It was my friend Bill’s 29th birthday this weekend (an age that I’m going to have to get real familiar with in the not so distant future). Like all good parties in Saint Paul a call went up from somewhere in Bill’s foyer for the late night remainders (read: the childless) to leave his house, and the college basketball that was playing itself out on the smallest television on the lower south side, and to rendezvous at The Manor.

The Manor is quietly becoming my favorite place to spend a Friday or a Saturday night. Primarily because of Donna Dee. Queen of the piano bar, Donna commands the room like Captain Kirk perched on a raised platform surrounded by the controls of her Wurlitzer and other assorted anolog/digital synths. Donna’s followers, droogs, support commandos, groupies?, huddle and support themselves along the outside of her padded lounge half circle, waiting for their chance to croon their way into our hearts with an olde tyme selection from her master file of piano bar favorites. Was that “King of the Road” I just heard? Oh Christ that’s a great version of “Delta Dawn”. “The Girl From Ipanema” has never sounded so intimate – so gentle on the north shores of the mississip’ – if only Jobim could hear us now.

We are always the youngest ones at The Manor. Even on the eve of St. Pats day, we are the only kids. But damn, that suit fits well. We always drink like hedonist hooligans living on someone else’s time, someone else’s song. But the thievery is good and important when celebrating a near thirty birthday. It struck me last night that the songs Donna-Dee’s consortium belts out with polonaise soul once were very important songs. First date songs. Youth mantras. Fight songs. Sadly, to me they don’t amount to much more than a giant ball of kitsch. I wonder what version of the piano bar we will have when we are the age of Donna’s current chorus. Does the fact that I love to hang out at The Manor now show how poor the current ‘scene’ is for the jet-setting twenty-something hipsters of the Twin Towns. Maybe someday I’ll be singing Moby songs at some geriatric club that shows old re-runs of The Simpsons and Cribs. Ok, that would be pretty cool actually.

I love the Manor because it’s a throw back to another time – a slower time. Sure the piano bar was pretty rowdy Saturday night, what with all the St. Pat neon green headbands tethered to foreheads and powder dust wigs. And yes the elfish elvis looking bartender was eight shots of Jameson in front of anyone who could vie for a close second, and who spilled more booze on himself and the floor then over my rocks with a twist. But you can always escape for a while and enjoy The Manor’s second room. The second room is powered by a big band lounge act that provides the deep vibe for sinking into the comforts of a high backed faux-naugahyde experience. From the booth you can sip your drink and catch glimpses of people dancing dances that actually require steps. All this for no cover. odd.

My other favorite part of The Manor is the interior design and architecture, which before today, if pressed, I would have mumbled something about sixties modern and dark Scandinavian design. But then on The Manor website it mentions googie architecture, a school of architecture I was very unschooled in. After poking around the googie sites, I am resolved to hunt down more of these restaurant icons and make mandatory stops when on the road or visiting lesser villages. Go googie! go Donna! See you at the Piano Bar.