From the street, music blares from the Bronx Bar like a warning. Thump-thump-thump, the numbing bass line declares. At the sidewalk gate, a broad-shouldered bouncer clad in a black T-shirt gives the coveted silent nod. Inside, members of the mostly young and Caucasian crowd navigate around, trying to shout to one another over the obnoxious thump-thump. It is packed. Another weekend night in the Village. On the patio, a young woman called Missy, clad in a low-cut tank top and shimmering skirt, holds her cigarette in her languid, manicured right hand. Her nails glow a fierce deep pink as a young man with a crew cut leans forward across the table with his lighter. Her friends giggle. His swish their beer bottles. If they had met at a wild fraternity party of their college lore, maybe they'd be making out by now in the corner. But these days, they are young professionals, aspiring to own SUVs. Missy shapes her painted lips with effort, forming the words before she says them. In her Minnie Mouse voice, she excuses herself to the ladies' room. Instantly one of her friends follows, designer handbag at her side.