NoMad Bar

10 W. 28th St nr Broadway, Flatiron

The Place: I’d been wanting to go to NoMad Bar since it opened, and especially after it was rated best bar in the city in some article by some magazine that screams faux importance (probz NY Mag)*. Also my bartending bud Hector says he would work there, so I was like, done.                        
The Time: Tuesday March 15, around 8:30pm. I took a class with a casting director at a studio nearby; the boyfriend was busy working, so I had an hour and half to kill and decided to treat myself to an expensive drink (anything more than $12 is expensive for me, and this one would cost me $16 sans tip).

The Vibe: Swanky flatiron hotel, which is what you’d expect from a bar inside the NoMad Hotel. The bar was smaller than I expected, I had to walk through a sea of people in suits sitting at tables in order to get to the bar all the way in the back, which was pretty awkward considering I had my backpack the size of a great dane puppy strapped to my back. More suits to wade through in order to get to the actual bar to get a menu, and I had to do a bunch of hovering before I nabbed an upholstered bar stool/chair contraption. Once there, the bar itself is super nice, high ceilings so it’s not claustrophobic even when a clusterfuck of finance bros are unwinding with their old fashioneds after a hard day’s work doing whatever it is they do.

The Bartender: The lads and lasses in the maroon aprons know what’s up. I chatted with the one lady behind the stick and we griped about idiot bartenders who don’t know how to make a negroni, or worse, those who try to shake one.

The Drank: The Montauk; a variation on a classic negroni, with navy strength gin and punt e mes playing with both blanc and sweet vermouths. Yum. The menu was stacked with drinks I’d drink, and they separate the vast array into categories like “classics” and “our classics” and “adventurous” and “refreshing bubblies” (I made these up, but you get the idea).                             
Was I Hit On? With the best pickup line I’ve ever gotten. As I took out my magazine (NY Mag, don’t judge) and started reading, the guy in the upholstered stool/chair next to me nudged me on the shoulder, and said, “So you read.” I said, “I am literate, yes.” He didn’t understand why I wasn’t flattered by his keen observation skills, so he turned to his finance pal and knew not to try to talk to me again.                                                                                                                                             
Should You Drink Here Alone? Yes? But I’d go earlier, when it’s less suity and you can read in peace.


*Just kidding, it was Time Out NY, but I was really close