It was my first real adventure at the Dream Downtown complex. It began with a stroll down Marble Lane, the lobby restaurant. It was all serious steaks, with a staff that makes few mistakes. I was joined by young interior designer and old friend Christian Zavala, who marveled at the well-heeled crowd. The lobby was unlike any hotel lobby I had ever seen. It was a scene. Everybody was mingling with cocktails and intentions.
We scooted up to the roof in an elevator with one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever seen and, of course, all we could talk about was her beautiful and architecturally amazing Alexander McQueen shoes. (Christian had a legitimate excuse and I guess I’m developing into a gentleman as I move farther away from puberty.) The roof was slammed and noticeably more intimate, with new curtains making the skyline a peek-a-boo affair. The DJ and the big-brained and well-mannered Matt Strauss, the hotel’s F & B guy, wanted to show us Nur Khan’s dream come true, Electric Room.
We hop, skipped, and jumped down the Haculla (artist Harif Guzman)-imprinted garage ramp to the hidden gem. There we hung with new friends Adam and Adam as we waited for Nur to give us the tour. He was texting me to stay where he was as he cabbed it from Kenmare. As we waited, I noticed some familiar sights like the Sante D’Orazio photo hiding sweetly behind the DJ booth. His neon from Don Hill’s was there as well. Nur came, he saw us, and showed us what he had conquered. He was particularly proud of his own art decorating the main wall. He has a right too. The beautiful and successful poured in as if some gilded spigot was whooshing them from some fabulous event over there, somewhere. The bold face names that have reportedly splayed themselves on the sumptuous chesterfields are mind boggling. Mick Jagger was mentioned—It’s like that. The intimate room is everything Nur could ask for. It’s a perfect combination of Don Hill’s and Wax and Rose Bar; a place to hang his hat and hang with his rock star friends after Kenmare. If he can give us a show in some ballroom somewhere he will surely reach “Nurvana.”
We rushed back into the night. The streets were jammed with the hoi polloi all pumped up after the big fight. Apparently Floyd Mayweather sucker punched Victor Ortiz and then picked a macho argument with 0ctogenarian announcer Larry Merchant. I gathered bits and pieces as wannabe tough guys relived the affair in both pantomime and loud voices. I dodged more lefts than Mr. Ortiz. The story was relived a thousand times as we wandered the city streets and would be relived again at Kellogg’s Diner when the day beat down the night. I was exhausted after three weeks of non-stop action. Hurricanes, Labor Days and nights and then NYFW left me looking for an early knock out. We hit The Darby, Snap and a few others but I was supposed to be at a thousand can’t-miss events, but, but, but…Brooklyn and its relative calm was tugging at me. I missed the set by that lover not fighter DJ MC Slutbag. It was at Volstead yet another new, hot spot on my nightlife bucket list. I’ll catch them both next time when I’ve had time to recover. I feel like Mr. Ortiz and a little like Mr. Merchant.