Café Habana
Perdoname por usar ingles. Because, at Café Habana, you would be speaking Spanish, or listening to Spanish, and defi- nitely dancing Spanish. Cuban- themed, but with a Venezuelan chef, and dancers from all places below Texas, and some even, I bet, from Texas, anything goes. Anything but not being sexy. My advice is to wear the shortest skirt you own, and a top that doesn’t get completely see-through when drenched in sweat (or does) and try to keep up with the overtly capable regulars dancing to Latin beats on Saturday night with a gleaming Mojito in hand. The new Shakira song is hot—you have nothing to lose. Leagues more racy than any American football frat mixer, Café Habana is the place to get down with the city’s liveliest World Cup watchers. (Fuck yeah, Argentina).
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