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.

The Plaza, known primarily as a mid-town tourist venue and home to the delightful brat Eloise, seems to want a slice of the city’s nightlife party pie. In an operation that involved tenting off their lobby bar with heavy velvet curtains and installing a doorman and DJ, the Plaza now hosts its own mini lounge, seeped in darkness, elegance and plush fabrics. Currently, scattered hotel guests and large groups from New York’s nightlife circuit (imported by promoters who are selling the Plaza as a ‘pre-party’ spot) stake out on opposite sides of the venue. Busboys in tuxes navigate between them. The atmosphere is somewhat surreal, reminding me of the private, chronically un-crowded hotel bars in London, like the Sanderson’s impenetrable Purple Bar.

A major plus of the Plaza opposed to other lounges, is that the music remains at a tasteful level, making conversation with fellow humans an actual possibility. There’s also something undeniably magical about a New York staple building like the Plaza Hotel: the marble floors, the shiny bellman, the buttoned uniforms, the quality furnishings, the sparkling chandeliers. One feels privileged to be here, and for Manhattan ladies who like to dress up and dawn jewelry, this is the perfect place to debut a cocktail number.

The Plaza lounge is a new nightlife initiative, quiet at the moment with promise of becoming a bustling pre-clubbing staple. My experience was so calming, serene, and in stark contrast to normal pre-parties, that I’m sort of hoping the place doesn’t get crazy anytime soon.

Photo Tour below:

The lone interior doorman pulls back the red velvet rope. White tuxedos? Yes, please.

A clubbing crew enjoys drinks before heading to Upstairs.

Impressive glowing décor.

The Ladies Bathroom flower arrangement. A few giant steps above anything you’d see at a typical nightlife venue.

The even more gigantic entry-way flower arrangement, complete with overarching wreath, which is several times the size of an actual human being. [Note the person seated in the corner as a point of reference.]

I recently found myself at One, the restaurant aside Gansevoort in Meatpacking which is the promoter pre-party dinner hub of the city. To explain what that means, you’ve gotta know that promoters often cut deals with New York City restaurants, bringing their hot entourage to eat for free before attending whatever club they’re herding people to that evening.

Why This Works: A Flow Chart (keep in mind I haven’t made a flow chart since eighth grade):

Generally speaking, it’s a promoter’s job to have hot chicks and guys who’ll buy tables at their beck and call –> For the most part, guys who buy bottle service work all the time (allowing them to afford bottle service) and being hard workers, don’t have a time to socially micromanage a glamorous entourage. –> Since partying at a table alone without a glamorous entourage is considered faux-pas and a major waste of alcohol, the hard workers decide to team up with a promoter who is, for all practical purposes, a species of middleman. –> On the opposite end of the spectrum, those who make up the glamorous entourage most likely can’t afford a table of their own, hence their decision to work with a promoter. –> To further entice the glamorous entourage to come out with them, promoters will offer perks like limo rides or free dinner at a trendy NYC restaurant pre-clubbing. –> Trendy NYC restaurants need good-looking patrons into order to retain their aforementioned status as trendy. –> Since a promoter already has a glamorous entourage that can’t afford trendy dinners at their disposal, the promoter offers their encourage to eat and drink for free beforehand at [insert trendy restaurant here] –> The restaurant gives away free food to the promoter and their group in exchange for what is essentially, product placement PR with humans. –> Theoretically, everybody wins.

I’m sure many variations of this formula exist, but this is its core function as I understand it. Many restaurants (more than I can list) work with promoters in this capacity, but I don’t think any participate as much as Gansevoort’s next door neighbor, One.

One has really uncomfortable seats and tables, insanely loud music, and mediocre food. At some promotional restaurant gigs, you actually see a menu and order whatever you choose. At most however, menus are a never presented and the server just brings out select appetizers and main courses for everyone to share family-style while boozing people up on a lot of champagne. A sample promotional dinner at One consists of:

-Unlimited wine and champagne (dangerous)

-A shared Caeser-like salad (pretty good)

-A shared quesadilla (pretty gross)

-A shared appetizer pizza (pretty satisfying)

-An odd chicken tapas thing (which I think I don’t like) and

-Shared steak with French fries and ravioli for the main course.

Not too shabby.

My qualm with One has nothing to do with the food, but rather the music level, which is so absurdly high you’d think you were eating in the middle of a concert or club, which essentially, you are. Promoter dinners take place at 10 or 10:30 since everyone has to be in the club around midnight. One, which doubles as a bar (hence the importance they be perceived as ‘trendy’) starts cranking up the volume to make the place feel like a discotheque at around the same time the promoter tables are sitting down to eat. You therefore often find yourself in the completely surreal experience of eating in silence with thirteen other people, listening to deafeningly loud party music. Carrying on a conversation is an impossibility and on my last visit, the unthinkable happened.

At 11:30 One went black. Black as in they turned all the lighting off, even in the dining area. The restaurant was darker than the inside of your average club, because at least your average club has fancy strobe machines and an expensive lighting system. Literally, none of us could see. Not each other. Not our food. It was like some creepy horror movie in which you suddenly find yourself at a vampires banquet in a dungeon.

I thought the whole thing was a joke and waited for them to play ‘Thriller’ and then turn the ambiance lighting back up – but no. It was a big finger in the face to anyone who was still eating, and even the non-promoter diners seemed pretty weirded out. I mean, this is New York. A lot of people sit down to dinner at 11:30pm. And I understand that One likes to think of itself as a lounge and therefore wants to create a party atmosphere to sell drinks to wasted people in ASAP, but why then bother having a restaurant?

More nightlife mysteries, unsolved.

I thoroughly enjoy admitting when I’m wrong. Maybe because it happens so often. Everyone ready to time travel? Good. Let’s go way back to October of last year, when I had this to say about the swanky, closet-size, SoHo lounge Goldbar:

In broad terms, Goldbar pisses me off. The door’s extremely tight and the place is never packed. They’re super snoody and won’t let patrons take pictures inside, and no, I don’t think this is to protect the artwork (I really doubt they’re hanging paintings that valuable in place where people come to get shitfaced and often climb/fall into the walls).

Hmm. Several months later, I opted for a softer tone:

After not loving Gold Bar my first few encounters, I actually had a positive experience there this weekend. This might have had something to do with the fact it was our last stop of the evening (we arrived at 3:30 AM) and everyone had easily drunk a bottle of vodka a head since we left the house.

Not really a ringing endorsement but okay.

The ‘gold skull closet’ as I fondly call it was actually FULL (I guess that’s what happens when you go out on Saturday instead of Monday night), the music was FUN (Billy Joel? Yes, please!) and the bathrooms, which I used for the first time, were clean and spacious enough for me to stretch out and change my clothes (don’t ask why I was changing clothes).

As if we weren’t retard enough, my girlfriend ordered me a specialty alcoholic concoction called the Gold Rush. It tasted like a Long Island Iced Tea on crack. When I inquired about its ingredients, I received a slurred response that it was whisky, bourbon, and honey, all made ‘bearable’ by a giant ice cube in the middle. I took two sips and wisely professed to my friend,

“This is throw up. This is throw up.”

I think what I was trying to express is that the drink was both vomit inducing while also tasting like liquid sour patch kids gone bad. It’s a miracle no one projectile puked that night.

Months later again, I’m here to come full circle and give Goldbar two tequila happy thumbs up. I found myself hanging out there both this past weekend and the one before. I’m here to say, on the record, that this place is a good time.

I partied there on a Sunday night and found what I judged to be the sexiest crowd out that night in the city. The flocks of female supermodels seemed relaxed instead of rigid. Men weren’t busy boasting bottle service to impress, they were actually pulling out cute dance moves and managing to look like homo-sapiens genuinely enjoying themselves instead of bankers desperate to prove that they know how to party.

Since Goldbar shimmers with a lounge-y feel, that hard-core club vibe that often makes intimacy, listening or thinking impossible, isn’t there. You are therefore more prone to talk to some one instead of just making vulgar “I’m checking you out” insinuations with your eyes across a crowded dance floor.

I’ve been getting excited since someone in the rumor mill has been churning out news that the owners of Goldbar and Cain would be opening “Cain Downtown” here in the SoHo area. Naturally, I was thrilled about the birth of another downtown club I could attend, get wrecked in, and walk home from. It only took me an entire year to warm up to Goldbar! Now that the skull closet and I are friends, I had high hopes for my relationship with Jamie and Jayma’s next downtown venture.

Sadly, it doesn’t seem like this is going to materialize. Apparently, the locals are hell-bent against Cain becoming their new neighbor. And frankly who can blame them? I wouldn’t want an establishment that was known for go-go dancers in zebra bikinis and for pushing people too drunk to see straight onto the street at four AM as my neighbor either.

Tragic story for all of us who were hoping to save cab fare to Chelsea by hanging out downtown.

Miss Model Behavior’s the new nightlife writer for theBlaqlist.com. Feel free to post any nightlife comments or questions on our forum or contact her at MissModelBehavior@theBlaqlist.com

This weekend at the urge of many friends I decided to check out Sway, a long-established lounge on Spring street between Greenwich and Hudson in an effort to extend my nightlife knowledge beyond hardcore clubs. My consensus: Sway is definitely a breath of fresh air if you’re usually frequenting places like Pacha and Pink Elephant.

My experience at clubs has been that it’s primarily about who you know. You get in through pre-established contacts, congregate at a table with pre-established contacts, and assume any stranger who talks to you is a freak without their own crowd. Bars however seem to work in the reverse, it’s all about who you don’t know. Since there’s no bottle service, people are less likely to split off into table groups, creating a social free-for-all. So if you’re interested in meeting someone outside your extended friends’ network, Sway might be the kind of place you’d want to hit up on a weekend.

CitySearch wrote, “This is a huge meat market: the volume of numbers exchanged exceeds the hefty bank accounts of most of the male patrons.” This is utterly true. While no one’s wearing the slut tops you see at nightclubs, they might as well be. Everyone’s mentally undressing each other. This didn’t bother me since the first time in ages I found myself actually meeting people I might want to talk to at bars. The entire establishment was remarkably sleaze free with zero B&T. It looked like a frat house of young, healthy, athletic people…and interestingly enough, a lot of Southerners.

Why the name Sway? The place has been around for over a decade, and my girlfriend divulged that when it opened it couldn’t get a cabaret license.

Cabaret license? I did some research and New York Channel Thirteen’s website explained that believe it or not, it is against the law to have dancing in most New York City clubs and bars. Establishments that do not hold one of the city’s few cabaret licenses are breaking the law if they allow their patrons to dance; if caught, they can be subject to fines and shutdowns. Naturally, this has more to do with the side effects of dancing (brawls, drinking, noise, rowdiness in residential neighborhoods) than the actual act itself. Sway had trouble securing this license years ago, so for many months patrons could sway but not dance.

All the fun takes place at a long bar which opens into a small, sweaty dance floor and extends back into what looks like a mini mosque. There are intricate tiles, Moroccan designs and extremely slippery floors (so make sure you don’t hydroplane when sliding up to whoever you want to talk to.) There’s no cover charge to get in and the music stuck to upbeat 80ies, throwing in the occasional 50 Cent for couples who wanted an excuse to grind with each other. If you’re looking to meet someone of the opposite sex for a spring fling, I’d definitely recommend this place.

Miss Model Behavior’s the new nightlife writer for theBlaqlist.com. Feel free to post any nightlife comments or questions on our forum or contact her at MissModelBehavior@theBlaqlist.com