Dear National Mechanics:

Two weeks ago tonight, I found myself at your door. I'd had some blood work done earlier in the day and I hadn't had much to eat, so I probably shouldn't have been drinking. But there were margaritas, and then there was sangria, and then I just really needed something of a more solid nature in my stomach. A friend suggested you. We walked to the door and were told it would be $5 cover. And while I usually have issues with cover charges at bars where there's not dancing and/or live entertainment, my friends and I paid up—specifically because the girl at the door told us the kitchen was still open.

When we walked in, the bar was stacked about four people deep, so we decided to sit at one of the available tables. We waited and waited for somebody to notice, and when someone eventually did, we were very apologetically told we had to vacate the table, as you were setting up for a party and needed to clear the floor. We asked if we could move to another table. Your staff told us no, all tables had to go. We looked toward the bar, now stacked six people deep. We decided there was no way we were going to be able to eat a hamburger in that mess. We left, intending to calmly explain to the girl at the door that we'd like our five dollars back, please, because we only went in so we could eat.

I was elected spokesperson for our little group and approached the hostess stand she was standing behind. "If you're coming out to smoke, I need to stamp your hands," she said, obviously forgetting that she'd stamped our hands when we walked in ten minutes before.

"Actually... I was coming to see if we could get our money back."

"No."

"But you said the kitchen was still open, and we were just told to give up our table and..."

"You can still get food at the bar."

"Yeah, but there's no way that we could eat it. We can't get to the bar to put it down. So we're just going to go somewhere else."

"Just push your way to the front."

"Listen. I'm five-two. I had blood work done today. I've already had about five drinks. So I just need food. And I need to sit while I eat it. I know it's not your fault that I'm in this situation, but I was just hoping that we could each get our five dollars back so it could be put to better use elsewhere."

"Well maybe if you weren't giving me such attitude."

"I'm not trying to give you attitude. But don't you think you were a little misleading about the food?"

"You can still order food."

"Yes, but where will I eat it?"

Pause while the question sinks in. Then she counts out a five and ten ones (it was obviously for dramatic effect), and says: "Fine. Take your money. You'd better not try to use your stamp and come back in, though."

"Trust me. I won't."

And indeed, two weeks later, the stamp has completely faded and I'm still not going back in. While I might eventually patronize you at lunchtime when there's a guarantee that nobody will be taking money at the door, I will never, ever again walk up those stairs on a weekend night. And I will tell everyone I know—including Phillyist's many readers—to avoid you at all costs. Because if you can't hire staff that respects your customers, maybe you don't deserve to have customers at all.

It's Old City, pal. Plenty of other fish in the sea.

Picture of the (admittedly cool) National Mechanics building by Flickr user hyku.