Salinger’s heart thudded in anticipation as he entered the famous Boiler Room Cafe. Roman couldn’t have recommended the place more highly. Posing as an organic coffee bar serving farm to table tidbits by day, it morphed into a grungy, hipster gin joint after hours. The skinny-jean, hipper-than-thou crowd, sported man buns and ironic facial hair. The place reeked of an ineffable and hopelessly unattainable coolness. Salinger knew he was home.

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