The Premium Life

I absolutely love and miss living downtown. There’s so much history in the Financial District – and the area has been completely revamped since I moved to the Upper East Side. Aside from my great love for the South Street Seaport, the cobblestoned passageway known as Stone Street, two blocks south of Wall Street, is not only lined with some awesome restaurants, but it has one of the BEST outdoor happy hours in NYC. In warmer weather, the street is lined with picnic tables and benches – all of the restaurants and bars cater to the Wall Street happy hour set. If you’re a woman on the prowl, I guarantee you there is no better pick-up spot for intelligent, hard-working, deep-pocketed guys who look freaking amazing in their suits! I used to frequent this happy hour at least twice a week and though I never really met any guys who sat high-above the assbag status, I did catch onto the common practice of dropping their wedding bands into their back pocket once they met a gold-digging Jersey girl who could be fun for the night.

I took a trip back down to Stone Street two weeks ago and discovered a few new spots: I will divulge on Vintry first and foremost, and then explore Gild Hall Hotel’s quaint bar and the stunning Bar Seven Five in the brand new, gorgeous Andaz Hotel on Water and Wall Streets!

I received an email update from Thrillist a few months ago announcing the opening of the new Stone Street boîte, Vintry Wine & Whiskey. They called it a “downtown ode to upscale imbibing” and I knew it had to be in the Wall Street area. I immediately forwarded the email to a few of my downtown girls and we all agreed that we needed to pay a visit to this place as soon as we pay off our holiday debt. After reading all of the reviews, I simply couldn’t wait to pop into the newest venture from Peter Poulakakos, the guy who brought you every other place on Stone Street and Front Street, including Ulysses, Adrienne’s and Nelson Blue.

I arrived at Vintry 45 minutes before my friend drunkenly showed up because, apparently, being late is the new black. I plopped down next to a big dude who was all alone and looking for some company. I am NOT that girl. He tried chatting me up and I immediately gave “Peter Griffin” the drop dead glare and stood up in my 4” platforms that make me 6’3” in an attempt to make him feel like even more of a midget douche. Go home to your wife…

As I awaited the arrival of Miss I-Drank-Too-Much-Tequila-At-Happy-Hour-And-Forgot-About-You, I scanned the bar, looking for potential suitors for my friend. The bar is made from a rare African redwood — the molding above and below is hand-carved maple. The marble table tops, port-colored custom leather stools and vine-y stool legs added to the African forest feel. For a Thursday night, it wasn’t packed with the usual happy hour crowd of Wall Street guys. I’d say it’s more of a date spot, a place you’d go with your boss to discuss a deal or a place you’d take your office husband or wife. The bartenders, who were very attentive and outgoing, seemed to wonder why I was all alone and offered to introduce me to some of the regulars. I declined, but at least they tried! I continued to fiddle with my phone and the menu.

Vintry offers 80 wines by the taste, glass or bottle, with an additional 350 on the bottle list. Scottish, American, Japanese, Canadian and Irish whiskies make up its whiskey selection and there are over 100 whiskeys offered as either a one- or two-ounce pours. The whiskey cocktails start at $10. Its tapas-style, small-plate menu includes veal meatballs, lobster-stuffed mushrooms, lamb spareribs, a dry aged rib-eye, cheese and cured meats. I was tempted to order some food, but I had no idea when my friend would show up and if she’d even want to stay since it was couple city.

A few minutes later, she burst through the door like a bat-out-of-hell. Her makeup was smeared all over her face. She looked like she had just gotten out of bed from a rough tryst with a European man. I contemplated ordering another glass of the Pinot, but opted to go home.

Next time I will either show up on a date or with a friend who won’t stand me up for $3 margaritas!

“Darling, I love you, but give me Park Avenue!”

As I was crossing over Park Avenue on Friday night I had that god-awful, Green Acres song stuck in my head – as if I’ve ever even seen that show! I was skipping along, super excited to meet my friend at the newly revamped Mark Hotel on 77th Street and Madison Avenue – I did mention this renovation a few months ago – it is finally open!

The Mark Hotel is an original 1927 building, but the old-school-styled set was recently revamped and merged Art Deco glamour with modern furnishings, lots of marble and beautiful artwork. The Mark turned to renowned French designer Jacques Grange, whose clients have included some of the world’s greatest and most exacting style-setters, among them Yves St. Laurent, Valentino, Karl Lagerfeld and Caroline, Princess of Monaco.
Grange has unleashed the full range of his talents, creating public spaces that engage and delight, and private rooms and suites that calm and soothe. In addition, he not only oversaw and designed furnishings, he collaborated with the Parisian design gallerist Pierre Passebon to commission a host of objets d’art, furniture and lighting fixtures, specially created by celebrated artists and artisans, including Ron Arad, Vladimir Kagan, Mattia Bonetti, Paul Mathieu, Eric Schmitt, Rachel Howard, Todd Eberle, among others.
The hotel has layered one-of-a-kind offerings, including a full service salon by iconic Frederic Fekkai called CHIC by Frederic, a state-of-the-art gym and a restaurant by the famed Chef Jean-Georges Vongerichten, called The Mark Restaurant. On your way into The Mark Restaurant, you’ll pass through the modern, swirling “cloud” bar at Mark Bar. This place is already a staple with the hoity-toity Park Avenue crowd – and soon to be with my crew as well… Read more »

New York City neighborhoods have gone through more facelifts than Joan Rivers and David Hallesehoff combined. And many New Yorkers protest, (yes I consider myself a new Yorker after living here for over a decade), that if one more Starbucks or Tasty Delight (non-fat non-flavor yogurt) shop opens up, our unique city will resemble a suburban strip mall.

We must support the small mom and pop stores to keep our city…well, New York City. And that is exactly what I did. When my boyfriend and I were having a sweet craving a few nights ago, ironically, we bundled up to venture out for a pint of cold creamy Haggen Dazs. However, I quickly suggested an alternative, “hey, let’s try the new ice cream shop on the corner—it just opened…. I think it’s called Holy Cow.”

As we entered, a fresh baked doughnut aroma wafted over us and I knew my suggestion was already more thrilling than the local bodega.

The young girl Kate (or should I refer to her as the ice cream expert) was sweet and had a sense of humor. She was patient as we started sampling a number of the choices and she was proud of all the different flavors. After sampling Black Hotel bottom pie, coffee mud pie, and chocolate chip peanut butter yogurt…we were sold!

(I know ice cream store etiquette is usually one or two samples tops, but it wasn’t exactly a hot summer day, so we took some liberties!)

She packed up two helpings for us… one ice cream and one frozen yogurt. In the short time we were there, I learned the history of the shop and about the owner’s long time passion for making homemade doughnuts and creating original ice cream flavors.

It was on our way out that the doughnuts caught Travis’ attention and stopped him in his sweet tooth tracks.

There was an array of doughnuts dressed in every topping combination you could imagine from chocolate glazed with peanut butter chips to butterscotch with fruit loops.

Oh My.

“What is your favorite?” we drooled.

“Caramel dipped coconut.”

Yes please.

Against all odds and seemingly, all logic, Holy Cow opened in the dead of winter. But as any ice-cream lover knows, there is no special season for ice-cream, only special shops that satisfy your cravings any time of the year.

A few months ago I walked into the office on a Monday morning to find a very chipper coworker at my desk (I wanted to punch her in the face).

“So a friend of mine from high school just got hired as the Wine Director for Danny Meyer’s new restaurant in the Gramercy Park Hotel. I’m going to the opening! You should write this place up!”

“Danny Meyer is HUGE,” I replied. “What’s the name of his new place?”

“Maialino — can’t wait to tell you all about it!”

Of course I felt a twinge of jealousy, knowing that she was going to the opening of this restaurant — I knew it would be a hit, even in bitter NYC. My boyfriend lives across the street from the Gramercy Park Hotel so I figured I’d make a cameo appearance soon enough. I tried to tell him all about it, but couldn’t remember the name (or how to pronounce it). A few days after the opening we decided to be lazy fools, crossed the street and ventured into Danny Meyer’s first shot at Italian goodness, Maialino, a Roman-style trattoria.

We immediately snagged seats at the bar and began reading the wine list — it’s written, chalkboard-style, above the bar. I’m not a huge lover of Italian wines so I ordered a Soave and the boy stuck with some version of Pinot Noir (perhaps it was a Pinot Noir, I just don’t remember – blame it on the al-al-al-al-alcohol). I caught a glimpse of my coworker’s friend, Wine Director Stephen Mancini, and contemplated asking him for some help with the whites, but I didn’t want my actions reported back to the office. After all, what happens if I call out – uh *cough* SICK. I decided to remain anonymous. (I’m really not as big of a lush as I make myself sound). The wine list is pretty extensive, the all-Italian list features 85 bottles; 18 of those selections are available both by the glass and quartino. The restaurant currently offers six Italian beers all by the bottle – including my fave, Peroni!

The long, walnut bar (which is where we always end up) backs up to three windows, overlooking the famed Gramercy Park (watch out for Julia Roberts). The tables, chairs and barstools are custom-designed walnut, adding to the rustic, Italian feel. The wood-planked floors are made from reclaimed, locally found oak and the blue and white checked tablecloths drape over the tables, adding to the homey atmosphere. In the center of the restaurant is Maialino’s cucina, featuring a salumi, cheese and antipasto station on one side; with a coffee, dessert and bread station on the other.

The Executive Chef, Nick Anderer, hails from Gramercy Tavern.  This is his first Top Chef spot! Though his menu has been awarded two stars by the New York Times and has been hailed from coast-to-coast, I’m not exactly blown away. We went there for brunch a few weeks ago and I had to order three (very altered) meals in order to fill my finicky stomach. I felt like I was in a commercial where the couple goes out to eat dinner AGAIN after their meals at the newest hotspot restaurant – the portions couldn’t stuff a rabbit. I’m a freak when it comes to food, so pay no attention to my dislike of goat cheese, red meat, egg yolks, the other white meat, fish of all kinds, milky substances and dessert. Read more »

Straight out of a scene from Sex and the City, three of my girlfriends and I were wandering down Lexington Avenue, checking out the men in suits. While husband shopping, the most horrific thing that could’ve possibly happened to four girls dressed like classy hookers did occur—we got caught in a torrential downpour. Since all four of us were relatively new to the city, we weren’t sure where to go to wait out the summer monsoon so we wandered into the Bull & Bear Steakhouse bar at the Waldorf-Astoria.

“Do you have any idea how expensive this place is going to be?” My friend Lisa asked.

I scanned the bar that The New York Times called “one of the world’s three greatest, classic bars” and made an executive decision. “Um, this place is packed with older men. We’re like babies to them … I think it’s entirely possible to score some free booze! We’re staying.”

We shook ourselves off like dirty dogs and walked towards the bar where a gentleman not only cleared a space for us and gave us his seats, but he also offered to order our first round of drinks.

“Oscar, get these beautiful ladies whatever they’d like. It’s on me!”

I gave my friends the “I told you so” look and we made ourselves comfortable. The bartender came over and introduced himself to us, his name was Oscar and his partner-in-crime/bartending, Adel, soon followed. “We’re going to get you good and liquored up—be prepared.”

It was 2001 and none of us had “real” jobs, so despite the fact that it was a Tuesday night, we were down for the challenge. To the disapproval of Oscar, I ordered a chardonnay. He suggested I try the Brancott Sauvignon Blanc from New Zealand —this was the beginning of the end for me because I am now beyond obsessed with this wine. I took one sip of this grapefruit-y drink from the gods and it was lights out. My friends ordered the same drink and we settled into our seats and entered into heaven.

The place had a few tourists, but it was mostly older Wall Street/Park Avenue men looking to booze it up after work and avoid their nagging wives and annoying children. A few creepy guys who could’ve been my grandfather began hitting on me. I chatted them up because—quite frankly—I didn’t want to pay for my drinks.

The one gramps leaned in to whisper a sweet nothing into my ear. “Do you know Judy Blume’s sitting on the other side of you?”

What? Judy Blume?! I grew up reading her books! I was thrilled to discover that I was sitting next to Ms. Are You There God, It’s Me, Margaret. After a few drinks I got up the nerve to speak to her—turns out she’s a bit of a regular—I’ve seen her at the B&B multiple times since then. She’s always very sweet and entertaining. After deciding to leave her alone, I turned my attention back to the rest of the bar. There was an older lady in a hat who seemed to know everyone at the bar—she typically wears these hats while sipping on martinis—we dubbed her “Crazy Hat Lady.” There was this total phony of a guy who claims to be Mediterranean royalty, but after googling him I realized it was just the Makers Mark talking. Then I met a guy who said he’d like to set me up with his son, but it turns out he wanted me for himself … and how could I forget about the guy who looked just like Frasier from Cheers! He told me he was going to help me find a job, but he just wanted my phone number—and my friend’s! Read more »

It’s true, one of my closest girlfriends is a brandy and scotch connoisseur. She’s typically the only girl—and hot one—who bellies up to the bar and orders a scotch, neat. Guys are always impressed and this habit has warranted multiple faux marriage proposals. One blustery, winter afternoon she shot me a text, wondering if I wanted to grab a drink with her. Given the fact that it was below freezing and it was Saturday, she wanted to warm up with lots of scotch.

“Where might we find a place down here that has an amazing selection of scotch?” She asked. Did I mention I’m apparently a walking Zagat Guide?

I began scouring for places in TriBeCa—we lived down there and I figured, with Wall Street so close, surely there must be a place downtown that specializes in such manly boozing. After scanning my Zagat Nightlife Guide, I stumbled upon a place called “Brandy Library” and realized I had hit the jackpot!

“According to the website, they even do single-malt scotch tasting every Saturday from 5 to 8 p.m.,” I exclaimed. “Would you be down for that?” Now, mind you, I don’t drink brown liquor. The scent alone activates the vomit reflux, but I decided to man-up. If she can do it, why can’t I? Oh probably because I can’t even swallow Sam Adams without whining about how much of a “boy beer” it is.

I arrived at 25 N. Moore Street, walked up the stairs and opened the heavy door.

“Do you have reservations?” Inquired the very well-spoken maitre d’.

“Nope, I’m meeting a friend here and we’re hoping to join in on today’s scotch tasting!”

He looked at me in disbelief—after all my hair was curled, nails were perfectly manicured, I was rocking a brand new Rachel Roy dress and I had on 4” stilettos—definitely didn’t look like the girl who was going to throw down scotch! I walked over to the bar where I picked up the bible of booze. I scanned the in-depth menu that’s packed with 10 pages of single-malt Scotches, including the very rare 25-year Talisker, but had a hard time finding beer and vodka. I also scanned the food portion of the menu—I might require something to absorb my brown liquor gluttony later on. The Malai Tikka chicken breast morsels in yogurt and spices immediately grabbed my attention, along with Gratin Dauphonios, or potato pancakes. The dessert also looked amazing—might have to save some room for the Valhrona chocolate cake! I bypassed the food and went straight for the booze. I started off very girly—I ordered the Peaches & Cream—which consisted of cognac, cream, crème de peche and port wine reduction. YUM!

Brandy Library’s wood-paneled space and glimmering, tile-topped bar oozes sophistication, wealth, intellect and maturity. It’s designed like a library—the vertical shelves on the walls are meticulously stocked with over 900 bottles of every type of hard-to-find bourbon, scotch, brandy, cognac and whiskey imaginable. The faux fireplace and buttery leather chairs add a cozy and romantic touch—not exactly first date worthy, but if you suggested it to your guy on a third or fourth date, he’d be highly impressed. Read more »

The Meatpacking District used to be the place to see and be seen. As an intern who was being paid in glamour and status I couldn’t afford the drinks at Lotus so we’d prebooze at nearby dives. The Village Idiot had an awesome shot and a PBR special—we could afford that—it was only $4. Then they closed their doors because they were giving away their drinks, allowing homeless people to move in and apparently not paying rent so we moved over to Hog Pit.

Hog Pit didn’t have the fabulous specials, the smell of stale beer and vomit, the toothless men or the rotting bar (that was a lawsuit waiting to happen), but we still loved it. Most of the patrons had the same idea that we did—drink for cheap and move onto a more pricey location. Sometimes we’d have such a great time there we wouldn’t leave! In fact, I spent one evening boozing it up with Tommy Hilfiger—he wasn’t douchey at all—he was awesome. Just like every great dive in NYC, the Hog Pit was priced out of their location and had to shut it’s doors. Never fear, they reopened on 26th street between 6th and Broadway and I’ve been a few times after work, but it’s not the same.

I heard rumors that Ralph Lauren had purchased their old location and planned on opening up a Black Label Store, but then the truth came out. Mr. NYC chain restaurants himself, Steve Hanson, bought the spot on the corner of 13th street and 9th Avenue and was turning it into a burger joint to rival JG Melon and Shake Shack. I had to test it out.

We rolled into Bill’s Bar & Burger on Saturday night after a few drinks at one of Steve’s other joints, Bar 675 (he’s slowly taking over the city). The place was packed, but it is tiny. We snagged a spot at a high table in the front room—perfect for people-watching. Bill’s quickly reminded me of P.J. Clarke’s, the original one on 3rd Avenue, minus my coveted, afterwork suits. The crowd was trendy, not trashy, but you had a decent mix of the out-of-towners trying to get in—my little sister was in town—that’s why we were doing the Jersey/Long Island party in the MPD on a Saturday.
After settling in and checking out the TV (no more sports, please) we placed our beer order and requested a plate of Boneless Buffalo Chicken Wings. I’ve had an insatiable craving for wings for a month—I knew the time had come to forget about dieting and my Christmas vacation to a beach—let the pig out party begin. Even though the sauce was delicious and the strips themselves were quite satisfying and tender, my craving had not been met so I guess I’ll be paying a visit to Brother Jimmy’s next week. Read more »

I have a confession to make: I love TAO. Yep, I’m talking about good old TAO on 58th Street between Madison and Park Avenues. You know the one that opened in 2000 and has a fat Buddha statue plopped down in the center of the restaurant? Oh let’s not forget the fact that they knocked it off in Vegas and turned it into a shitty nightclub so a bunch of Oklahoma cowboys can say they’ve partied at TAO while slamming back oh-so-NYC Long Island Iced Teas (do people really drink those disgusting things outside of trailer parks?).

I met a friend after work for a glass of wine to discuss another friend of ours who, despite our warnings, thought it was a good idea to drunk bike through NYC—well, she got hit by a cab and fractured her arm. People never listen to me! Anyway, last week I discovered that an old friend of mine is the General Manager at TAO so of course I suggested we meet there because I’d rather spend my money at Barney’s than on booze.

I’m sure you’ve been to TAO or you at least know all about it due to the media hype. I pretend the one in Vegas is non-existent because I’m allergic—we’re only focusing on New York City, people! Walking into TAO New York is like walking into a private club. Once you get past the heavy front doors (hopefully without breaking a nail) and enter into the dimly lit downstairs bar area and restaurant you instantly feel sexy and celebrity-like. Why? Because the place is loaded with tourists and they swear Paris Hilton is going to stroll through the door and trip over her hair extensions so expect star treatment for 15 seconds. In reality, celebrities do go there—on a Monday night at 10 pm when hungry Park Avenue Investment Bankers who wouldn’t care if Tiger Woods was sitting on their table will swing by for a bite after work.

Fun fact time: TAO was originally built in the 19th century as a stable for the famed Vanderbilt family (would they like to adopt me?) and then became a balconied movie theater before becoming one of the most famous restaurants in the states. Read more »

The bright lights of Times Square – to visitors it’s considered heaven in the center of Manhattan – to locals it’s hell on earth. Tourists from every part of the world congregate in the land of adult Disneyland to stare at stupid shit, chow at chain restaurants that turn rats into sushi and buy knock-off handbags from men who convince you it just “fell off the back of a truck.” Real or fake, nothing screams visitor louder than a Coach bag! I’m not going to completely diss the square – I’ve both lived and worked there and I honestly think Herald Square is a bit more maddening (I currently work here and break out into hives on an hourly basis) – but the trick to the square is to know where to go and when!

Stroll down Broadway at 7pm on a Friday and run the risk of getting arrested … you’ll eventually lose your mind and shove someone out of your way and into the path of a speeding cab. If you walk down that same street at midnight on a Monday night in January you’ll own it (aside from New Year’s Eve – I’d rather be in jail), but you’ll also turn into an ice sculpture. I lived in Times Square for four years, not exactly on Broadway, but I was so close that I would have to show proof of residency in order to get into my apartment on New Year’s Eve and one year the cops STILL wouldn’t let me in at all so I went to a local bar on 9th Avenue and drowned my “I’m never getting married” sorrows in a Grey Goose martini with my roommate. We eventually picked ourselves up after that never-exciting ball came crashing down and walked over to our favorite little hole in the wall on 52nd street and 8th Avenue, the Russian Vodka Room.

I’m not sure who introduced me to the Vodka Room – might’ve been one of the 8,000 men I’ve dated in NYC (and I’m still single) – or we might’ve simply stumbled upon it in a drunken stupor one evening when we were dodging out-of-towners. Either way, it’s pretty rare that anyone ever seems to remember leaving the RVR. This diamond in the rough, no-frills bar/restaurant is a bit reminiscent of someone’s basement, equipped with a piano player. The dark entryway leads you into a world full of Russians speaking Russian – guaranteed you’ll feel like a foreigner in your own country. Russian mobsters, wannabe supermodels and suits escaping the office line the mahogany bar to drink Batika 3 beer while slurping on delicious borscht and sucking down vodka shots. As someone with a Ukrainian background I’m embarrassed to say that I had never tried borscht before the Vodka Room and now I eat this beet soup every time I go there. It makes the dead-of-winter chills a little more bearable. Read more »

The South Street Seaport surely invokes visions of dreaded tourists dancing in your head. Before I moved down to this neighborhood I felt the EXACT same way. I was so close to SoHo, TriBeCa and the West Village – why would I dream of hanging out in a neighborhood that is overrun with fake Coach handbag carrying Midwesterners and the guys who sell them?

Well, when you’re facing a fifteen minute walk to the 4 train in the dead of winter on a rainy Saturday night in a leather mini-skirt, 4” stilettos and a sleeveless shirt you’ll begin to think differently. At first I would jump on the train at all hours and head to Marquee or Cain in an attempt to catch Lindsay Lohan make her clothes disappear or to verbally abuse reflective sunglass-wearing guidos. The following winter at the Seaport something changed – I grew up – and began to explore the area. Would I really want to date some guy who hangs out at those “hotspot” clubs and lounges on a Thursday, Friday or Saturday night anyway? Not anymore.

Once a good friend of mine moved into 45 Wall Street we began exploring since we had each other and were always too cold to head uptown. Now keep in mind that we didn’t hang out at the actual Seaport, we headed a block west and north of the Seaport – this hidden gem of an area begins on the corner of Front Street and Beekman Street.

On the corner of Front and Beekman you will come across Salud Restaurant and Bar, a homey Spanish tapas spot that has knock-you-out coconut mojitos, live Cuban music on Thursday nights and fantastic happy hour specials that attract lots of the AIG men. I’ve never had a bad time here, but then again, I don’t think I’ve managed to leave sober – the drinks are so addictive you can’t have just one!

Next door to Salud, towards Water Street, is Fresh Salt. It’s one of the neighborhood’s best kept secrets. It’s a borderline divey, nautical-themed bar/restaurant that’s jam-packed with local businesspeople and natives who are attracted to the dimly lit interior, fresh munchies, drink specials and late night hours without the tourists.

On the other side of Salud on Front Street is Stella Maris, a dark and sexy Irish Restaurant and Bar that serves lots of traditional cuisine and seafood. After work it’s a bit of a meat market scene – married men tend to congregate at the bar and always offer to pay our tab – not that we’ve ever minded this. While disapproving single women in corporate wear shoot nasty looks in our direction … it’s a tough life, but someone’s got to live it. The wine list is impressive and the pours – well, they’re even better!

Diagonally across the street from Stella Maris is Bin 220, a cozy, mellow and romantic Italian wine bar. A local fave – Bin 220 is not only a fab date spot, but you can also converse with friends or clients without being interrupted or hit on – which can be very annoying when you’re frantically searching for a chilled out evening. Read more »