The Corner Booth

The Corner Booth doesn’t speak in the traditional sense. But it knows things—things about rockstars, mob bosses, movie legends, and the music industry’s gilded devils that no journalist, biographer, or federal investigator could ever fully dig up. The Booth has sat in the same shadowy corner, soaking in the sweat, whispers, and wild confessions of people who shaped entire eras and burned out spectacularly in the process. It’s where greatness lives.

You don’t just sit in the Corner Booth. You earn it.

A proper corner booth is nested in the kind of nightclub where the cigarette smoke curled like scripture and the maître d’ knew whether you wanted bourbon or betrayal. And in that far corner, beneath a crooked oil painting and under a dust rag light hanging above, the Booth quietly became the black box of deals, debauchery, and lore.

Back in the early ’60s, the Booth belonged to the Rat Pack. Martin, Sinatra, Lawford, Bishop, and Davis didn’t just talk shop. They made history—songs, shows, political deals, secret dedications to Marilyn. All with the Booth quietly absorbing every tale.

When the mob came knocking they didn’t muscle their way in, they slid in like ghosts. Bosses sat dead center, letting the Booth cradle them like a favored son. From their throne they would make calls that triggered untraceable violence in two time zones. He laughed. He relaxed. The Booth made him feel safe. Or maybe just invisible.

Come the 1970s, disco feaver was in the veigns and the all-nighter was here to stay. Bootsy and Lionel played all night long while Keith Richards passed out in the Booth for six hours after a three-day Tijuana bender. Joplin ran an infamous topless poker game here, and if the light hits right, you can faintly see four verses of “Riders on the Storm” written into the underside of the tabletop. Rumor has it Hunter S. Thompson himself unleashed mad scribbles on a napkin about fear, loathing, and the lost art of staying awake.

By the time the ’80s hit, the Booth was wearing a new kind of cologne: cocaine and sweat. The rock gods had arrived. Prince arrived in lavender and silence. He said nothing, ordered nothing. Sat in the Booth for 48 minutes and left a purple guitar pick behind. No one touched it for years.
Music moguls in double-breasted suits brought dead-eyed rock moguls and metalheads. Now covered in road grime and groupies the booth saw it all. Two groupies worked Tommy Lee under the table, while James Hetfield sat stone silent for three hours, staring into a glass of Wild Turkey. There’s a stain on the left cushion from Ozzy’s nosebleed during a blackout fight. With whom? The Booth won’t say. But it’s there. Like a signature. The Booth endured it all.

Even now, in 2025, the Booth is still alive—sagging a little at the seams, the leather cracked like old vinyl, but unbowed and smelling of rich ghostly iconography. To its historical playlist, we unapologeticly tell it our ideas and stories, long nights and early mornings. Today, if you walk in on a quiet Tuesday, you might find an aging director sipping vermouth alone, or a TikTok star sadly trying to conjure ghosts of the past. They don’t understand what the Booth is, not really. They post selfies and tag the location. But even with todays hurry-up FOMO  lifestyle, if you sit long enough, if you listen to the Booth’s silence, and feel the scars in it’s lacquered wooden surface, you might hear the makings of a deal, a ballad, the beginnings of an infamous riff, a flicker of laughter between bumps, or friends passing one hell of a good time. The Corner Booth knows where the bodies are buried. And it’s never said a word.

This is our Corner Booth. If you find yourself lucky enough to hang out, this is where you can join the conversation, share anecdotes, hear our stories, and and maybe, a dirty industry secret or two.

Welcome -

VGCA - Vikings Guzzling Chocolate Ale

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