Gays, Thinking Green, and Everything in Between
June 26th, 2006 by Lola
Talk about meat markets, nothing was more packed in MePa last Friday than my schedule. Scuttled to the district so (in)famous for its transition from dead cows and tranny call girls (another kind of meat packing entirely) to high-end art galleries and celeb sightings at Pastis, a little shiver coursed through my low-budge boots as I braved the beauties and the beasts of Little West 12th Street.
First stop: Florent. In honor of Pride Week and to celebrate this year’s Grand Marshals of Sunday’s Pride March, restaurant owner Florent Morellet and New York City Speaker Christine Quinn, an informal reception was thrown at the shabby-chic, 24/7 diner on Gansevoort Street. Though the spread was sparse, the bartenders were generous, and the crowd was a friendly, in-the-know sort that showed the always-impressive range of NYC’s LGBTQ community; much to my chagrin, however, not a tranny in sight! Shortly after entering, I sidled up to one of Ms. Quinn’s drones and commenced to unleash my inner ‘mo as we noshed on Brie and discussed the intricacies of the new judging system on So You Think You Can Dance.
But, before I could say Nigel Lythgoe, I was summoned to the green carpet of Danny Seo’s book signing at Stella McCartney, where the adorable author signed his eco-friendly tome Simply Green Parties. I was nearly distracted by racks of the hipper-than-thou designer’s gauzy goodies and adidas athletic wear, but when Mother Nature calls, this Glamourite answers (for full disclosure, I did attend school in Vermont and frolic with the hippies for four years). Also on hand was “natural” blonde Carson Kressley, who worked the room with no less than 160% fabulousness. I planned to approach Bravo’s style maven about our separated-at-birth status, but I was sidetracked by a tray of very apropos and refreshingly minty mojitos. If I had a nickel for every time I had to choose between the boy and the booze…
At the Garden of Ono, however, I had no need to make such a drastic choice, as the both were flowing freely (and by freely, I mean for $15 a pop—and that was just the guys, ba-dum-bum!). Several floors down from the sweeping views of the Hudson River at the Gansevoort Hotel’s more famous scene, Plunge, the year-old lounge-eatery delivers an earthy-yet-industrial, Asian-inspired oasis complete with luminous fountains, elevated bamboo cage platforms, and flowering plants that just barely brush Gucci-bearing shoulders. Though the sassy doorman attempted to shuffle me away from the party I was supposed to attend (apparently I was 8 minutes early—for shame!), the receptionists in the restaurant, Ono, were reasonably friendly and showed me to the bar. While I waited for fellow Glamourites Jasmine and Abbey, I checked out the singles scene and stumbled upon one very vigorous bartender (I’m talkin’ cocktails made with military precision) and two “big-time movie producers” who picked my film-buff brain about their latest projects and compensated me with a delectably fruity libation.
To cap of my night of liver calisthenics, I skirted the edge of MePa at newly opened club The Manor. Between grilling my bartender du jour—über-friendly, curly-Q’d cutie T.J.—and downing oh-so-trendy libations, I scoped out the crowd. Revelers ranged from the bar dancing antics of promoter Patrick Duffy (tragically, not the same-named star of Dallas and Step by Step) to the booty bumpin’ of the usual suspects in ass-high white dresses and sky-high stilettos. Though The Manor touts itself as a Playboy-inspired nouveau bachelor hideway, the Y chromosomes were in short supply on my outing. Those who were there, however, were not afraid to shake a little sumpin on the spacious dance floor as inspiring tunes that lay somewhere between house and hip-hop emitted from the 24k-gold DJ booth. The VIP perks, including Escalade escorts home, are supposed to be off the hook, but I didn’t press my luck after one too many of T.J.’s “special” cocktails. Nor did I go down to the lush basement used for private parties. After all, it was only my first date with the new boys’ club in town; that would be presumptuous.
All in all, my night of hard-hitting research proved that MePa’s still got it. Of course, very little has changed in the chi-chi nabe, so “it” still costs a pretty penny, but for the original scene—which is poorly imitated each weekend by the bridge-and-tunnel crowd in West Chelsea’s hellish “Night Club District” (27th Street and Tenth Avenue)—take it to the cobble-stoned streets. Just be careful in those afore-mentioned stilettos because lookin’ fine can be a dangerous proposition indeed.
Garden of Ono Picture taken from Gridskipper.