The Standard--Manhattan

212.645.4646

Boy oh boy a fancy pants dinner at the Standard. I generally try to stay away from such dazzling hot restaurants, as I am far too much of an asshole and do not belong. And the Standard is the place so I've been told which is why I'd never been. But one of my wives wanted to go, and what sort of Husband would I be not to satisfy her every whim?

A place like the Standard reminds me of why I am a misanthrope by nature, as everyone there is good looking, rich, or both. It reminds me that outside of my tiny little fiefdom, the city is teeming with people that don't consider a night out worth it unless they're at the place where everyone else wants to be. It's a worthy case study in sociology, but studies such as these are always performed by people like me: on the outside looking in. The people on the inside know they're on the inside, and thus have no reason to question why. We were able to score a lovely table in the dining room as long as we weren't late to our 6:15 pm Friday evening reservation, nearly a late lunch. The waiting list for a more reasonable hour was weeks and weeks, so we sucked it up and left work early.

Immediately I was reminded how a well run restaurant should be: the host told us that we had until 8:15 pm, so don't dally with dinner. This prompt, attentive service underscored the entire experience (that is until we went up stairs to the bar) but we never felt rushed, a testament to their overall polish. The food was acceptable for the price. We decided to split dishes, and selected the quail, the venison, as starters, and the trout and brazino as entrees with some brussel sprouts and duck fat potatoes. We finished up with oversized portions of cheesecake and Pecan Pie. As the menu changes daily I don't know if these were stalwarts or whether they were experiments but were executed well, though, the brussel sprouts were without a doubt the best thing we had. All in all, my socks were still on my feet considering it was $250 for two three-course meals and a decent bottle of red.

One nice feature that I must point out is the waiter gave us a free glass of grunervetliner for our fish. We had selected a heavy red wine, and it did not pair well at all. In fact, it paired so poorly that I actually noticed that it paired poorly, much like a blind man saying the color is off. My point is, this guy hooked us up out of genuine concern for our experiece. We were joking around--I believe an off-colored aside about anal sex kicked off our relationship--but it was nice to have someone be personable and generous but at the same time totally professional and respectful of his craft.

After dinner the menonite server, no really, his Grandmother was omish, recommended we visit the bar upstairs. The bar closes at 9:00 but reopens late night as an ultra swank lounge. Evidently their is a VIP bathroom where things get a little wierd. For all of the earnestness we experienced downstairs, we saw nothing but pretension and general loserdom associated with the Meat Packing District upstairs. The prices ($50 for two whiskey's) the jokey airplane stewardesses and nero jacket attendants, the douchebaginess of the the patronage, and the fact that a VIP bathroom even exists, all extoll an accurate first impression that this place would never be my scene despite the stunning view.

I suppose that it's awfully presumptious of me to assume that anyone who frequents the Standard would give two squirts for my opinions, but perhaps this was written to warn the would-be sociologist. I have no doubt that the restaurant will eventually lose it's busyness and settle into a great place to take out of town guests, as I am also assured of the eventual lameness of the upstairs bar. And I suppose with the comfortable nugget of self-assuredness, I can sleep at night.