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

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.

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

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

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

Party foul! Friday night hotspot club 1Oak’s elegant downstairs bathrooms flooded. Staffers tried to keep the mess under control as quickly as possible with wet vacs but for ladies who didn’t want their $500 shoes destroyed wading to the toilet, the one bathroom upstairs was the only source of relief. Since it was a rainy night, people weren’t leaving the club to party elsewhere, so the crowds continued to amass. And if the potty problem wasn’t big enough, later the cops and fire marshal showed up, noting the party was exaggeratedly over capacity.

The next day, I found myself outside 1Oak and saw a rowdy patron literally catapulted onto the sidewalk. He flew like a human cannon ball from one bouncer’s arms to another’s as he flailed wildly causing a ruckus and screaming something about his Amex card inside. Doorman Ben had to put his hands on the man’s shoulders and soothe his mad sputtering, “What’s your name, sir? Tell me your name, sir?” Soon the Wild One was calmed and breathing heavily like a post-tantrum child. Talk about people skills! That’s why door people in New York make a well-deserved fortune.

So despite a weekend of hullabaloo activity, yesterday’s Blackbook party at 1Oak went off without a hitch. The door was tranquil, the crowd was gorgeous, the bar was open – what more could anyone need? As we positioned ourselves on a banquet to people-watch, my friend Safari whispered, ‘this whole place feels like a London club tonight. Look at these girls! All Bohemian chic.’ And she was right. There were many vintage dresses, bangs, large bags, sunglasses and lots and lots of tights. The music jolted from Spice Girls to Madonna to 80ies classics to rock without anyone seeming to care. Spirits were bright and my only compliant is that they closed the open bar four minutes before schedule (yes, we were those cheap-ass people who were counting.)

My prediction is that after what I imagine is a fire marshal warning, 1Oak’s already Fort Knox doors are going to get even tighter. For anyone who can manage, this locale is absolutely worth checking out. Not only did they spend the equivalent of small nation’s treasury on decor, it has a swanky, fun vibe and dangerously comfortable banquettes. The black and white checkered floor lends an air of elegance; the expensive-looking wooden walls are engraved with romantic script. A fireplace crackles and luminous paintings of blank-faced children and horses span the inner room.

If Kiss & Fly and Goldbar gave birth to a very lavish hybrid space it would look something like this. Or in my words:

“If clubs could metamorphosize into men, I’d want to date 1Oak.”

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

Many New Yorkers like to nurse their hangover with more liquor, the logic having to do something with ‘keeping you liver working.’ The exact science of this theory I cannot explain, but it’s popular among Manhattan’s expat crew: Italians, Frenchies and Brazilians who all seem to body surf their way into Felix Sunday afternoons to keep daylight just as jovial as nighttime at the club.

Felix, located in SoHo on West Broadway and Grand, is the thumping heart of a much larger Sunday circle of sin. The rounds include nearby Novecento, Café Noir, Diva and Cipriani’s Downtown. And for foreigners, there’s a zero percent chance of not running into someone you know. It’s an exercise in incest so be prepared to hear a lot of joyous shouts of recognition in a lot of different languages.

I’d stopped through Felix on a handful of Sunday afternoons, but it wasn’t until yesterday that I engaged in ‘the Felix tradition,’ a full day’s worth of productivity lost inside this French bistro/bar. Below I’ve documented my experience.

2:15 – I arrive. The place isn’t a mosh pit yet because the hardcore partiers are still sleeping. Every table however, is booked and the wait spills out into the sidewalk. Great.

2:18 – I wiggle toward the bar and see some French friends. They suggest I put my name down for a table ASAP as they were just told it’s a forty-five minute wait. I think to myself ‘that’s absurd’ and decide once my friends arrive to convince them we should go to one of the eighteen other perfectly delicious brunch places in SoHo. I approach the intimidating female maitre’de (she’ll scream at you just for darting a hopeful smile her way) and in the bar crowd almost trip over someone’s small dog.

2:20 – As I avoid nose diving into someone’s drink, I hear the owner of the leash I’m entangled in calling out to the dog I almost killed, ‘Cocoa. Cocoa’

I slowly double-take. I know a dog name Cocoa…

I look up to see the leash leads to the hand of my uncle who’s at the bar next to me enjoying a scotch. WTF?

2:42 – I’m still awkwardly chatting with my uncle while I wait for my friend Jewel and her sister to show up. They’re thirty-minutes late, something to do with a frozen bottle of champagne exploding. Me: ‘But why were you opening champagne at two in the afternoon?’ Her: ‘We thought it would get us moving?’

3:00 – Our entire party has arrived but we’re still waiting on a table. Waiters attempt to kick out patrons who are just nursing drinks. An odd French man-couple sits across from each other passing back and forth white plastic sunglasses, which they each wear for five minutes before switching off again. They seem to think they’re super trendy. Weird.

3:23 – We’re joyous as we finally sit. The problem is I now have to run a few block home to let someone in my apartment. Jewel promises to save my seat. I look at the steaming plates of Eggs Benedict and bubbling soups, drooling.

4:00 – I rush back to Felix while receiving texts from Jewel like: “They are being aggressive! Trying to put us in one table and steal your seat / the other table. We’re trying to hold down the fort!” and later, “They keep coming to ask what the status is. I made up that you went to buy cigarettes. They were like, ‘those better be some amazing cigarettes.’”

Tables and Felix are so hard to come by on weekends that most diners develop some sort of strategy (usually the only strategy is to order more and more food) to keep a hold on seats until the evening dancing hours. We were no exception.

4:31 – I come back to a table full of Mojito pitchers. Jewel and her sister are analyzing the crowd and guessing people’s nationalities. We hone in on a beautiful boy with the thickest hair we’ve ever seen and a Patrick Dempsy look alike by the door. This is by far the best people watching in Manhattan.

4:33 – Starving, I order a $17 Croquet Madame. Rip off!

4:45 – Did I say rip off? This is the best Croquet Madame of my life. It’s so incredibly cheesy, what is this cheese!!! This egg is perfectly runny. Take $27 for it. I’m trying to convince myself not to order another.

5:24 – About six friends have pulled up chairs around our tiny table and we’re now on pitcher five…six?…of mojitos.

5:57 – Traditional Brazilian dance music is now blasting. Our waiter has vanished. More mojito pitchers still manage to be ordered.

6:03 – Recognize Italian friends of mine in the sidewalk party outside. Bang furiously on the window in an attempt to get their attention. Other random men on the sidewalk think I’m motioning to them. They now crudely hit on us through the window using their tongues as a seduction tool. Gross.

6:27 – Italian friends finally notice my attention getting attempts and battle the congestion up front to reach our strategically held table. More chairs are pulled up. The female maître’de comes over in a hissy fit and rearranges our table so the over-capacity restaurant’s not such a body lock. We comply.

6:41 – I’m officially drunk.

6:46 – Listen to my Italian friend tell me a rumor that fifteen years ago when Felix first opened and was patronized by Wall Street bankers, they used to put half a pill of Uppers in a table’s first mojito pitcher to get them rowdy and ordering ten more. That’s how mojitos became so famous.

Me: Whaaaat?

Him: No one knows if it’s true.

7:20 – I realize it’s 7:20. I have dinner uptown at 8.

7:21 – Attempt to get one of the dancing waiters to bring us our bill.

7:28 – The bill’s finally delivered and completely illegible. We send it back to them and ask them to decode.

7:31 – We receive a readable version of the bill. Food $69. OK, reasonable. Drink: $230 Total, three-hundred and fifty something. Whaaaat?

7:35 – Re-gather Brazilian friends who ordered an extra three pitchers on our tab (FYI pitchers are sixty-something dollars. Good to know.) American Express cards and cash, the only acceptable forms of payment, are tossed into the middle of our table.

7:41 – With a lot less cash on my hands, I slither through the now jumping crowd and make it out of the sweaty restaurant onto the sidewalk alive.

7:45 – I catch an uptown train and upon sitting in the subway, realize I’m irrevocably more wasted than I was on Saturday night.

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

Lollipop’s a hybrid bar-club on 61st and Madison. While in no way a destination hot spot, get the right group of friends together and you can have a stellar night there on a weekends. Be forewarned that the place is shoe box level small. It’s sort of like a hallway turned disco that you have to slither through to get to the back bar.

The people problem’s a double-edged sword because if Lollipop’s empty the vibe’s not that fun, if it’s crowded it can feel like a miniature mosh pit. This is where alcohol intake comes in. Let loose and drink enough and you won’t mind bumping shoulders (and other body parts) with the crowd. Girls can also hop up on the couches and tables to dance and get some oxygen.

Suits swarm the bar after work but late night it’s a stereotype free for all. Don’t miss the cool color-sensor-screen thing at the entrance. It tracks your movement and makes you look like one of those now cliché iPod billboards.

Why the place is called Lollipop remains unclear, but it never fails to make me think of the unbelievably annoying Lollipop song below, which then is usually stuck in my head anywhere from hours to days. Just in case you’re not feeling nuts enough already, I’ve provided it here. If you decide to give Lollipop a lick, make sure to sing this as you skip in.

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