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Ladies’ Choice: Mini Me!
Sometimes it’s important to feel cute. That’s how a girl feels in a Mini Cooper S -- damn cute.
It was a warm balmy June night -- the kind of night where you can almost smell summer after the rain. The kind of night, no matter who you are, you long to be young, wild and free. That’s what living New York City without a care in the world is all about. And for a city like NYC where an Escalade or a Range makes the streets feel clumsy, something slighter is in order. Thus, a Mini with a supercharged engine proved to be the perfect package for flitting about town.
 Ladies were gathering at the spot at 11. First stop -- Alma restaurant in Red Hook, located in the tiptoe of Brooklyn with a gorgeous deck overlooking the twinkly New York skyline. Waiting patiently, Mini, true to form, eeked its way into a baby space made for a baby car on Columbia Street. After a virgin mojito for the driver (moi) and something a little stiffer for the entourage, it was time to hit the streets in the space blue Cooper S to let loose a little Saturday night fever.
Our boy in the standard Manhattan mobile, the BMW 3-Series, revved his engine to follow Bimmer’s kid sister to the club. Mini warmed up to the speckled Brooklyn streets so desperately in need of a fresh coat of asphalt. And any doubts about Mini’s well toned physique vanished as we bounced on to the Brooklyn Queens Expressway the John Cooper Works supercharged engine responding to the pulse of high-heeled sandal on the gas pedal, and these are pedals that comfortably respond to a heel. That’s where the extra 6 Gs for the Cooper S package (driving up our Mini price to $32,850) becomes worth it.
 Things were smooth sailing on the highway, where Mini boasts 32 miles per gallon. But suddenly, out of nowhere, a crater fell from the moon and landed in the middle of our lane. At least that’s how big the pothole felt in the road. Of course, the nakedness of itty bitty Mini quickly regained footing, suspension still stiff as a board.
Back on track, we found ourselves in another BK ‘hood -- Williamsburg -- home to hipsters and Hasidic Jews. Two more turns and we are grinding our way through an even more treacherous street, the kind of street you turn on when you’re looking for that spot with the dopest DJ and the sexiest crowd that you can’t just seem to find. But still no luck, we could not find the club, and admittedly our cute quarters were starting to feel a bit cramped.
Befuddled, all we could see was a biker bar that looked a bit ominous with Alice Cooper look-alikes everywhere. Almost ready to throw in the towel and head back to the big city, we made one more turn, maneuvering the smooth handling Mini until we were soon able to detect something promising in the distance — the call of the drums. While at least what we heard was the sounds of reggaeton backed by some congas flowing through the windows of the smoldering club Bembe. We flagged down BMW man who was still following and make a bee-MW line for the spot, ready to do big things at the club. After finding a secure spot made for our trusty Mini, we disappeared into the seduction of a dance floor to make good on our mission — dance, dance, dance. Hours later we emerged, sweaty, spent and still cute, with our Mini, just before it turned into a pumpkin.
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