St. Tropez Reveals NYC in Need of Bottle Service Redux

       Merci beaucoup France. 

       Merci beaucoup for the Statue of Liberty, Gerard Depardieu, Brigitte Bardot, Napoleon Bonaparte and his posthumously severed penis, Proust, Gruyère, nude beaches...oh, what an endless list. Without your historic contributions to America and the world at large, surely I'd only know how to say "do you want to sleep with me this evening" in one paltry language. A true tastemaker, and nowhere more so than in those fields of food, drink, fun and frivolity, it should come as no surprise that you -- or more specifically, the famed Parisian nightclub Les Bains Douches -- single-handedly ushered in a new era of upped-game debauchery known as bottle service.  

       Les Bains first set the tone of excess back in 1988 and France still has the bottle service jump on the States. But it doesn't have to be that way. It's high time the bon vivant torch was passed. The bar (intended pun) has been set awfully high though...Gather 'round children, zip it, listen. Submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society, I call this story, Attack of the 50 Foot Wine Bottle or How I Spent My Summer Vacation:

       St. Tropez--the Cote d'Azure of the Cote d'Azure, the One Percent's one percent, the "brat" in "bratwurst." Nothing here is Lilliputian. A measly Coke Light costs around €15 ($18), you're in the minority if you don't own a yacht with an on-board helipad and "Look over there, that old fat guy and his twenty-two year old girlfriend with the fake tits look so in love!" is not something you'll likely hear repeated.

      In point of fact, overt, over the top status statements abound here, especially during balmy summer months. Vacationers with oodles of oil, textile, banking, blah blah blah bucks looking to effectively flash their peacock feathers regularly facilitate a materialized version of the following scenario-- My Patek Philippe watch reads noon. Perfect time for us to buy hundreds of thousands of dollars worth of  bubbly stuff,  not because we want to drink it but, because won't it be so epic when we shake it up and pour it all over ourselves like the fun-loving free spirits we are? 

Champagne showers at Nikki Beach. LMFAO, you guys cover all of your bases, don't you?

       Champagne showers govern the daytime milieu at St. Tropez beach clubs like Les Palmiers and Nikki Beach. Seasonal staffers carry Piper Heidsieck and DP--I've taken to calling Dom Perignon DP now that I've had it poured overtop my head--not by the arm-full, not by the case-load even, but in wheel barrels and metal cages meant to entrap wild animals. Truly a sight to behold--and certainly a practice one would expect to see New York and Las Vegas adopt in the near future--yet nothing compared to the heavy spending that occurs once the sun goes down...

Tippling at L'Artusi

L'Artusi:

       I first patronized Gabe Thompson's L'Artusi on March 22nd, 2011. 'Twas a splendid occasion indeed. I drank a glass of Villa Sparina Gavi di Gavi , selected the bass as my entree and debated with my dinner companion about the financial efficacy of slow loris breeding. Both the wine and the bass were delicioso, which, of course, is Latin for "fuckin' tasty."

       How, might you ask, am I able to recount so vividly an event that took place over a year ago? No, this is not a case of eidetic memory. In fact, quite the opposite--my recall's so horrible I've taken to tattooing important names and dates on my body. Now, I'll never miss the Fourth of July again.

       But I digress, I remember the meal for several reasons, the main one being that I tweeted about the experience the following day and just now spent fifteen minutes scrolling back through old posts in order to find it. Also though, it was the first time I'd ever tasted Gavi and I fell in love instantaneously with the Italian white wine. The bass killed it too, but I'm no food critic. Martha Stewart is though, and she too dined there that night.

       Like the prodigal son, I made my sophomore return to L'Artusi yesterday and this time I came away with the distinct view that it is bar none my favorite restaurant in NYC! A rebellious utterance, but one I'm willing to stand on the front line and defend. 8 of us convened on the evening of last to partake in the West Village restaurant's prix fixe Summer Cocktail Dinner. It consisted of four courses, each paired with two sensational cocktails from their hot off the press summer menu.

Click "Read more" for menus, pictures and reviews:

Super Linda Tribeca: Cocktails, Long Drinks and Drinkers Drinks

     
       Ask any bartender. 2 out of 50,000 will tell you devising clever names for original alcohol amalgams is a labor of love. I personally tend to stick to titles that'll sound good following the phrase "Can I have the...". For instance, some of my more popular past creations include: Subscription to Buttman, Short Version, Beer Shits, Hard Facts, and Number To A Urologist. Should a patron request any one of these libations, I'm pre-programmed to respond with, "I'll toss in a set of fuzzy handcuffs if you sign-up for the three-year package, " "it's really much funnier if you hear the long version, but, basically, the children called him Stainsputin after that," "not in my bathroom you can't," "queen ants have the longest lifespan of any known insect; 28 years," and "212-566...", respectively, of course. Who doesn't like a barkeep with an arsenal of witty banter?!
       Last night I dropped by Super Linda, a relatively new Latin American restaurant from the guys behind La Esquina, and I found myself pleasantly surprised by some of the seemingly ambiguous headings on their own cocktail list. Juliet, you had a point when you said, "What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet." There's no arguing that taste is the most important aspect of any potent potable, but dammit Juliet, don't underestimate the value of pizzazz! Like a book judged by it's cover, we must give credence to the art of 'tail tagging.


Find the complete Super Linda cocktail menu below. Additional comments highlighted:

We's Antiques-- Keenly Selected Heirlooms

       I went to this hoity-toity Obama fundraiser back in October of 2008. It took place at Hammerstein Ballroom and Bruce Springsteen headlined alongside Billy Joel; a pretty monumental occasion to say the least. What I remember most--aside from the then Presidential hopeful's inspiring speech--was the part of the program when Billy introduced his daughter Alexa to the stage. He said something to the effect of, this is "shameless nepotism" at it's best. I thought to myself, "wow, that's a really dick way to announce your daughter's grand entrance Billy." 


       In a similar fashion, I will now channel Billy Joel and lay bare my nepotistic intent. Go to my mother's website and feast your eyeballs upon her glorious wares! Her antiquities are so unique she's even sold her product to Mike Zohn from the reality TV show Oddities. She's also a much better singer than Alexa Ray Joel. 

Revel--Atlantic City's Newest Boardwalk Empire

       A $2.4 billion behemoth just opened in the Garden State city that spawned Monopoly. Located on prime Boardwalk real estate, the 1,400 room luxury gaming resort makes Borgata look like the dumpy hotel in Swingers. And for this reason Borgata, please, go strait to jail without passing go and without collecting $200. 

     I spent the day at Revel in early May. The complex is still in soft opening mode so it definitely has a number of kinks to work out. Since it's always more fun to focus on failure, I'd like to highlight those kinks in detail starting with a restaurant from The ONE Group (STK, Asellina, Bagatelle)inventively called One. 

       Overall, the casino level dining alcove offers perfectly acceptable post-craps respite. (And once you've eaten, you'll be ready to take (on) more craps.) However, the cocktail menu leaves much to be desired. Most unsettling is their misrepresentation of the classic Vesper cocktail. Any James Bond fan worth his/her salt recalls the original 1953 Casino Royale dialogue between Bond and his barman.Bond orders a gin, vodka and Lillet based martini and dubs it the Vesper after sultry heroine Vesper Lynd. Well, at One, their limited cocktail menu offers this namesake only their Vesper is comprised of tequila and Cointreau, i.e. a friggin' margarita.

       Come on One, don't flagrantly debase two perfectly delicioso beverages.You're better than that. If need be, mosey on over to American Cut, Iron Chef Marc Forgione's Michelin star bound steakhouse and cop a gander at their drinks list.The imbibeables may be straight forward, but at least they're accurate. I partook in a light spring concoction called the Ziggy Stardust(Grey Goose La Poire, fresh lemon and Chandon Sparkling Wine). It paired wonderfully with the delectable Chili Lobster appetizer. Though, in my humble opinion, nothing could have detracted from the taste of that scrumptious ish. 

REVEL- 500 Boardwalk, Atlantic City, NJ 08401 (PH: 855-348-0500)

MAIN ENTRANCE 

MAIN ENTRANCE AGAIN

ESCALATOR TO CASINO

       Eating, drinking, spa-ing and pooling are all well and good, but no AC experience would be complete without a trip to the casino floor, but try not to trip on the casino floor. Poker fiends, expect a cozily accommodating 37 table room with Asian-inspired lighting reminiscent of those at The Wynn in Las Vegas. All of the lights make for primo card reading conditions; conditions meant to combat mistakes such as this.Ouchy, Mr.Ivey. 
       
       Sharks looking to get a leg up in the game would be wise to hop on Revel quickly before the poker room really takes off. For now, two or three tables run at any give time and they're mostly $1-$2 Hold 'Em. An occasional $2-$5 game organizes, but for the most part, the competition is relatively straight-forward and subdued. 

Manhattan Cocktail Classic Gala--May 11th, 2012

       The New York Public Library Main Branch, illustriously located in front of Bryant Park, is an undoubtedly impressive Beaux-Arts architectural achievement. Having lived and worked near the building for some five years now,  the obvious assumption would be that I've graced its hallowed halls a great many times. But we all know that to assume is to make an ass out of you and, well, just you. I myself would never be so gauche! 

       Turns out the first occasion I had to set foot in the place occurred on Friday of last (sounds so much more sophisticated than "last Friday", doesn't it?) when I participated in the 3rd annual Manhattan Cocktail Classic Gala. Anything containing word "gala" in it's title is bound to be decent and this event certainly set a precedent. Thousands of attendees donning full-on tuxedos and floor-length gowns swarmed the library like zombies attacking Robert Neville's house in I Am Legend. They came to sample some of the best cocktails made from the hottest booze brands on the market. Four floors of frivolity made for a lot of sampling space. A lot of sampling space made for a lot of sampling. And a lot of sampling made for a lot of drunkity drunks--which sounds like the perfect premise for a DIRECTV commercial.  

       The exhibition area I found most appealing was the (Not So) Classic Art Gallery located in a fourth floor side room. There, I tasted concoctions from Tito's Handmade Vodka and Heering Cherry Liquor. I was quite partial to Heering's Blood & Sand cocktail:

-1part Heering

-1 part sweet vermouth

-1 part blended scotch

-1 part fresh squeezed orange juice

-shake, strain and garnish with orange twist

       While I sipped, I observed Soup by Allison Berkoy (berkoy.com). Had I been chugging rather than sipping, this installation--said to "emerge from your most disturbed nocturnal projections"--might have really made me ship my flit. Observe below:

Soup by Allison Berkoy (berkoy.com)

       Nestled in an opposite corner of the lofty  side room, I found yet another ship flitting installation by artist Karolina Sobecka (gravitytrap.com). Titled Pornographic Pursuit 2, it reminded me of playing this on Nintendo Power Pad as a kid, but with significantly more areola.  Damn, I was good at that game; much better than the guy in the clip below. Here, the artist tries to explain that running in place will cause Marilyn Monroe to remove her clothes:

                           Pornographic Pursuit 2 by Karolina Sobecka

       More fun pictures: 

Knicks vs. Orlando Magic -- March 28

Last night's game was a blowout. Even sans Lin and Stoudemire, the Knicks beat the Magic 108-86. With the exception of my fave player Steve Novak--Dwayne Wade's old Marquette University roommate--not much on the court piqued my interest. Since the Garden's multimillion dollar renovation, it seems they've cut back on their mid game entertainment budget too.  So, I spent the majority of my time people watching...

Winter Music Conference --Miami, March 23rd-25th

"I DON'T WANT TO BE THE ONLY ONE SITTIN' OUTSIDE HAVIN' ALL THE FUN"

Bob Sinclar at the Shelborne South Beach, Pacha Ibiza Pool Party. The dude never ages. Wish the same could be said for the generally bald or balding diaphoretic blokes up front.

I'd never heard of Goldfish until this weekend. His Shelborne performance was tres chic. The below song was really catchy in a "I want to jump up and down repeatedly" sort of way. 

DJ Jazzy Jeff before Sinclar. Playing Mary Jane Girls, "All Night Long". He seems to take his craft very seriously.

                 Questlove's Winter Music Conference  DJ set at Soho House                                                               SoBe:

Questo tweeted the following right after he got booted by the cops:

      @questlove goodnews i beat last years record of 245. bad news is police shut it down (noise ordinance)---did 273 songs in 4hrs 22 mins. c ya next year
2:14 AM -25 Mar 12 via web 

When's The Halftime Show

       Santonio Holmes eked out a four point victory for the Pittsburgh Steelers with 35 seconds remaining on the clock in Super Bowl XLIII. A year later, the New Orleans Saints swept Super Bowl XLVI for a post-Katrina city thoroughly in need of happy tidings. The year after that, it was the Steelers again, this time versus the Green Bay Packers.  2011 wasn’t as favorable for Pittsburgh and the Packers ended up six points ahead. Which brings us to Super Bowl XLVI, held at Indianapolis’s newly constructed Lucas Oil Stadium.  Eli Manning added a second Lombardi trophy to his collection, surpassing his older brother Peyton.   New York City celebrated for an entire week straight.

            These last four National Football League finales share quite a unique common denominator.   Not the highly anticipated commercials. Not the crazed and oft besot fans or the obscene cost of just about everything.  No, the common denominator the hundred million some odd viewers who’ve religiously tuned in to the nation’s most-watched television program from 2009-2012 will likely recall is me or, rather, that I was present at all of them.

            Of course I jest. Nobody remembers, much less cares that I have in fact found myself positioned comfortably close to the twenty yard line for four consecutive years and counting at a game that most American’s would give up a vital appendage to witness in person.   And herein lies the rub, I know nothing about football. I certainly admire and appreciate the athleticism, but on a scale of one to ten, ten being Bill Parcells level comprehension and one being Kathy Bates' character in The Water Boy, I'd say I lean more toward Mama Boucher. "Foos-ball? Buncha overgrown monsters man-handlin' each other..."   

            I don’t root for a favorite team. Don’t own a jersey or a toaster that brands a logo on my bread. The term “bump and run” makes me think of my ex. When a player catches the ball for a –hold on, let me consult my copy of “Football for Dummies”—touchback and drops to one knee, I assume this might be a suitable time for him to Hail Mary? My point spread predictions are based on the following tried and true analytics: 1) cuteness of quarterback, 2) number of players on each team who’ve been accused of a crime, 3) mascot and; the most important determinant, 4) whether or not a player’s Bob Costas interview moves me to tears.

So, aside from getting a chance to brush up on the Roman numerals number system, why make the effort to attend at all?

            I do it for the music.

            Music makes the people come together.

            Music mix the bourgeoisie and the rebel.  

             I’ve braved black ice and taxi strikes, being stranded in a gas station convenience store during a naked squatter’s arrest while a woman wearing head-to-toe lime—not the fruit, the color—simultaneously hands out pictures of her missing meth addicted friend…and that was just in Dallas.  En route to ESPN Magazine’s official Indianapolis soiree, the ride I fought tooth and nail to snag T-boned another vehicle leaving the same event. No matter, after expertly assessing the damages and confirming all parties unscathed, I hightailed it the rest of the way on foot.  A stealthy maneuver indeed as it afforded me the ability to catch the end of a fairly intimate Drake performance. 

       Bruce Springsteen and the E Street Band, Jennifer Hudson, The Who, Carrie Underwood, The Black Eyed Peas, Usher, Slash, Christina Aguilera, Journey with Filipino frontman Arnel Pineda, Faith Hill, Chrissie Hynde, Keith Urban, Maroon 5, Kelly Clarkson, The Fray, M.I.A., Nicki Minaj, Wiz Khalifa, Drake, Snoop Dogg, Lenny Kravitz, Katy Perry, and mother immaculate herself; Madonna, make up a mere modicum of the musical menagerie that befell Super Bowls XLII -- XLVI. Think about it, where else can you check out that kind of talent all in the short span of a weekend? It's like if Coachella, Bonnaroo and Glastonbury collided and formed "Coabonnbury." 

       Keep in mind that Super Bowls, the living, breathing entities that they are, aim to do one thing; cater to the masses. And music?  Well, anyone with properly functioning aural canals most likely has a pointed opinion about music. In fact, never is the "opinions are like assholes" adage more applicable than to the topic of music. At the Super Bowl, these two factors, mass appeal and the opinion of the individual amidst the masses, make for a distinctive dynamic.

       Anymore, counterculture has taken on a role more prominent than popular culture in certain respects. For instance, the obsession with "discovering" burgeoning musicians means that mainstream artists are stigmatized merely for being mainstream. But that doesn't take away from the fact that Springsteen, Townshend, Madonna and the like are what keep the music industry afloat. Without them, less established artists would be left in the lurch, without multimillion-dollar Live Nation or wrap-around 360 label deals to aspire to.

       I consider myself a part of the popular counterculture movement. The last album I purchased was from an indie pop duo; one part hermaphroditic Buddhist, the other part five-year-old mute glockenspiel prodigy.  And I usually only attend concert venues with a maximum occupancy of 200 or so. What I'm getting at is, it might not be boss to jump on board "The Boss's" bandwagon, but damn it if I'm not glad I got to watch his tight-jeaned ass rock 2009's Super Bowl halftime, even if I was only able to glimpse him from behind.  He played to the opposite side of the stadium for the entirety of the program.

       I wouldn’t normally go out of my way to see half of the cats listed above, but, secretly, or maybe not so secretly, I know every word to the Kanye West produced Katy Perry track “E.T.”  and, Drake’s rendition of the belated Gil Scott-Heron’s “I’ll Take Care of You” circulates on my iTunes “That Ish Cray” playlist daily. To see these legends / legends in the making live is like getting around to reading “1984.” You’ve been meaning to do it and now, finally, you can mark it off your bucket list.  

       Read about my favorite Bowl bucket list moments and view photos from 2012's game after the jump: