What’s the first sign you’re going to pay out the ass for a a glass of wine? Every window in the restaurant is shrouded by drapes, so you can’t see the inner sanctum before penetrating it, sitting down and opening the sticker-price shock encased in leatherette. Private clubs are never cheap. But at least at this one we got a little something extra with our $14 wine: the sight of the bartender soaking napkins in booze to hand to the hostess to wipe down the menu covers. Beware the well vodka . . .
And speaking of personalities behind bars: What’s worse than a mixologist who can’t make a margarita? A bartender who thinks he can “invent.”