How about Me?
As a lapsed Jew with lapsed morals, drinking on rooftops is as close as I'll come to heaven. That's fine by me: I consider eternal paradise sipping a cold Bud on a hot rooftop, high above the city, with the clouds close enough to kiss.
In the sky, you feel like a king of the concrete jungle, even before deluding yourself with drinks. And this season offers new options for rooftop delusions: SoHo's recently opened A60 promises cloud-scraping splendor?but its members-only guest list is more exclusive than the pearly gates. The Flatiron's new 230 Fifth, however, offers equal brilliance-360-degree Midtown views-and less velvet rope. Supposedly.
The palm-tree-covered deck is a Miami-like oasis. About 500 partiers relax on an ocean of wood benches and garden chairs. They imbibe jazz-era cocktails and munch Malaysian dim sum devised by Fatty Crab's Zak Pelaccio. On recent blue-sky evening, I stroll there with schoolgirl giddiness-crushed by these seven words:
"I'm sorry, but you can't come in," the hulking security guard says, blocking my entrance.
"Excuse me?" A stream of I-bankers and their beloved blondes enter.
"You can't wear?that," he says, motioning to my outfit: dark jeans, tooth-white slip-on Vans and crisp button-down.
"What's wrong?" I ask.
"Dress up, not dress down." He nods at a sign repeating his directive. No torn jeans. No ball caps. No sneakers.
"Vans are the apex of fashion," I explain. He experiences temporary deafness. I leave, defeated. A stubborn man would return with spit-shined shoes. But why? Dressing fancy for rooftops runs counter to logic. It's about cut-offs! Flip-flops! Tube tops! The point is forgetting about the sweaty city, not feeling bad that you don't fit in.
In nearby Little Korea, luckily, sits the egalitarian Me'Bar (Korean for "mountaintop bar"). It's located inside the budget-priced La Quinta Inn, where rooms start at 89 smackers. I walk inside, hoping to avoid a draconian gatekeeper.
"Uh, how do I get to the rooftop?" I ask a lobby guard. He's reading a tabloid article about murder. "Do I have to, you know, do anything special?"
"Huh?" he asks, confused. "Get in the elevator and push a button. Fourteen. You push 14."
"And I can go dressed like this?" I smile, trying to sex up my subpar product.
"What? Yeah, yeah; you're fine," he says, shrugging.
Elated, I enter the elevator. I'm joined by briefcase-carrying Japanese businessmen and a hubby-wife tourist duo-La Quinta's target clientele. "Man, Central Park sure wore out my doggies," the husband says, pointing to his sneakered feet.
The elevator opens on floor 14. A tinny Moby song leads me, Pied Piper?like, to a glassed-in, tiled bar. It looks like a waiting room in a Des Moines, Iowa, airport. Avoid this, and step onto the jaunty, studio-apartment-sized wooden deck. White-picket fencing (tall enough to dissuade suicide leapers), pillow-strewn benches and verdant plants set the scene, as drinkers congregate at plastic tables. Mushroom-like water towers sprout across the skyline. Peek through them for a bird's-eye view of the Empire State Building.
"That's one heck of a structure," says a woman with frizzy, Richard Simmons hair. She leans back, pours wine down her throat and smiles. "It sure is pretty up here."
That it is, especially with bottled beers like Anchor Steam, Sol, Brooklyn Lager and Stella Artois just $4 or $5 until 8 p.m. (afterward, add a dollar), while wine and mixed drinks are only $6. Short of chugging a brown-bagged brew, you won't find such paltry rooftop drink prices.
Food-wise, Me'Bar curbs appetites with bottomless fresh-popped popcorn. Even better, local restaurants deliver to the tippy-top. Peruse the menu offerings, which include my favorite, Mandoo Bar-order the kimchi dumplings, please. They'll blunt the pain of not eating Pelaccio's extravagantly flavored-and priced-Asian nibbles.
Is this a forced compromise: settling for a Pepsi when craving a Coke? Maybe, especially when 230 Fifth stays open until 4 a.m., while Me'Bar boots you at midnight. Plus, there's little glamour to drinking at La Quinta beside gape-jawed tourists. Me'Bar is no scene setter; that's 230 Fifth's custom-built role. No, Me' is a dependable, affordable, rarefied refuge. A chair is always available. Drink prices are a steal. It may not be heaven, but after a long day toiling in Midtown, it comes damn near close.
212-290-2460
212-725-4300