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aruanFlipping through a back issue of The New York Times, I came across a story about - and this is why I love New York - the trend of Asian-fusion hangar-size nightclubs in the city, which frankly baffles my little mind that automatically envisions standing room-only pizza places and bodegas, not Publix, being the norm in Manhattan.
But here we are, and the inside photo was of the Buddha-Bar that opened in Manhattan recently – apparently the franchise's second incarnation there, and I could tell you immediately why it didn't succeed. It is unsexy and derivative, like a partner who learned his technique from porn.
Gone is the decadence that sets in immediately upon walking into the one in Paris, as the impeccably styled bellboy's sneer transforms into a smile when you say, "Oui, I do have a reservation." There's too much light and too little space - more like trying to vogue in an posh lobby than relax in an opium den. Just standing at the top of the wide entrance staircase in Paris is dizzying, and then the deep bass – not the jarring kind from cruising teenagers' cars on South Beach - begins to seduce your pulse and all but massages every stress from your shoulders. The dimly lit dining room is ringed with a catwalk nightclub of people with their hands in the air or lounging on artful chaises, the whole place hazy with smoke and Asian house music and opulence not for show, but genuine pleasure.
The thing that made my night at 8 Rue Boissy d'Anglais M. Concorde possibly the best of my life is that it put me in a wholly new headspace. I'm a chronic overthinker - as a smart introverted kid, I remember contemplating existence before I could even pronounce words like philosophy. In a (mostly) non-material way, I've always been about more and deeper and better and harder and what's next.
But on that night, somewhere between the second and third bottles of wine, maybe during the exquisite sashimi or one of the ridiculously rich desserts, after toasting Paris but before the embarrassingly earnest confessions of love, I discovered the happiness that comes from being free of want. The simple, thorough, utterly carefree space of love for the world just as it is that I've since doubted exists on a daily basis.
But I did have it, and I think the ultimate problem with New York's sister to this den of exquisite iniquity is that it's in perhaps the one place on Earth that truly doesn't believe in that mindset.
(Not that it does the place justice, but this photo provides an overview of the Paris Bar's dining room.)
But here we are, and the inside photo was of the Buddha-Bar that opened in Manhattan recently – apparently the franchise's second incarnation there, and I could tell you immediately why it didn't succeed. It is unsexy and derivative, like a partner who learned his technique from porn.
Gone is the decadence that sets in immediately upon walking into the one in Paris, as the impeccably styled bellboy's sneer transforms into a smile when you say, "Oui, I do have a reservation." There's too much light and too little space - more like trying to vogue in an posh lobby than relax in an opium den. Just standing at the top of the wide entrance staircase in Paris is dizzying, and then the deep bass – not the jarring kind from cruising teenagers' cars on South Beach - begins to seduce your pulse and all but massages every stress from your shoulders. The dimly lit dining room is ringed with a catwalk nightclub of people with their hands in the air or lounging on artful chaises, the whole place hazy with smoke and Asian house music and opulence not for show, but genuine pleasure.
The thing that made my night at 8 Rue Boissy d'Anglais M. Concorde possibly the best of my life is that it put me in a wholly new headspace. I'm a chronic overthinker - as a smart introverted kid, I remember contemplating existence before I could even pronounce words like philosophy. In a (mostly) non-material way, I've always been about more and deeper and better and harder and what's next.
But on that night, somewhere between the second and third bottles of wine, maybe during the exquisite sashimi or one of the ridiculously rich desserts, after toasting Paris but before the embarrassingly earnest confessions of love, I discovered the happiness that comes from being free of want. The simple, thorough, utterly carefree space of love for the world just as it is that I've since doubted exists on a daily basis.
But I did have it, and I think the ultimate problem with New York's sister to this den of exquisite iniquity is that it's in perhaps the one place on Earth that truly doesn't believe in that mindset.
(Not that it does the place justice, but this photo provides an overview of the Paris Bar's dining room.)
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Date: May 29th, 2006 03:31 am (UTC)The problem with the shops and clubs etc that are opening now in Manhattan is that they're TRYING to be something, instead of it happening organically. That's why places become what they are. Set the mood, put effort into the ambiance, and then let me either enjoy it or hate it - don't force it down my throat, thank you very much.
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Date: May 29th, 2006 04:56 am (UTC)The problem with the shops and clubs etc that are opening now in Manhattan is that they're TRYING to be something
But isn't that what a lot of New Yorkers are trying to do now, too? Gone are the tought-talking no-nonsense natives and in with the hopelessly trend-conscious upper-middle class who learn all their tricks from Cosmopolitan instead of going down to the fashion district and buying funky things from sidewalk booths. The thing I loved about New York all the times I went there was the devil-may-care way everyone walked and talked, but looking at it a little more closely, they're just a big group trying to take in other people's good ideas even when they clash with their fundamental philosophies. But then, the natural tendency when one comes across a good thing is to try and replicate it, which is actually why I fear a little going back to Buddha-Bar in Paris, because the experience won't be that night ever again. But man, if you get the chance to have it for the first time, don't pass it up.