Notes from Underground

Or My Life in Night Life

Ceci n’est pas un Restaurant

I was not in any of the photos from this event. None that made it to the internet, anyway. Probably because I was not wearing a cape or a stupid hat. No, this was not a Harry Potter fan-fête. I really wish I was better at looking like I didn’t want my picture taken, you know, slouching seductively towards the corner of the frame, probably sitting on someone’s lap.

I only google these things when I’m feeling masochistic. There’s nothing worse than realizing that drunken buffoon with the girly haircut and the painted-on pants, you remember, the really short one who kept calling you cherie, yeah, he’s a huge fucking deal and he’s only twenty-five. So have fun with that while you’re trotting around in your apron with your tray of dirty glasses.

At least the vodka was organic. Oh, thank God. And free (no sarcasm there…). Unfortunately we ran out some time around midnight. I was supposed to get cut at eleven. No way that was happening. But it’s fine because Chef is hiding in the kitchen (which stopped serving food an hour ago… these people are too skinny to eat anyway), sitting on the metal counter next to his messenger bag, staring blankly at his laptop. I’m not sure if he’s hanging out because he’s waiting for me or he just doesn’t feel like he can leave the restaurant in that state.

Oh, that state: cluster fuck. Way over capacity. Cannot move. That point when the crowd is so out of control, there’s nothing you can do. You can’t run drinks because you can’t get through all the bony people dressed in black. I think that’s somebody’s feather earring floating in your cocktail, sorry.

They put up all of these prints of an Andy Warhol portrait by the notorious Mr. Brainwash, with [Fashion/RecordLabel] scrawled across them in what was supposed to look like trendy graffiti. It paired really well with the Authentic Aztec Décor.

Now it’s 12:30 and my eight-top of friends-of-investors that's been sitting on the VIP booth since 8:45 and was supposed to be “super low-key” wants to move into the PDR because obviously this is some sort of happening and who knows, Lady Gaga might show up again. AssistantGeneralManager frantically grabs my arm, stares deep into my eyes and asks the question I’ve been dreading since I arrived in New York: Do you know how to do bottle service?

I have a Masters from Harvard, I’m sure I can figure it out.

No, I don’t say that. I look at her in that hesitant way that neither confirms nor denies and she immediately switches into Boom Boom Room mode. OK, have Berto fill this with ice, we’re going to need mixers— ask Chris if he’ll make a bunch of margarita mix. Shit, we don’t have soda. OK, just bring those bottles of mineral water. And now, you get the bottle. Wait. Are the cups set up? Just make it look pretty. It’s all about presentation. Almost a ritual. We’ll all follow you, just bring the bottle. You go first. Leave the plastic on. Take it to the guy with the long hair. Did you get their credit card?

As I’m walking past the kitchen holding this extravagantly priced bottle of extremely mediocre tequila, I see Chef spying from the swinging door. He shakes his head as he watches his New York Times review fly right out the window. Oh wait, this is a basement, there are no windows. In any case, all illusions we had about this being a restaurant are drowning in vodka sodas and being trampled by leopard print platforms as we watch. This is now a club.

In the PDR there are not one but two guys with long hair. I show the bottle to one. He shrugs. I open it and they start pouring shots, AGM has not yet arrived with the mixers. I head back to the bar where she's loading up BlondeServer with pitchers of margarita mix. Did you get a card yet? Oh, no, I'll go do that right now. You always always have to get a card when you're doing bottle service, AGM insists. As I cut back through the kitchen to get to the PDR I can hear BlondeServer’s derisive tone, "She's never done bottle service."

Damn straight, I've never done bottle service. Last I checked I was slinging tacos, not tottering about in six inch heels stuffing cash into my bra. As if one is really much better than the other….

Two hours later when I do run that card it's declined, and  there's a very drunk and awkward conversation about how they're going to pay their $2000 tab. After all, they are Friends-of-Investors. I guess the whole lack of money thing is why they're not actually investors themselves. It turned out that the long-haired guy who I had presented the bottle to was the wrong long-haired guy, but he did keep me supplied in shots from their bottle, so that turned out all right. Some time around three it became apparent that all of the other servers had abandoned me, so I closed as many checks as I could and hopped on the back of Chef's vespa. Back at his place we had sex three times in a row and passed out as the sun was rising. The next day one of the nightlife blog headlines was a quotation: "Last Night at [MexicanRestaunt]-- The Best Two Grand I Ever Spent!"