Stranger in a Strange Land

On Saturday night, after a day spent hanging out with a group of college buddies in dive-y bars around the city, Ed, Phil, Beernuts (not his given name), and I hailed a cab and headed to the Empire Hotel. I thought I had never been to the Empire Hotel, but it turns out I have; it's got a great seafood restaurant on the second floor and a swanky bar, both of which I have sampled. If I recall, I went on a Tuesday night last time, and things were quiet and charming. Things on Saturday, it turns out, are different.

One of Ed's friends was having a birthday party on the roof of the hotel, so I sort of expected to just go up and hang out with the group. Not so. As we pulled up, we saw a huge line out front. I loathe waiting in line to get into clubs, particularly because often the only purpose for the line is to drum up publicity; the staff will let people into a nearly empty club slowly to make it look like it's so popular that everyone is dying to get in. On a lovely summer Saturday night at 10:00, though, I was pretty sure that the line for a rooftop bar was legit (and when we finally got in, it turned out that I was right).


Huge bouncers in suits managed the flow. All told, we waited about 20 minutes to get in, which, though not terrible, was certainly not my favorite part of the evening. The line crawled forward, but, as is typical in New York, small clusters of scantily clad women were admitted without a second glance. I'd gotten dressed that morning expecting to go to a baseball game and, though I was wearing a reasonably fashionable sundress, was hardly dressed to the nines. But even if I had been, it wouldn't have mattered because our group ratio was off. Men are typically the big spenders at these places, and if they walk into a room full of women, they're more likely to stay and buy lots of expensive drinks. Club owners know this and try to ensure that over half of the clubbers are women, the more attractive the better. Accompanied by three men, I was doomed to wait. A group of about six middle-aged women who were trying really hard (and failing) to look hip were in line directly behind us, and they were pretty indignant about the whole experience. At one point Ed turned and very gently explained to them why a bouncer would be more likely to admit a 21-year-old girl in a short, tight dress than a 45-year-old woman tottering in the kind of strappy heels that were popular 15 years ago. He tactfully stuck to economic arguments rather than straying into more obvious but perhaps less welcome justifications. (For the record, I have nothing against 45-year-old women who totter in 15-year-old, strappy heels, I just don't really understand why they'd pick such a swanky, superficial scene. When I'm 45, I plan to wear flats and sit in dark wine bars that I don't have to wait in line to enter. I will sprawl, laugh as loudly as I want, and enjoy myself.) Ed pointed out that there was really no need for anyone to wait; you could overcome any level of square-ness with enough money. We didn't see anyone bribing the bouncers, though.

After about ten minutes, a bouncer who was patrolling the line told Beernuts that his running shoes weren't in dress code. Beernuts ducked out of line, waved, and headed for the train station before we could process what had happened. He had to get back to Connecticut and claimed not to mind, and he probably really didn't - this wasn't shaping up to be his kind of party. (When we finally got in, I wondered whether anyone would even have been able to make out his shoes between the crowds and the low lighting.) A Latino girl in a tight dress was hand-in-hand with a black man in front of us. When they got to the front, the bouncer told them the rules stipulated that they had to reserve a table (for a hefty fee) or abide by the $125 per person minimum at the bar. I murmured "$125?!?" to Ed, who didn't reply. Moments later, the couple left the line and walked away. "What you just saw was profiling," Ed said as soon as they, and the bouncer, were out of earshot. I was disliking this place more and more.

We got in without any warnings about table reservations or minimum bar tabs, got into another line, and were ushered into an elevator by another watchful bouncer a few minutes later. The doors opened into a dark, crowded room, and we walked through flashing lights past the bar and onto the roof.

Hmmm. It's much nicer when it's empty.

 It was nice up there, but so crowded it was hard to get a sense of the atmosphere. As the only woman on the roof not in towering heels, there was a forest of heads and shoulders between me and the view, so I wasn't able to see to much from our center table. Phil immediately disappeared and later told us that he went exploring and got locked on a higher level of the roof for a while which, while somewhat lonely, had a better view. Most people milling around were impeccably dressed, just like the scene you imagine you'd see in every New York club but is, in fact, pretty far from reality. It was at once fascinating and alienating. I decided that I'd probably really like it if I came back again on a Tuesday. I met several of the birthday boy's friends and had about 1/3 of a cocktail, but the events of the day were starting to wear on me. I'd gotten up before 6:00 A.M. to run four miles before my six-mile race. I'd run it pretty hard, then met up with my friends for a day of nursing beers in sultry heat. I was exhausted. Happily, it wasn't really Ed or Phil's scene either, and after putting in our time, we decided to call it a night. It was much easier to get out, happily, than it was to get in.