Gin & Juiced Up
August 29th, 2006 by Lola
A white picket fence and pristinely sculpted topiaries are the last thing I expect to see as I tromp down 14th Street. Nonetheless, they are the welcoming adornments that face visitors to month-old restaurant Gin Lane. Blending in with the topiaries was the Afro of a bow-tied door man (one of two permanent gatekeepers) who immediately gave me the once-over and asked if I had a reservation. Yes I do, thank you very much, and I hope you enjoyed the eyeful because I look hot tonight!
On the outskirts of MePa, the boîte eschews the district’s pervasive industrial aesthetic for a luxe, homey vibe. Replete with huge, overstuffed leather chairs straight out of Sherlock Holmes‘ study and imposing crystal and wrought iron chandeliers, the space is elegance embodied—a style in which Gin Lane excels where The Plumm, its neighbor to the east, failed. Rafters filter the last rays of the evening falling from a skylight, and an oddly incongruous DJ booth sits in the back corner camouflaged by a bouquet of white roses.
Once I soaked in the atmosphere and checked in with a stylish host, his perky hostess counterpart scuttled my party of four to the back of the almost-empty restaurant and crammed us into the corner where another party was in media res. When asked why were seated so near another party when at 7 p.m. we were the only early bird patrons, the hostess explained they were fully booked for later diners and whooshed away before we had a moment to respond, much to the displeasure of my hard-to-please dining companions.
However, we intrepid imbibers were determined to enjoy ourselves, and mixology guru’s craftily constructed cocktail list was a sip in the right direction. I ordered the Strawberry Nirvana, a transcendent combination of Grey Goose Le Citron, Velvet Falernum (a Barbadian liqueur), ginger root, lychee, strawberry and fresh lemon juice, and began to contemplate where to begin amidst the classic menu’s seafood plateaus and filet mignon tournedos.
I settled on an heirloom tomato salad and a nightly special—mahi-mahi with orange beurre blanc. While perfectly flaky, the fish benefited from a purée of sweet corn that countered its somewhat bland flavor. The others with me noshed on the succulent filet mignon but were more distracted by a certain would-be beefcake at the next table, Phillip Bloch. We saw the stylist to the stars drinking in the bar earlier; apparently, he left, changed clothes and returned with a posse of no less than 12 of his favorite hangers-on. This is why were sent to the corner?
After three hours of booze, Bloch and beef, the one qualm I have is the service. While our waiter was a charmer, and the food was fantastic, I briefly stepped outside to make a phone call and was again asked if I had a reservation when I tried to walk back in—this time by the host who checked me in. Way to pay attention, guys! It bears repeating that I looked hot that night. There was no reason to screen me twice, thus implying that I was riff-raff—or worse, an incoming Bridge and Tunneler! But such are the dangers of dining so close to a PATH train, I suppose.