Zina's telephone pitch is intelligent and promising: Money back if you're not happy--when was the last time you heard that?--a complaints board at your fingertips (now there's quality control), showers in each room and a 40-minute massage guaranteed, a sweet environment. Zina is Czech, bright, with-it and well-spoken. How refreshing, especially in the downtown area.
Zina wasn't there on the day I walked on. On encountering Igor--well, a kind of female Igor built like a Siberian muskox--I should have known enough to flee. I asked for the Indian masseuse. After all, the voice on the telephone had said she was on duty. "Not vorking today," the muskox growled.
According to Zina's info, I asked for a room with a shower. "No room with shower," she glowered at the midget (that would be me) in her midst. "You vant to stay or go?"
I had appointments nearby, a fastidious schedule, so I gritted my teeth and stayed. For the first half-hour, Igor ran in and out of the room like a warthog caught in revolving doors. I lay there and contemplated the dubious beauty of her stomach, which, like Cyrano's nose, was a quarter of a mile ahead of her. The woman's belly overhung her tights like tidal waves of Jell-O.
She glowered--yes, GLOWERED-at my pathetic nudity.
When her flying fist went at it with the fury of a Valkyrie on steroids, I inquired about the 40-minute massage. "It's been less than 20," I said, with my best Woody Allen voice.
"Tventy," she chortled. "It has been 40 minutes since you valked in the door."
I realized she had me there. But I was also deep into what testosterone I had left. She was so busy watching the clock, she'd forgotten me. The mission of mercy was my own. She turned away in a fit of Slavic contempt.
Afterwards, I asked for the complaint book. "No book," she growled, and I wasn't about to tackle a woman whose belly was bigger than me.
I dressed and walked out into the rain, sort of laughing. I'm sure the report above is accurate, and a lot better than encountering Igor, definitely the slowest day of the week.
Zina still seems conceptually on top of it to me, but with her staff, she's plainly asleep at the wheel. I'd say give it a whirl if the Indian masseuse is around, but for heaven's sake, flee if the woman who answers the door looks like a combination of Nurse Raschet, Bela Lugosi and the Incredible Hulk. Did I really have to varn you?