Friday I was at Johnny Utah’s. This place isn’t your usual club party. It’s more for people who are into bars and don’t want to deal with door trouble or paying cover. It’s the in-between corporate or PR girl type of crowd looking to have a beer and a laugh instead of champagne (which we actually get at the promo tables…huh). Friday I myself was actually in awe. When the emcee came on and started hyping the crowd, the DJ hitting some hip hop music, the crowd went absolutely insane. The emcee had to fend off people fighting to ride the infamous Johnny Utah mechanical bull. That’s what you call a successful night. Now what needs to happen is to bring that same energy to Mondays at  Johnny Utah’s. Let’s see how it goes this Monday.

Right after Johnny Utah’s, I took my crew down to Citrine since the owner David R. had asked me to come check it out. He runs a corporation called the Impulse Group. They’re basically are similar to Strategic Group (Noah Tepperberg for Marquee and Avenue) but not as potent. Impulse has under its wing the nightclub Citrine, Puffy’s Tavern, and just recently Johnny Utah’s…that’s a little inside scoop for you non-clubbers. Citrine had a good-looking crowd. The doormen Spencer and Han are from the good ole’ ClimaxVIP.com (very good guys that are very serious about the nightlife business and to me, very trustworthy people). Citrine charges a cover now. That’s news to me ever, and I used to work there on Thursdays some time ago.

We stayed at Citrine only an hour and a half and then went to Simyone the new EMM group spot (Mark Birnbaum Eugene Remm-I think Simyone is the name of Eugene’s Grandfather, hence the new name of the club. Those two always have some interesting reason for naming their clubs.) Obviously, they moved Alex Julian from Tenjune and now have him running the door at the old Lotus (aka the new Simyone). A lot of hot girls and good-looking guys here, then also the average looking guys that are friends with the owners of course and spend a lot of money. All of the who’s who was there etc., the usual BS for a brand new club when opening. Ellington Keys (as I mentioned before) is the # 1 model promoter. I saw him at Simyone with all his models and his partner Isaih (not sure if that spelling is correct). These are the guys who have taken the crown of being able to bring out ONLY MODELS. The Tenjune staff came through late night to chill out at  their new home. Tyson Beckford told me he loves the spot, so I wanted to see how good it really was. Eugene Remm was spinning.

The lowdown on the Simyone layout: You walk down some stairs after getting past the doorman. There’s some winding until you reach a long room. At the end of the room, is a doorway which then forms a “T.” Walking through this second doorway you can look left and right and there is another room filled with…tables (of course). On the walls in this room are funny-enough photographs of X-Rays, and when the colorful lighting passes behind it you can actually see the X-Ray. Then, they vanish. The ceiling’s low with a lot of color, while at the same time floor is black and roof is black.

I will have more information on La Pomme for you. I think I might stay on this Thursday to try it out again. I personally hope it’s more full this Thursday, because the venue itself is phenomenal.

Last week, I started the holiday season off right by going to the Stoli Holiday Party at Cain-Luxe, the new Cain. I’d never been to Cain before, new or old. So, when Miss Model Behavior offered me her invite to the event, I beat down the little loser inside of me whining, “but Stylista is on the CW tonight!” and jumped at the opportunity.

As an East Villager and a bit of a homebody, places located around double digit avenues are like far-off, distant lands. Going somewhere between 10th and 11th Avenue sounds almost fictional to me, like getting on Platform 9 3/4 to go to Hogwarts.

My roommate and I made the four-block, two-and-a-half-avenue trek from the subway station to the club and, I’ll admit, the journey did feel a bit strenuous in my high heels. A mash-up “Climb Every Mountain” and “Walk it Out” played in my head throughout the trudge. Hopefully the club would offer a better soundtrack.

As we neared 11th Avenue, I spotted two girls in khaki onesie uniforms and huge fur hats. This had to be it. My hunch was confirmed by the tiny placard that read “Cain” next to the massive double doors. We approached the girls. One of them was holding The List.

I gave them my name.

Nothing.

I gave them Miss Model Behavior’s name.

Nope.

Uh oh. Okay, well, I had one more shot–this guy MMB had told me to contact in case trouble arose.

“Uh, I’m supposed to get in touch with Jordan Harris if there’s any problem getting in.”

“Ohhhhh. They’re with Jorrrdan,” the girls exclaimed. It was like that moment in the Wizard of Oz when the gatekeeper exclaims, “Well, that’s a horse of a different color!” and lets the gang into the Emerald City.

Except Cain was way better than the Emerald City.

Upon entering the club, another girl in khaki and a fur hat handed me a USB thumb drive packaged in a mini-bottle of Stoli Blackberry Vodka–the specific alcohol promoted at the event. My inner loser finally boarded the party train.

Next, we moved to the open bar, where I ordered a “dark tea”–iced tea and blackberry vodka. Delicious.

Roommate and I spent the next twenty minutes enjoying drinks and admiring the club’s jungle motif, as well as the attractive quartet of gay men dancing together.

The music was fantastic–I’m always impressed by DJs who actually DJ. No song was ever played without a special twist, interesting remix, innovative mash-up, etc. Everything, from Prince to T.I., sounded a little new, a little different. Plus, apparently Cain has dropped some serious dough to create a state-of-the-art sound system. I’m used to college parties with scratchy sound systems from past decades and base beats that make your insides vibrate. In Cain, the music is smooth, like butter.

Over the next few hours, the club filled up, the quartet turned into a cluster, the drinks started to taste better, the music sounded sweeter, and I even met my secret password, Jordan Harris.

I expected either some swanky operator or a neurotic New Yorker (why do I always assume that people are going to be crazy?), but Jordan Harris, wearing a baseball cap and a flannel, was incredibly nice, shockingly approachable, and he clearly knew how to throw a good party. I remember thinking, in my state of, uh, slight intoxication, Who cares if Santa Clause is coming to town if this guy is already here? Luckily, I wasn’t quite drunk enough to share this thought with him.

The evening was well worth the journey. I loved the music. I loved the open bar. I loved Cain. I had that warm, happy feeling inside, like on Christmas morning so many years ago when I woke up and found Santa had given me my very own American Girl doll. Or maybe I was just drunk.

Because we were running on blackberry vodka, the walk back felt effortless. I love how energy efficient alcohol can be. Later, as I finally tucked myself into bed, visions of Stoli drinks danced in my head.

It was only a matter of time before some club owner hopped on the whole ‘green movement’ bandwagon, partially in support of the cause, partially, I’m guessing, since the marketing angle’s just too good not to go with.

In this case, it was nightclub owner Jon B. (Jon Bakhshi) of Home and Guest House, who opened up environmentally conscious venue ‘Greenhouse’ on Varick Street in Western-most SoHo. This is a somewhat weird location for a club but you won’t hear me complaining since it enables me to walk home, a convenient and money-saving tradition I’ve sorely missed ever since Upstairs closed.

Side note: Upstairs will come to life again, only for one night, on December 31^st to bring in 2009. It’s sort of like nightclub Easter on New Years but without Jesus. Anyone who followed me on that analogy, congratulations.

So Jon B. named his clubs Greenhouse, Guest House and Home.

Greenhouse - Guest House?

House - Home?

Anyone noticing a theme yet?

It’s sort of like parents who name their kids Patricia, Polly, and Patrick.

Anyhow, my girlfriend went to check out the club before me, the night before opening night or early in the evening on opening night – something like that. Point being, she said construction workers were still assembling the bar. A glass slate from the counter flew up and almost hit her friend in the face Cartoon Network style.

Talk about last minute construction!

By the time I made my way over to the club, the place had been fully assembled, glittering in all its green glory. They definitely took the ‘greenhouse’ theme literally, but it’s somewhat odd since all the plants are clearly fakes and sparkling Broadway-esque light bulbs everywhere aren’t really what you associate with the power saving green movement.

Jon B. got the building LEED (Leadership in Energy and Environmental Design) certified by the U.S. Green Building council so clearly he knows what he’s doing. I guess it’s just sort of still a mystery how a green theme translates into swanky club décor. The tables are all supposed to be made of recyclable materials etc., yet I personally would’ve gone a little less, ahem, overboard with the green theme via fake plants and focused more on ‘no smoking’ in the club, proper ventilation and clean air.

Wouldn’t it be great if there was a club you could enter that had things like humidifiers and a staff that actually enforced the state’s ‘no smoking’ law? You exit dewy, moist and refreshed ala’ ‘day at the spa’ instead of smelling like a half-burned pack of Marlboro Lights, soggy with Kettle One. These kind of green improvements would also make my laundry / dry cleaning loads lighter.

My night at Greenhouse proved interesting for many reasons, a few being a) it was a Monday b) there was a ‘live music’ event c) it was one of my first nights in a club with my new ‘no drinking’ policy. Yes, you read correctly: No Drinking.

To Be Continued…

The best use of signage to set a venue’s mood has to be this gem at Greenwich Village’s Employees Only. Whether it legitimately hails from the New Orleans Police Department as it claims is TBD, yet its message is perhaps still relevant – well, at least the pickpocket part.

Employees Only was originally conceived as a late night speakeasy catering to others in the service industry. Today, it’s chef Julia Jaksic’s pricey restaurant with $14 cocktails and a tight door. An homage to the prohibition era of the 1920s and 30s, Employees Only feels unique, quite an achievement considering its traditional bar set up.

I came here stone sober so took the time to notice the liquor bottles perched high on the wall’s ledge and actually able to read over the complex cocktail menu instead ordering the first drink that popped into my head.

I selected the Pimm’s Cup (Pimm’s No1 served tall with a blend of Cointreau, Lime Juice and Ginger Soda, garnished with Cucumbers & Fresh Mint) although the Fraise Sauvage (Plymouth Gin shaken with Wild Strawberries & Tahitian Vanilla, topped off with Mumm Joyesse Demi-Sec Champagne) tempted me as well.

I find such complicated cocktails fascinating, as it would never occur to me personally to put so much care into what I drank, as opposed to ate. The crowd at Employees Only reflects this – the place seems to attract people who are detail oriented. When the bartenders are called ‘mixologists’ and dressed like chefs, perhaps I shouldn’t find this surprising.

Expect it to be crowded and getting a bartender’s attention to be perilous. With the drinks they’re mixing rivaling recipes for French soufflé, also don’t expect service to be speedy. Overall, I found people kept to themselves so this may be the place to drag an intriguing date or reunion of friends rather than a venue to make new acquaintances. If at any point you’re feeling low, or bored, check in for a session with Employees Only’s very own fortuneteller, always on duty and always wielding tarot cards.

I almost slipped into her chair prepared to shake her shoulders and insist that she tell me where my life is going. Since Employees Only is a refined place for downtowners who are hip and unpretentious, not out of their minds, I resisted and drowned out my life questioning with Pimms.

I was one of the last people to get on the Bijoux bandwagon as the club’s launch coincided with my temporary retreat from society. Too bad, because the place is a lot of fun. Several new locales have launched in the past months including RDV and Greenhouse, both of which I’ll be formulating written thoughts on soon, but neither of these places got me excited the way Bijoux did.

What’s cool here?

Well, it got me revved up enough to do a top ten list, so here we go:

1. It’s hidden! Nothing gets me more excited than hidden La Esquina-esque places. I think it has something to do with my childhood longing for a secret fort. If I have to traverse a kitchen, scale a secret stairwell, knock three times on an unmarked door, and creep through candlelight down a sketchy hallway, my happy going-out energy starts pumping — and you have to do all these things and more to get into Bijoux.

The club’s in Meatpacking in the basement bowels of Merkato 55. The entrance is a black door and after negotiating your way inside, you slither through a long hallway, down a staircase (making lefts and rights in sharp sequence), and down another long hallway to a seemingly-standard door at the end marked ‘Employees Only.’ In opening what appears to be an electrical closet or staff bathroom, you reveal a sprawling underground party lair.

2. A break from house music. I’m a house music fan, but between Kiss and Fly and Cielo it seems you can’t get away from it in the Meatpacking zone. Bijoux played hip hop intermixed with fun oldies.

3. It’s not too crowded. When you’re several levels underground, this is a good thing for claustrophobics and the rest of us.

4. It has a Wishing Well! Talk about my childhood fantasies continuing to be fulfilled. OK, maybe it’s just a well and not magic, but any club with fairy tale elements in it is cool in my book. I wonder if a late night patron has ever fallen in…

5. That red velvet color: in the curtains, in the lampshades and on the wall. There’s something about this color that I’m physically attracted too.

6. Display cases. Why not browse jewelry or really aged liquor on your night out? I thought this was an innovative decoration motif. I hadn’t seen it before and it gave the place a boutique-y feel.

7. No Go Go dancers! There’s nothing wrong with dancers per se, but I’ve always found they ‘trashy up’ an atmosphere making it less chill and well, sleazier. The ceiling at Bijoux is so low anyone that tried to Go Go on something would smack their head and fall down. Phew.

8. The very pretty, massive chandelier. I don’t know if this photo properly captures how large this thing is, but it’s bigger than me in the fetal position.

9. The sections of the wall that are leather and look like black snake skin. Creepy!

10. It was mentioned in Gossip Girl (IF you’re a fan :))

For people who want a side of club music with their dinner experience and can actually afford to pay for their meal instead of attending promoter charity dinners like the ones I’ve written about at One, Bagatelle is the place to be. It’s a meatpacking block away and while One and Bagatelle have nothing in common except for excruciatingly loud dinner music and being the brainchildren of club owners, I find myself comparing the two because they’re the kind of restaurants one frequents pre-going out.

Haters describe restaurant-hybrid-disco Bagatelle as ‘an overpriced, overcrowded clubhouse for Guidos and women with a lot of mileage.’

Fans describe it as ‘the best food and social scene in the city.’

Obviously, getting a reservation’s close to impossible and even if you do, an hour long wait while you suck down outrageously over-priced martinis in a body lock at the bar is mandatory. The best word to describe this restaurant: Crowded. The runner up word: Euro.

While one guy did sport a donkey rope, the rest of the crowd was the slicker, elegant Euro type who knew the brand name of the shoes they were wearing off the top of their head and kept colorful kerchiefs in their suit breast pocket. The ladies that accompanied them were decorated accordingly.

FYI Bagatelle is a great place to wear your most uncomfortable, super-high heels. It’s so crowded that you can use fellow patrons to keep your balance walking around and falling is an impossibility.

Once we finally sat down, a waiter that looked like he’d just completed the half-marathon greeted us with a broad smile while sweat / tears trickled down his face. At another point, when I flagged him to take our order he made it half way around our table before sprinting off again with only half our orders received. I was more concerned about that man’s cardiovascular health than the restaurant’s service in general so the waiter and I remained on good terms. That is until he told me my entrée of choice, the scallops, was no longer available. That left me with the veal. Boring. But the goat cheese and foie gras appetizers were great. Get them if you ever find yourself here.

Also, keep your eyes peeled for the most attractive Asian male waiter (or water boy?) who circulates the restaurant all night with ridiculously shiny, long hair and a sexy saunter under his aproned black pants. He’s somewhat mythical looking and my friends and I decided he should star in the next Lord of the Rings movie and probably received a frightening amount of attention (and cash?) nightly from older women.

Don’t come to Bagatelle if you really want to talk to anyone because the music level makes that impossible (they actually have a DJ by the door).

Do come if you want to be dancing to ‘My Dream is to Fly’ on your chair by dessert.

I was flabbergasted when Jamie Mulholland and Jayma Cardosa announced they were gutting and redecorating 27^th street nightclub Cain. Sure, 27^th street isn’t what it used to be, but from what I could see, safari-themed Cain wasn’t suffering. The music was always preppy, the promoters plentiful and the dance floor consistently full – maybe with tourists and out-of-towners – but it’s in Chelsea! That’s where hotel concierges tell these people to go.

I have fond memories of when Cain used to be one of the most exclusive clubs in the city. Their chic Italian door people would stare you down with what felt like daggered icicles shooting out of their eyes until you felt too insignificant to even try getting in. Cain’s always been a fun, familiar friend, even if no longer in its prime. I mean, Marquee’s not longer in its ‘prime’ and remains by far the most profitable nightclub in Manhattan. I didn’t think Cain’s owners would want to ‘mess with success,’ but someone got bitten with the rebranding bug and Cain Luxe was born.

Upon hearing this news last month, I started feeling bad for Cain. Had things plummeted to such a low that they needed to add an abbreviation of the world ‘luxury’ to their name just to make the point they were still classy? What was once a hot club now sounded like a child of divorce with a hyphenated surname. I decided I’d have to do a quick swing by and check the place out of myself.

The entrance is the same but the club’s entirely different. My jaw dropped upon arrival.

Why?

Because these were right in front of me:

Cain’s new décor revolves around a runway in what used to be the center dance floor. Go Go dancers shuffle around it in an awkward line like birthday candles strewn upon a cake. I felt like I’d entered Bada Bing and at any moment, I’d see Tony Soprano waving at me with his cigar from the bar.

What had happened to this place?

Technically speaking, they moved the DJ booth to the opposite side of the room (sure that cost a fortune) and hung red stringy thingies everywhere, which to me just accentuated the fact that this could be a brothel. Impressive elephant tusks support the ceiling and a beautiful mural’s on the back wall (if you manage to remove you eyes from the grinding women in front of you, you’ll appreciate it.) It’s sort of like Cave du Roy meets the jungle…which for me, didn’t really work. On this plus side, they clearly revamped their sound system and the quality is excellent. This place is definitely not the old Cain.

While I personally was not a fan, this venue could be wild fun for bachelor or bachelorette parties. Then again, maybe my whole perspective would be different if they had male dancers up on that stage.

After being in New York for nearly three months, my social scene remains somewhat limited. While MMB tends to frequent the most exclusive nightclubs in the city, her little sister is reluctant to venture out of the East Village. I’m comfortable in the scene I refer to as NYU.S.A.—an address that’s a fusion of college life and New York. Such a combination makes me feel somewhat at home.

But I can’t remain a village idiot forever. When MMB had to leave town on a business trip, she asked me to attend an event at Marquee in her place. She had to talk me through the whole arrangement several times, very slowly, as terms like “nightclub” and “business trip” are somewhat foreign concepts.

How could I say no? It was time to venture out of my comfort zone and discover what a club had to offer.

I had two concerns about going to Marquee:
1) Running into fellow intern and arch nemesis Sushi Girl, who frequents Marquee like a bad case of herpes.

2) Being obviously out of place in a crowd of people exactly like Sushi Girl: impeccably dressed, subtly judgmental, effortlessly bitchy.

But if Marquee’s the most famous club in Manhattan five-years running, I decided it must be worth seeing. My sister wouldn’t feed me to the wolves! Besides, who am I kidding? I rely on subtle judgment and bitchiness in each blog post I write.

How out of place could I be?

I put on a little black dress and very high heels. My headband stayed home. I was ready…I guess.

The event at Marquee was hosted by TruthThroughAction.org, an organization that “brings independent filmmakers together to create edgy film and video content to support the Democratic Party, its issues and candidates.” I think it’s both commendable and effective when people use their own creative energy and channel it towards a greater cause. Be sure to check out the viral videos on the website. While surfing the world wide web, you may also want to take a glance at McCain’s crazy faces. That should be a real push towards “political monogamy”–a status that Truth Through Action promotes through its “I only sleep with Democrats” shirts. Sex doesn’t just sell; it also votes.

My friend T and I strutted into Marquee at 9:00 PM and immediately downed two cocktails. We surveyed our surroundings, unsure of our next move. The club had a projector that showed behind-the-scenes footage of the “I only sleep with Democrats” photo shoots. Sleek photographs hung on the back wall and blue balloons floated in a few tastefully scattered bundles around the crowded interior. This Democratic party looked good.

The DJ was fantastic, playing everything from Rihanna to Jay-Z to Oasis to Pat Benatar, each song dressed up with irresistibly danceable beats. There was also a live performance by Madison, who boasted an oversized white oxford with Obama’s face printed on the back of it. She too had solid dance music to contribute.

Yet no one was dancing. I wasn’t completely naive. I never assumed that the inside of a New York club was going to look like the Britney’s “I’m a Slave 4 U” music video. But I did think that signs of life would extend beyond the occasional shudder and twitch from a collective crowd. Perhaps it was just too early. After all, nightclubs thrive in the after-hours.

But the music! It was too good not to enjoy. I hadn’t felt this compelled to dance since my last drunken college frat party when I ended up dancing on a Beirut table to “Shake Ya Tailfeather,” only to land flat on my face in what I tried to play off as an attempted crowd-surf. T and I tossed our inhibitions aside like empty beer cans and began to bust out in full force: flailing arms, shimmying shoulders, I don’t even know what was happening with the lower half of my body but, word to the wise, doing the running man in heels is both difficult and dangerous.

It may sound outlandish and embarrassing, but T and I were having a great time. With each new song, we’d let out a wooo of excitement, another tradition of college partying that didn’t seem to carry over into the Marquee scene. The rest of the room became a blur until some youngish guy approached us.

“You guys are like, the only people dancing,” He told us.

We gave him a nod and a shrug. People stating the obvious don’t tend to hold our interest.

“What are you, like, 18?” He asked skeptically

“Yeahhhh.” T exclaimed while breaking into a ridiculous pelvic thrust. “It’s her 18th birthday!” As she pointed to me. “Birthday girrrrl!”

I think that T prefers acting drunk to actually being drunk. This guy propelled her into full force faux-toxication. We probably appeared to be the drunkest, most immature people there.

I took a look around the club.

We were definitely the most immature people there.

But no one cared. Yeah, it probably looked a little like Romy and Michelle’s Marquee Intrusion if anyone was seriously surveying the scene, but everyone was immersed in his or her own Marquee experience.

Almost everyone.

T noticed her strapless dress had slipped down to an almost inappropriate level–then she noticed that a guy standing a few feet away had also noticed and continued to unabashedly stare and grin even after she had readjusted her apparel. She shot him a glance that said, “You are testing my gag reflex.” While a glare of death can sometimes be interpreted as sultry, there’s really nothing ambiguous about a pre-puke face. He continued staring. Since T wasn’t about to follow through and pull the trigger in the middle of Marquee, we decided it was time to leave.

Though Marquee wasn’t quite the scene we were accustomed to, like so much of New York, I walked away thinking, “I could get used to this.”

My efforts to check out the New York bar scene have been contained to swanky places like Sway. Realizing this wasn’t hardcore enough, I decided to double my efforts, stepping way out of my comfort zone to check out a traditional Irish pub. This is how I ended up at Swift on East 4^th street between Bowery and Lafayette, known as one of the best places in the city to down a Guinness. Swift is just far away enough from the SoHo zone to attract a truly diverse crowd, without the tribal feel of the East Village places. The space is the definition of an old-time alehouse. You enter to see a long, winding bar, exposed brink, antique booths, beer on tap, comfort food on a black board and chalk menu, and most intriguing, an intricate wall mural of books and ghosts that looks like it could’ve been painted in the 1700s.

The pub’s named for Irish Jonathan Swift (you know, the guy who wrote Gulliver’s Travels, a book which gave my bizarre dreams about being in a world of tiny people from age six to eight). There’s the rowdy front room which the bar jaggedly sprawls through and a larger back room with picnic tables, ideal for parties of six or more. The bar’s renowned for its antique feel but not-antique sound system. Post-midnight, music was blasting at that perfect level – loud enough to dance wildly but not so loud that you couldn’t carry on complex conversations. In short, I discovered that bars were good places for meeting people. Shocker, I know. Here are some of the other bar etiquette ‘do and don’ts’ I picked up along the way:

DO order shots and beers at the same time while you have the bartender’s attention.

DON’T order tap beer in rowdy settings (higher chance of spillage than bottled beer).

DO offer to buy girls drinks at the bar or assist them in getting the bartender’s attention.

DON’T monopolize bar space if you’re not ordering. It’s not nice.

DON’T give up a bar chair/stool if you’ve managed to score one.

DO let it double as a storage facility for all your friends’ jackets.

DON’T dance on the bar, even if so inclined.

DO give feedback via tip.

DON’T eat the peanuts.

DO make a night of it and order bar food.

DO do shooters. Every bar has its own kind. Immerse yourself in the local culture.

DO buy your bartender shots. They appreciate the gesture.

DON’T hit on the bartender.

DO pay in cash to keep track of spending.

DON’T, if paying by card, forget to close your tab.

DO stake your claim on potential mates by making sure you’re the one to make out with them first.

DON’T do this in public.

The move my girlfriend pulled involved her and the cute guy we’d been talking to “going to the ATM to get cash.” I had no idea I’d just been ditched and kept pondering, “What’s taking them so long?”

Bar rules.

I’m still learning.

After nearly two months of avoiding the New York nightlife scene, I succumbed this past weekend to a night out on the town. I learned that Upstairs was closed (on a Friday night – odd!) so we subsequently ended up at the Eldridge, heralded as the newest, smallest, best thing since Bungalow 8.

Is it just me or are New York places shrinking?

It’s like opening those Russian dolls which always have a smaller one inside. That’s been my experience with nightlife. Each new locale gets increasingly tinier, as well as increasingly far away from Chelsea.

Having been so out of the loop, I had no idea where we were going and why what seemed like your average LES bar was being so strict at the door. Unsurprisingly this door, which Steve Lewis called “tighter than a Donald Trump pre-nup,” is a point of pride. Bottle service is not required, but with the Eldridge offering cocktails from $20 - $40, bottles may seem like a bargain for the first time in your life.

Clever.

When I entered I saw a sax player, lots of exposed stone, and somewhat out of place, festive balloons. I became convinced that the ‘real bar’ was downstairs and tried to descend until I was stopped by a cocktail waitress. Apparently, there is no downstairs. The Eldridge is that small and relaxed – to the extent that I assumed some sort of havoc must be taking place in a mosh pit underground.

There is no trashy, hidden dance floor here, so I naturally found myself comparing the place to Goldbar. The difference is that here they’re into wood (the membership tokens are hunks of wood, the décor is wood, even the business card is two ply cherry) instead of golden skulls. The atmosphere was more subdued, not sparkly like Goldbar, which in wearing a muted t-shirt, I appreciated.

Relaxed is good.

Not too crowded is good.

Even though I’m often allergic to live music, the jazz was good, especially since the DJ expertly upped the energy with some more commercial tracks as the night progressed.

Everything I read about the Eldridge proved true in retrospect. Facts:

1. It’s Matt Levine’s baby.

2. The exclusivity puts Bungalow in its prime to shame.

3. Yes, there is a $650k glass-enclosed wall of unopened, gold-plated Armand de Brignac champagne, all of which apparently appeared in a Jay-Z video.

4. Yes, there are celebrities everywhere. On the night I attended, only an embarrassingly sloppy Jaslene from America’s Next Top Model and a few socialites whose names I can’t remember, but the club’s ‘been here’ list is impressive.

5. They keep it remarkably pleasant and uncrowned.

I’d read about a butler service which I didn’t experience first hand, although I’m not doubting its existence. A lot of bloggers have been hating on the ‘doucheyness’ of this place - the strict door policy and over-the-top exclusivity.

I get it.

Yet these haters forget that a lot of people crave the experience of being curbside hopefuls. It makes nightlife more like a game. It’s the same as the thrill of going out pre-legitimate ID, when you never knew if you’d have the best night of you’re life or be called out by the bouncer, sent home, and disgraced.

If you’re nostalgic for this excitement and unpredictability, trying to talk your way into the Eldridge is the right activity for you.