Walking into Trace, the restyled restaurant in the W Hotel, was like opening a 1990s time capsule.
The tall, model-thin hosts wore tight black dresses and high heels, occasionally parading down the center of the long, narrow, black-and-white dining room as if they were on the catwalk.
They walked in time to trance music, so loud at times that I couldn't think of the next word out of my mouth, as if my dining companions would have known what I had said anyway. One table requested the volume be turned down, and there was a brief modicum of relief before the sound level crept back up. The incongruous music was even louder on another visit.
While Trace's refreshing fig-on-a-plate -free bent should keep insufferable Mission district foodie ewes at bay (a bonus in our, or any, book), cocaine-driven sounds at these restaurant-turned-nightclubs are a surefire recipe for vacant tables and the seat-yourself-anywhere french kiss of death.
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