So I know this is primarily a food blog, but I’ve decided to start a series on drinks to coincide with my reemergence into society. I was talking to an actor on the set of a film I recently produced and mentioned something that happened “back when I had a life” and he responded, “So you don’t have a life now?”
I told him that while I really love what I do, I simply don’t have a social life when I’m in production. I wake up at 5:00 AM, go to set, work 12-14 hours, come home and go to sleep. Sometimes I eat bad take out before going to bed, but usually I just skip it because I’d rather sleep.
So to celebrate wrapping on production period and to herald in a new era of the sort of fun girls’ nights out for which we are a little too old and a lot too young, my friends and I decided to meet for drinks at The Standard Hotel.
I normally steer clear of The Meatpacking District, but I figured having a social life again meant getting out of the 10-block East Village bubble I usually confine myself to like I’m a dog inside an invisible electronic fence.
My friend AnnaRose was the one who suggested the Standard since she’d never been. I mostly agreed because I have a crush on this man, who owns it:
I sometimes fantasize I’m shopping for fresh herbs with him in the South of France while wearing matching outfits:
I’m only joking. Sort of. But I was pretty impressed by how the staff maximized social networking sites to promote the place. Earlier in the evening I tweeted:
15 minutes later, they tweeted back:
Well, who am I to turn down a personal invitation?
AnnaRose ended up getting too tired (she was leaving for Sundance the next day), so Courtney and I went alone. The Living Room of the Standard is described rather aptly on the hotel’s website as “a comfortably modish designed lounge.”
It’s moodily lit with very dim elliptical Chinese lanterns and the furniture seems comprised of carefully selected set pieces from A Clockwork Orange. The music is stylish, unobtrusive and low enough to have a comfortable conversation. There’s no actual bar (servers bring drinks to the tables) so no one is standing and the chairs are low and surprisingly cozy, so everything feels very relaxed.
The majority of patrons seemed to be power gays in their 40’s – a lot of well-dressed professional men who might almost be mistaken for their straight counterparts if not for their better-fitting clothes and subtle indifference to women.
It was a nice place, good for two friends to have a pleasant conversation without being hassled by lecherous men. We each had a glass of wine and started to get sleepy so we decided to head home. As we were walking out, Courtney looked towards the Gansevoort and said, “We should have gone there.” (Maybe an evening didn’t feel complete without a little harassment from lecherous men.)
So we decided to just go. I told Courtney we’d take a quick look around and if she saw one man she was attracted to (just one), we’d stay and if not, we could just leave.
When the elevator doors opened on the penthouse, I felt like a giant wave of testosterone washed over us. No shortage of lecherous men. Just a shortage of any we might find remotely attractive. We headed back to the elevators (but not before being undressed by men’s eyes a dozen times over) and went home.
The next morning, standardny tweeted again:
Well, thank you. Perhaps, my friend, perhaps… It may be one of the few safe places left in New York.