The Carlyle

If you haven’t read the Frick Collection post, know that was the pre-funk before we made it to The Carlyle. But first: we stopped at The Mark. It was good. Not much of the same history, even though the atmosphere had that celebrity feel, security in tight formation at the front and lobby entrances. The bar inside the restaurant of The Mark is more of a mood than the front lobby bar, so there’s that.

But this post is about The Carlyle.

One more thing: I’m writing this hungover, on a train to Fairfield, Connecticut that we hopped on solely because it said “New Haven” and New Haven is in Connecticut. That’s the extent of our planning. (Visiting a childhood friend).

Ok. The Carlyle.

We were seated right away in the classic Bemelmans Bar—which is different than the Café Carlyle (where the performances are). I’m looking forward to Tony Danza in the fall.

If you don’t know what The Carlyle Hotel is, let alone the bar, and you’re a hospitality geek, watch the documentary Always at The Carlyle. It’s one of those hotels… old from the hallways to Hollywood.

At this point I had a proper buzz from the martini at the Frick. Our server, I trusted him (he had a mustache) and 16 years at the Carlyle. When it came to my cocktail order: “Anything you want to bring me.” He asked for preferences. “None.” At a certain point, alcohol is just drugs disguised as whiskey, vodka, tequila, rum—handcrafted this, single-origin that—nah. It’s all the same. He said, “I like people like you,” turned once more, and gave me a look that said he saw me.

Ashley and I sat behind the piano player, about three people lengths back. At the end of each medley, we clapped, prompting a few more claps from surrounding tables. I know how hard it is to play, let alone in front of strangers.

To our left: a mother and daughter enjoying a glass of champagne.

To our right, then center, then top-right-center: a heavier-set gentleman, dressed well but clearly posturing for something. Sure enough, after he took his final seat, a much younger, dark-haired, put-together woman approached his table, sat, and smiled big.

At the same time, our server (I think his name was Menton) brought over our drinks, Ashley, a martini; me, a Manhattan-esque cocktail. I took one sip, Menton hovering. “Nailed it.” I let him know I wasn’t bullshitting. He walked away pleased. Ashley and I clinked glasses. Our New York night was underway.

The man in front of us handed a small card in an envelope to the woman. She opened it. Took about 20 seconds to read its contents. Looked up, lovingly it seemed. The two proceeded to talk more intimately than before. The man tried, in vain, to get closer, but his size made that tricky, even though the cocktail tables we were all seated at weren’t more than 23 inches in diameter. In that moment, I thought: I need to stay fit. Or get fit. I forget which.

Between NYC, Ashley, the piano, and the couple, I downed that first cocktail.

I was a little miffed the whiskey went down so fast, and the dark cherry followed. I glanced at the mother/daughter sipping their champagne and said to Ashley, “Let’s get a glass.” She reminded me: my drink came with a sidecar (extra pour on ice), hidden behind the nuts and crackers. Score.

Unfortunately, that went down quickly too. Biology, or is it physiology—hit, so I made my way to the restroom. I was escorted (that’s how real hospitality is done, if they walk you vs. point, you’re in a good place).

In the restroom, I made quick conversation with a gentleman who was “lucky,” as he put it, to pee. Meanwhile, I’m free as a bird. A reminder of health, youth, and life.

On the way back, I bumped into the piano player and told him how good he was. I also relayed how Ashley—side note: I don’t like saying “wife,” she’s an independent person, not property —told me the reason he was so good was he had 40 years to my 4.

He smirked and said in that old-timey Hollywood voice: “Sure, kid.”

Or at least that’s how I remembered it.

Back at the table, Ashley and I both at peak buzz, we ordered two glasses of Taittinger. We toasted, grabbed the check, and stole the pen.

Once outside the hotel, we looked back at the signature Carlyle awning, both thinking of our good fortune and how we’d just conquered a 7-Wonders-of-the-World type feat—New York City edition.

Will we be back? Yes, for a show. Is it a regular haunt? Eh.

We’ll be back for Danza.

And maybe one day—my own act.

(Our own act, if she’ll join me.)

We turned to each other and, in unison, knew exactly where we were headed next.

Pete’s Tavern.