Saturday night I dressed up as if I were going to the Oscars since a friend of mine was having a black tie themed birthday party. I’ve written before about my strong dislike of costume requirements when going out. Isn’t being a girl with a thimble size closet, pathetic salary, trying to look modelesque in one of the most fashion forward cities in the world hard enough without additional complications?!

So usually I pooh-pooh events that require I waste extra brain cells figuring out how to not look not like a moron while also incorporating a theme like 80s, Egyptian or toga. Yet when the invitation for a black tie birthday party rolled around, I squealed in delight like an over-sugared child. Practically all women have a collection of prom / bridesmaids / wedding / opera gowns which we’ve only got to cavalier around in once. Any opportunity to debut them once again should be taken advantage of.

This story would have ended swimmingly if New York nights weren’t so utterly unpredictable. My initial plans for the evening ended up being hijacked and I found myself on a completely different social trajectory than a priorly anticipated.

Translation: I never made it to my themed birthday party uptown and was dressed in black tie all night for no reason.

This fashion mistake however, has a happy ending. While I remained bitter about detouring from my initial plan, the group of friends who kidnapped me insisted we go eat dinner at La Esquina. I’d munched on late-night tacos at this joint many times, but never gotten there early enough to consume an official meal at their secret, underground, overhyped restaurant.

All the fabulous rumors about the place proved true.

Once the restaurant’s makeshift bouncer radios down and gives you the go-ahead, you snake down a dark staircase and long corridor, until walking through the kitchen. The light is blinding and pots and pans clatter. Then you enter an underground space that clearly got an M.B.A. in ambience. It’s dim, candles glow, a fireplace crackles, the walls are gray and stone but unlike many restaurants that go for this theme, La Esquina didn’t feel like a Medieval dungeon.

I know technically this place is considered “over,” but to me, the guests looked swankier than most of the people I see on your average night out. Going to a place like this isn’t really about the food, but what I consumed was delicious anyway and the service was above average. Best of all, with the seductive lighting and underground yet elegant feel, La Esquina is one of the few places we could’ve gone where despite the fact that I was dressed to sing a solo at Lincoln Center, I fit in quite perfectly. This joint seem to encapsulate what’s great about New York. While everything’s superficial, nothing is as it truly appears. The outside of La Esquina looks like a dumpy diner.

The inside is mysteriously unexpected: A place where you could see anyone, anything could happen and you feel trendy in both a ball down and ripped jeans.

Rumors are out that Serge Becker is opening La Esquina in Miami at the Mondrian Hotel and Residences on a sunny, seaside, modern terrace - a venture that could not be more different from his current restaurant. How can both these institutions even share the name La Esquina? I guess we’ll find out. In the meantime, I’m grateful places like this exist in Manhattan so that even a foolish girl accidentally wearing an evening gown doesn’t have to stick out like a sore thumb.

Upstairs on Broadway and Spring a.k.a. that secret clubhouse above Café Bari in SoHo, gave wasted downtowners, celebrities, and underage models a private space in which to party till dawn. Known as a ‘late night venue,’ they ran a super selective yet hassle free door (no lines!), and provide needed relief from Meatpacking and the 27th street strip. I’ve been an Upstairs frequenter and fan since its inception, and the fact that it’s become inevitably more commercial, especially on weekends, doesn’t detract from the fun.

There’s no snobby décor, so you actually can chill out. There are no cracked out cocktail waitresses teetering around in heels. The place just feels like someone’s ratty living room that you have the privilege of shaking your booty in all night long. It’s comfortable. And there are no door people screaming for you to “clear the sidewalk” or coat check girls abducting your jacket behind your back. And, the best part, as I wrote months ago in an article entitled Ode to Clubs With Food:

At around 3:30 A.M. Upstairs serves snacks. Mini hamburgers, pizzas, and the best freakin’ French fries with sauces that put McDonalds to shame. These snacks unquestionably save my life. Not only do they start soaking up the excess alcohol in my stomach making me feel more like a human being and less like a swirling ballerina in a perverse city version of the Nutcracker, but they’re delicious and Tapas-size so you never end up overeating … So this entry is my love ode, in incorrect poetic structure, to clubs with food. Because I don’t feel I ever fully appreciated this phenomenon.

My evil genius was onto something. Mere months later, Upstairs launched ‘Downstairs’ - not a bar or extension of the club, but a classic diner. In the ‘late night’ tradition of the venue, the diner’s open from 11 PM to 7 AM, so people who like to eat post-party will have someplace to go other than French Roast and L’Express. The quirk? Danny A., Matthew Isaacs and Jordan Harris decided to pay homage to New York nightlife by naming everything on the menu after Manhattan clubs and promoters, past and present.

The Marquee Mac “N” Cheese

Matt Assantwich (after promoter Matthew Assante): His food form translates into a chicken and mozzarella white wrap with a touch of chipotle mayo toasted to perfection

The Beatrice Pancakes: With poached pears marinated in red wine sauce with mascarpone cheese

Is anyone drooling yet?

I almost wish they didn’t keep vampire hours so I could enjoy the food sober. Almost everything comes with fries and the crowd favorite (which the doorman was eating in the middle of the street on my way out last night) seems to be the Mike St Pierre Steak Sandwich, which comes with sautéed onions and avocado.

Finally! A light at the end of the hangover tunnel!

Naturally, I remain insulted that I didn’t get a Model Behavior dipping sauce or onion ring named after me, but that’s okay. Despite my love of mini burgers, I guess it’s just not my time to be immortalized through diner food. Check it out and enjoy.

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