The name of the venue didn't immediately ring a bell. Peg and I had been invited to come celebrate our friend Jane's birthday, and the festivities were to be held at a place called "The Bowery Hotel." At first, it sounded like a joke. "The Bowery Hotel?" I laughed -- fleetingly still thinking that it was 1989, "are we having drinks at a flop house or something?" I looked at the address, did the math and grimaced. We were bound for a corner formerly occupied by an age-old gas station. The gas station, however, was long gone, and the space it had occupied now played host to one of those new buildings. You know the ones I mean: one of those ridiculously priapic monstrosities that started sprouting out of the pavement in the last few years. Sure enough, the Bowery Hotel is a relatively brand new building that exudes the same air of haughty exclusivity and "tony chic" as can be found polluting the Meat Packing District (itself formerly a desolate badlands, much like the Bowery). It's one of the places I frown and shake my fist at as I mope up and down the streets, lamenting the gentrification that is positively metastasizing lower Manhattan. The notion of actually visiting the place and spending money inside it was an anathema to me, but we love Jane, so I got over it and off we went.
Walking into the place is indeed a surreal experience. My allusion to the Meat Packing District was an apt one, as the streets of this `hood are now peppered in the evenings with young, Blackberry-twiddling girls who all looked as if they'd stepped off the set of "Gossip Girl." The doors of the building were manned by a pair of garishly-jacketed doormen who looked as if they were bound for a jolly evening of nocturnal fox hunting once they'd graciously allowed us to befoul the plush confines of their lobby. Once inside, I was still incredulous that we were on the Bowery -- that decor strove to suggest the aura of old moneyed privilege one normally would encounter at midtown enclaves like The University Club or the King Cole Bar at the St. Regis, albeit somewhat stymied by an inexplicable Spanish bordello vibe. We spotted our friends just inside the lobby, where they'd been sort of brusquely corralled. Mac, Jane's husband, immediately started grousing about how the perma-hovering maitre'd -- the same one glowering at me at that very instant -- was seriously soiling the atmosphere by repeatedly scolding them for "standing" and -- god forbid -- moving some of the furniture around.
We sat down and introduced ourselves around, still suffering under the wait of of the maitre'd's unblinking stare and the sniffily over-attendant/under-congenial wait staff. The place was further decked out with coasters and napkins bearing the hotel's insignia -- one their fox-hunting doormen looking a bit like a preening Johnny Walker and the hotel's name written in a floridly ludicrous font. Within moments, Peggy got her hand figuratively slapped for suggesting to move one of the ottomans closer to the table so that the gathered party could better hear each other. The whole experience was pretty laughable.
Regardless, we made the most of it. Over a pair of pricey drinks, we chatted up our fellow party-goers -- some engaging journalists and publishing-types -- and basically had a great time until one more admonishment from the management (it's not like we were vomiting on the sofas and performing an impromptu round of death metal karaoke ) managed to finally diffuse an otherwise cheery experience. Jane and company de-camped to a much less surly venue a few blocks away. Peg and I strolled down a Bowery we no longer really recognized (pausing for a moment in front of the former facade of CBGB) until we repaired to the Noho Star, a great and long-standing neighborhood spot, the interior of which looks as though it hasn't changed one iota since 1983. Once again, change sucks!
In any case, I'll take a flop house over The Bowery Hotel any day of the week.
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