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I think the real deal requires low lighting, men and women in sunglasses, black berets and turtlenecks, male goatee optional, strong black coffee served in small cups, the air heavy with the smoke of French cigarettes, with an vague, sweet, undercurrent of maryjane, a guy playing bongos, and mumbling incoherent poetry into a microphone. The audience sits back, and looks increasingly introspective to cover for the fact that they really don't have the smallest damn clue about what the beat poet is on about, but it's sure cool, man.
You know, just like this place.
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