Hazlewood is awkward but elegant, tiny but grand. What seems like the foyer—a high-ceilinged room with a crystal chandelier—is, in fact, the place itself. The only immediately apparent seating is four upholstered stools at the minuscule marble-topped bar; you can also perch along the front window. Tables and chairs have been dispensed with in favor of a small expanse of bare floor. When it's empty, it's a little confusing—what's supposed to happen here, exactly? When it's crowded, people stand around, spilling their drinks slightly, with a vague air of expectancy, like they're waiting to be ushered into the party in the rest of the mansion after the butler takes their coats.
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