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Written by SM King
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Wednesday, 03 June 2009 12:42 |
 In her final letter from America, S.M. King takes us into the GFC-stricken world of elite bars.
Little more than a year ago, New York City drinkers were giddy with Pinot Grigio and conceit. Smug, thin ladies and smug, thin men seemed to have no place to go but Marc Jacobs' boutique. After a turn around the tonier streets of SoHo, and, perhaps, a covert purge, the affluent army had their ration of Piper-Heidsieck over a light lunch of bitter greens and cauliflower velouté with croutons.
The alarming conformity of the nouveau riche has been fractured. A correction in fortunes has meant a correction in style. Make no mistake, of course: New York City still contains a good portion of the world's unfairly rich. But post crash, even the most moneyed must at least be seen to tighten their (bespoke Italian) belts.
For this traveller, the recession has borne at least two very convenient side-effects. First, many of the city's best restaurants and bars are offering cut-price luxe. Once the exclusive custom of Staten Island dives, the extended happy hour has moved mid-town. Eight bucks can buy you an Old Fashioned served in a crystal high ball glass by a waiter with perfect teeth and the sort of perfect skin any healthy human longs to defile. You can fill up on gratis snacks, snooze on the velvet banquette and easily imagine yourself to be the toast of tout New York. There's no wet T-shirt competition, nor any evidence of poor taste and cultural poverty. Unless, of course, you count the quiet sobbing of retrenched Wall Street masters. (A breed, by the way, that is fantastically easy to pick up at present. They have nothing to do but work out, cry and be easily flattered by the attentions of brawny Australian males on vacation.)
Discount deluxe does not really count as a trend. It's the happy by-product of market misery. New York's most legitimate uber-trend is the down-at-heel juke joint. For the last ten years or so, the speakeasy has been making a quiet comeback. Current conditions are perfect for the growth of this contrived shabbiness. There are places, of course, that can claim legitimate lineage to a criminal past: most notably, the 21 Club. But most of the hidey-hole drinking establishments are loosely based on the concept.
This sort of poverty-as-sport is hilarious. And terribly New York. The privilege of sitting in artful filth and the sense of doing something mildly illicit costs more than a midtown cocktail in a grand hotel. A friend of mine says this trend is the hospitality equivalent of Kiehl's. This New York company lured us with its faux-poor labeling and working class affectations. Think of a bourbon taken in places such as The Back Room and Milk and Honey on the Lower East Side as the drinker's iteration of crème de Corps. Other places include PDT on St. Marks Place and Angel's Share on Stuyvesant Street. The common factor of these places is that they are almost impossible to find, hidden behind shops and restaurants.
Knowing what to order can be as challenging as actually finding them. The pomegranate and elderflower infused liqueurs are making their way among the hottest libations being pushed across bars and artfully placed and coasters in seen-to-be-seen hideaways across the city. The pre-eminent elderflower drop is St-Germain, produced in the French Alps; one of those tipples where each bottle is individually numbered to ensure authenticity and to serve as a reminder that this stuff is small-batch exclusive. The elderflower flavour imparts notes of pear and lychee, yet remains distinct to both. It's its own bird.
My personal favourite is the S. Mat-Rita. Made with equal parts St-Germain, half a shot of lime juice and a top shelf tequila like Patron, its subtle yet resonant flavours make Cosmopolitans and mango Martinis seem dowdy by comparison. I may feel like a bit of a wanker ordering one, but my – they are tasty.
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Last Updated on Wednesday, 03 June 2009 15:45 |
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