet enough to allow your inner thoughts free rein but not so quiet that every noise makes an impression on the room. It should feature a couple of people you'd be interested in engaging in conversation whether you do or not. Last night I thought I'd go to Old Town Bar, one of New York's last surviving institutions but  it didn't go as planned. First it was too crowded - at least with the wrong kind of people. Friday night in Manhattan. What was I thinking? There were frat-boy types wherever I looked bleeding into finance bros. The smell of chicken wings filled the air. Not good. Not what I wanted. What was I looking for exactly? The ever-elusive  New York City of my mind. The thing is I've been in that bar - the one I want. But that elegant dive I crave is being submerged into oblivion. Through the haze of corporate banter I could still see the old foggy mirror behind the bar, the framed black  and white photos and the aged wood, but it was beyond my powers of imagination to see this as my scene. My place is out there waiting for me, though. I'm sure of it.