Complimentary Glass of DiWine

DiWine
41-15 31st Ave, Astoria

I will confess that (perhaps more than occasionally) I sometimes splurge on a good ol' NYC yellow cab or a pseudo-fancy livery town car, rather than traveling with the masses via public transit.  While I honestly do love the subway and its often sordid cast of underground characters, a cruise home to Astoria via the 59th Street Bridge allows me a front row seat to the most famous skyline in the world, and a welcome reminder that I actually live and work in that most incredible city.  Yeh, yeh... so the N/W line travels above ground in Queens, but you can't roll down the windows in a subway car or inquire the MTA driver's favorite restaurants in the area, can you?

Honest-to-goodness true story: I once became so engulfed in conversation with a driver that he popped in an Andrea Bocelli CD, then pulled over and bought me a banana from a street fruit vendor, and muttered through the opening in the plexiglass divider, "here, I want you to have my banana... ami tomake bhalobashi..." (apparently Bengali for "I love you").  Despite the phallic undertones, it was quite flattering until the man was waiting parked outside my apartment at the same time the following day waving a banana at me...  I've since learned it's unwise to hail a cab directly in front of your place of dwelling, unless you prefer stalkers to know your precise address.  If only I could woo other suitors the way I seem to cast cupid's spell on banana-wielding cab drivers...

I digress...

The point is, when you are willing to change up your routine just a tad, taking an alternate path home, for instance, you just might stumble upon some unexpected surprises.  That's how my roommate, David, and I discovered DiWine.

For months, on a late night cab ride home from Manhattan, David had noticed the dramatic lighting and simple, yet tempting wooden entry to DiWine near the corner of 31st Ave and 42nd street.  When it came time to plan an evening with friends, however, it always seemed to slip our minds as an option, until we'd complain on the cab ride home, "awww, man... we shoulda checked out DiWine... next time..."

The evening before David deserted me for a week's vacation in Rome, he asked if maybe we could try something different... and something that wouldn't break the bank, as well.  I checked DiWine's website, and the price point seemed conducive to David saving his Euros for truffled gnocchi and gelato, so we finally decided to check it out.

Upon stepping through the glass doors, you can't help but instantly inhale the somewhat sensuous ambiance, from the banquette of pillows harnessed to a pole on the wall by leather straps and buckles, to the wine selection displayed in gallows, and the more intimate private booths enclosed with sheer curtains.

We grabbed a seat at the bar, and perused an equally sophisticated and sensual libations menu.  Their bar selection boasts an impressive selection of wines: 23 options at $8 a glass or 60 bottles each only $32.  Do you know how liberating it is to finally choose your grape juice for the evening without wondering if one glass is better than another simply because it costs $3 more, or should you be frugal and order a bottle of the house wine rather than the vintage you really want, but it costs $10 more???

DiWine also offers a generous selection of bottled and draft brews, but the cocktails are what really knocked us out.

Ask about the daily drink specials.  We couldn't get enough of the refreshingly delish house-infused cucumber vodka fauxjito (they offer several other infused vodkas, ranging from mango and strawberry to chocolate).  The special of the day, it was only $5... literally a top-shelf blend with a lower-than-well price tag.

My personal favorite is the Marie la Poire, pear-flavored Grey Goose with rosemary and juniper berry infused simple syrup and a splash of fresh lime.  Absolutely incredible, and proof that you don't need too much in a cocktail if a few simple, smart flavors are showcased properly.

When our third roommate, Matty, called to see where we were, David simply answered with the address, exclaiming, "get here now..."  Our friend, Tarina, also checked in to see where we were, and we soon found ourselves scrolling through our contacts to see who else we could invite to come check out this incredible find.

How had we heard practically nothing of this sophisticated and sexy den of drinks?  When we learned that due to limited space, the cold food was prepared downstairs, and all warm dishes were cooked in the brick oven at the back of the main dining room, we thought maybe we'd finally discovered DiWine's achilles heal.  But were we ever wrong...  This places shines from literally every facet.  And the kitchen is open until 2am...

Featuring an eclectic blend from extreme corners of the globe, the chefs have harnessed the limited space and beautifully painted a masterful spread of both tantalizing tapas (almost all under $10) and exquisite entrees.

Toasted crostini with pan-seared foie gras, topped with sweet fig and a port wine glaze.

Kampachi sashimi of ahi tuna with roasted red peppers and soy dressing.

Seared bay scallops over a red pepper relish, with herb pesto and a citrus vinaigrette.

A simply flawless, tender and buttery brick oven roasted filet mignon smothered with bleu cheese, accompanied by a pyramid of scalloped potatoes and string beans.

How can you go wrong with brick oven pizza for only $10?  We built our own pie with grilled steak, ham, and ricotta (ten bucks actually includes your choice of any 3 toppings!)

Sinfully decadent and surprisingly fluffy chocolate mousse cup with raspberry coulis.

* * * * *

Check out DiWine at 41-15 31st Ave. in Astoria tonight, Tuesday, March 23rd for a complimentary wine tasting (2 reds & 2 whites) with hors d'oeuvres pairings.  Sound too good to be true?  That's what I thought, until I attended their last tasting, and had a genuinely fantastic, free (no strings attached) evening.  Believe it or not, these incredible forays into the world of DiWine are held every other Tuesday, so be sure to mark your calendar for the next one if you can't make it tonight (sometimes the wines are paired with DiWine's artisan cheese selection rather than the warm array of tapas).

Just a few of the highlighted nibbles from the last tasting included:

Scrumptious potato pancakes crowned with smoked salmon and creme fraiche...

Freshly-baked miniature beer pretzels...

Crispy mushroom arancini di riso (fried risotto balls)

* * * * *

(DiWine is owned and run by the owner and family of the highly esteemed, environmentally-friendly GiGi Salon & Styling Studio in Astoria.)

Gettin' pickled at Sweet Afton

There are some strange phobias in the world.  I mean, really far out weird ones...  Sure, you've heard of the common fears, such as heights, darkness, flying, creepy crawlies, storms, water, and public speaking.  Have you heard of Arachibutyrophobia?  It's the fear of peanut butter sticking to the roof of your mouth.  I tremble even typing the word cibophobia, which is the fear of food.  Simply unfathomable.

One of my dearest friends, David, is haunted by what I consider to be one of the stranger of the freaky phobias.  He suffers from Tristadekaphobia, a fear of pickles.   I don't mean a simple aversion to pickles.  No,  a legitimate crippling fear of pickles.  He cannot see them, smell them, and certainly never taste them, without tragic effects.  If a sandwich is delivered with a spear, wedge, or slice, it is immediately sent back to the kitchen unless a friend promptly transfers it to his own plate.


When David first opened up to me about his phobia, I couldn't resist calling his bluff.  I purchased a rather hearty gherkin from the bodega, and upon arriving at the piano bar where our friends had gathered, inconspicuously slipped the green giant to our waitress, and whispered, "can you put this in a pint glass, and give it to the guy over there in the argyle cardigan when you deliver his drink?"  She snickered, but played along.


When his gimlet was followed by a pickle pint, I was appalled by his reaction.  Before it even hit the table, he leapt from his chair, and stormed out of the bar.  The pickle had literally evoked fear and anger. David hadn't been kidding me.  He was actually afraid of pickles!  Sound absurd?  Watch the following clip from Maury Povich...

That having been said, this past week my dear friend finally faced his fear.  I do not exaggerate when I tell you that it took nothing short of a miracle.  That miracle was Sweet Afton, one of the newest additions to the Astoria scene, and quite possibly one of my favorite pubs anywhere in any of the five boroughs.

Only open since late last summer, Sweet Afton already buzzes like a longtime favorite neighborhood watering hole.  Created by the owners of Wilfie & Nell in the West Village, Sweet Afton simply hits the mark from every angle.  The pub is named partially after a poem about the Afton Water in Scotland, written and set to music by Robert Burns (performed below by Nickel Creek, featuring images of the actual Aftom Water).

Coincidentally, Sweet Aftons were also a brand of Irish cigarettes... which is only appropriate, considering the previous manifestation of this Astoria location was a tobacconist.

Upon entering, don't wait for a hostess to escort you (although the extremely welcoming staff will help you find a suitable spot to settle if you ask them).  There are no reservations, no formal waiting list, and primarily communal seating.  We were immediately struck by the decor of exposed brick, minimal exposed dim light bulbs, all reclaimed wood, a bar that runs the span of most of the front room (yes, they have a back dining room and patio, as well), but best of all... no televisions.  Truly a place to gather with old friends and meet new ones without distractions.

The 2009 Best of Astoria Awards gave Sweet Afton top honors in three categories: Best Bar Food, Best Looking Staff, and Best New Addition.  It was literally a combination of all three that led to the initial stages of David's recovery.

We first sat a table in the back dining room for dinner, and instantly developed a crush on our waitress.  She was supermodel stunning, sweet, sincere, helpful, and clearly loves her job at Sweet Afton.

The menu is extremely simple, and is built from ingredients sourced entirely from local purveyors.  Other than the cheese plate (at a whopping $12), nothing on the menu is more than $8!!!  We started with the Irish Sausage Rolls, which were three hearty and tender sausages baked in a flaky, buttery pastry, accompanied by HP sauce (known as brown sauce in the UK).  Both David and I agreed that these blew any other pigs-in-a-blanket entirely out of the water.  We came back for them the next night, as a matter of fact...

Next, we enjoyed an absolutely divine Mac & Cheese with doubled smoked Brooklyn bacon.  It was a cast iron skillet of macaroni blanketed in Irish cheddar, Muenster, and Gruyere (from Murray's Cheese Shop on the Lower East Side).

For the following course, we shared a Sweet Afton burger on country white bun... and yes, David absolutely squirmed at the pickles, which I had to immediately remove and hide from sight.

You can tell from the photo just how fresh and perfect each component was...  It was, hands down, the best pub food we have enjoyed in awhile.  And the hand cut french fries with malt vinegar would be nearly impossible to improve.

We settled our tab, but had fallen so in love with our newest discovery that we weren't quite yet ready to part ways.  Two seats had opened at the bar, and so we plopped down for a post-grub pint.  That's when we met the bartender.  I previously mentioned that we were already infatuated with our waitress, and now we were in a conundrum, as our bartender was one of the most handsome, kind, and simply sexy guys we have met (and that's a word I don't really use to describe men).

He asked if we needed menus, and we explained that we had just enjoyed the food, but simply wanted to wash it down.

"Oh, did you love the fried pickles?"

David and I laughed, but sparing him any embarrassment of explanation, we simply said we hadn't tried them.

"Well, then you absolutely have to try the pickle back shot!"

Upon noticing that David had neither flinched nor flown from the bar, I decided to seize the opportunity.

"You really recommend it?" I asked.

"Oh, yeh... I thought I'd hate it, but it's my absolute favorite...  You have to try it."

He smiled, we melted, and well...

That's a shot of whiskey with a chaser of spiced pickle juice from McClure's Pickles in Brooklyn.  And though David didn't order a second round of shots, he did finish the one... and without too much of a fuss.

"Let's go for it," I laughed.  "Give us an order of the fried pickles!"

While we waited for the basket of beer-battered pickle slices, I sent text messages to all of our friends, and even proclaimed the miracle on my Facebook status update.  Anyone who knew David in any capacity most certainly knew of his phobia, and would be shocked beyond belief by the news.

To David's credit, he did try one fried pickle (they were absolutely delicious, salty, and smoky).  While neither I nor the dreamy bartender could convince him to try the Dirty Pickle Martini, I was immeasurably proud of his growth that night (though I most wholeheartedly recommend the martini, which David at least tasted).

It sounds corny, but when it was time to leave we had shared some incredible pub food, delicious drinks, and felt like we had really discovered an Astoria gem.  And it hadn't cost us very much at all.  We thanked the bartender, and went back to find the waitress to say goodbye, where we found her rolling silverware.  

Over the span of a few hours and only a few drinks, not only had David tried a pickle for the first time, but he loved the service so much that he was voluntarily helping with the sidework!

A truly unique and welcome addition to the neighborhood, Sweet Afton is located at the corner of 30th Ave and 34th St a few blocks off of the N or W train.

My group Valentine's date with Bradley Cooper...

Before elaborating on my exceptionally enjoyable Valentine's Day this year, I want to momentarily reflect on the last one I shared in my most recent relationship.  If you are at all like me (and it seems so many of my friends), Valentine's Day rarely quite fully lives up to all the hype.  While you can always take for granted that a heart-shaped cardboard box with Russell Stover embossed on it will contain chocolate candies, you never truly know ahead of time whether you're biting into buttery caramel or plasticky imitation orange nougat.

I've heard the argument from every angle, and of course there are exceptions.  However, as an old-fashioned midwestern boy who actually does still fervently believe in chivalry (even ask my roommates -- I always hold the door so they can enter a taxi first -- and not just because I hate crawling, I swear...), and endangered notions such as romance, whim, and creatively expressing affection and intimacy, let me just say up front that usually, Valentine's Day sucks serious toilet water.

For that infamous final Valentine's Day celebrated with my (now ex) fiance (to whom I shall refer as "D"), he insisted on taking the reigns... much to my hesitation and chagrin.  Don't get me wrong; for literally any other cause for celebration, D's generosity could exponentially shame the Magi of Bethlehem.  He was, on most occasions, an exceptional master of gift-giving.

Consider, for instance, my first semester of teaching second grade in the South Bronx.  After conducting a grueling night of parent-teacher conferences that hadn't gone so well, I came home to D waiting in the doorway in a three-piece suit.  "Put your bags down, baby..."  He straightened my tie, hailed a cab, and whisked me off to a luxurious dinner at one of New York's highest Zagat-rated Italian trattorias, where he proceeded to give me my own personal conference of everything I had done that made him love me.

For my thirtieth birthday, I arrived home from work to D in a towel with shaving foam all over his face.  "While I finish getting ready, open the card on the fireplace mantle..."  He grinned, and retreated to the bathroom to continue shaving.  The card contained a clue, which led me to the Starbucks down the block, where our favorite barista, Vivienne, pulled the next clue from her bright green apron.

D had spent the entirety of the day plotting out an elaborate, grand-scale scavenger hunt zigzagging across Manhattan, where bartenders, bodega cashiers, and even a computer technician awaited with clues and riddles to solve. The final hint came from a word scramble I'd had to print from a computer screen at the Kinko's on 72nd and Columbus, and led me to one of our favorite restaurants in the Meatpacking District, where 20 of my closest friends awaited as a surprise.

D had apparently signed a contract with the restaurant, weeks in advance, which included printing up menus for the party in the same font as the main dining room offerings, under the heading, "Bradley's Birthday Prix Fixe."  In planning the menu he'd even considered my on-again-off-again-vegan friend, Doreen (who spent the meal neurotically itching at the scarlet hives polka-dotting her neck and chest, as she had insisted on the provencal steamed mussels in lieu of the beet salad, despite her violent shellfish allergy).  All in all, it was by far my best birthday since my Madonna roller skating party in the fourth grade.

The year we couldn't spend Christmas day together because he was in Prague with his family, a lavish array of beautifully wrapped gifts waited for me under the tree at my parents' house in Indiana, all of which D had shipped days in advance of my own arrival home.

I could go on, but the point is, he inarguably knew how to make me feel like a king.

Any other day of the year.

But for some reason, the cursed 14th of February found him caught like a deer in headlights, incapable of even merely selecting a tacky Shoebox greeting card.

D had notoriously botched previous February fortnights to horrific degrees, and apparently sought an opportunity to make amends.  Against my better judgment, I gave him complete freedom, except for one stipulation: I did not want to dine somewhere that we knew someone on the staff.

As enthusiastic diners, we had built a fairly healthy repertoire of restaurants where we knew managers, cooks, hosts, servers, even members of the cleaning crew.  While I ordinarily enjoyed nurturing those friendships, I felt we were long overdue for an intimate, romantic one-on-one, free of chit chat about a manager's move from Astoria to Washington Heights, or catching up on the latest bickering between a server and the insensitive sous chef.

We lived in New York City, after all, and there were a seemingly infinite number of restaurants we had yet to try.  I even suggested we not leave home at all, avoiding what now appeared as inevitable recurring tragedy, celebrating with some delivered sushi and a rental movie; but D smiled at me, and assured me that I needed to simply cool-it and exhibit some faith.

Fast forward to us checking in for a reservation at one of D's favorite restaurants.

"Brad... now I know what you said... but Cam is managing tonight, and she simply insisted that we come in for a romantic evening."

I wanted to scream, flip a table, and whack the rose (he had moments before purchased from a homeless man) across the host stand, but I took a deep breath and acknowledged that this was, in fact, where we were.  I could throw a tantrum and spoil the entire evening, or make the best of it and see what a wonderful date might unfold with the man I loved.

This is what happened...

After arriving fifteen minutes early, yet waiting thirty minutes past our reservation time, we were finally seated at the only table that had, in fact, been available since we walked in the door forty-five minutes prior.

Our server (I shall dub her Lucy -- short for Lucifer) was a vertically-challenged, frumpy, bitter man-hater (in your mind's eye, visualize Rachel Dratch's much less attractive, goth-punk, lesbian, younger sister; then whap her over the noggin a few more times with the ugly stick, and now you've pictured her).  Lucy persisted that none of the specialty cocktails were worthwhile, I believe, simply because I had exhibited über-excitement about the holiday concoctions advertised on the menu insert.

"Should I just stick with the passion cosmo, then?" I inquired.  "I always like it here..."

She muttered some cursing, along with an erectile dysfunction spell under her breath, and then glared at me from beneath her draping unibrow, "no, even that tastes like crap tonight... grrrr..."

Soon after finally settling on two glasses of Chianti, and placing our order from the Valentine's-Day/Extended-Restaurant-Week prix fixe menu, Cam (our manager friend who had been nowhere to be found while we were waiting for our alleged reservation) finally popped her head out of the kitchen, spotted us, and came galloping over.

"Hey guys!  Oh, I am so glad you came in!  I finally got my new bed moved... Ohmigosh... who's your server?  Lucy?  She's my favorite... isn't she great?  Let me send some extra appetizers out for you. Lucy!  Come here... add the polenta fries, the lobster risotto, the calamari... oh, and give them samples of that yummy featured cocktail, Cupid's Kiss..."  Lucy's head spun around a few times, and she zipped away to violently punch the order on the computer touchscreen with what sounded like concrete fingertips.

Before we knew it, Cam had pulled a chair up to our table, ordered a cocktail, and settled in for a romantic evening with her two gay boyfriends.  "Bradley... why didn't you get the passion cosmo... I thought it was your favorite???"

Our bitter bar wench, Lucy, slammed down two martini glasses of Cupid's Kiss. On this, I will concede that she hadn't really exaggerated.  The raspberry chocolate martini was topped with a mango foam, which looked more like the bartender had swished Citrus Listerine between his teeth, and then spit it out as a garnish.

By now, D had begun sweating profusely, and couldn't even manage eye contact with me.  We had been together for four years at that point, and this was rapidly unfolding to be his worst flubbed attempt.  Ever.  Avoiding my glare, he whispered nervously to my forehead, "honey... there is a call I have to take... for work... it's extremely important... do you mind?"

Before I could respond, he had already excused himself from the table and made a beeline for the door.  At this stage in the evening, I had traveled beyond frustration and disappointment, now reveling in the fact that I had already hands-down won our post-dinner discussion of, "see... you need to trust me to set up an evening, without telling me where we shouldn't go..."

For the following twenty-minute-slice-of-eternity, I watched in disbelief as Cam chugged three Cupid's Kisses, then ravenously nibbled from every dish in our spread like a famished refugee set loose at the Old Country Buffet.  Her shift apparently over, we discussed her new bed and new neighborhood, the discord between her staff and the grumpy sous chef, as well as the extensive menu changes coming down the road.  By the time D finally resurfaced from outside, each plate on the table had been licked dry, except his sirloin (from which Cam had even helped herself to two hearty pieces).

"Oh, hey!  That's my boyfriend outside..." Cam giggled, as a sirloin niblet shot from her mouth."Thank you guys so much for letting me join you, but we have reservations at this new restaurant neither of us have tried... I'm so excited!"  And with a click of her heels, she was on her way to what was probably the perfect Valentine's Day dinner.

We sat in silence for the remainder of the meal.  When Lucy slapped the check in front of me, I nearly spewed my last gulp of Chianti backwash across the table.  Not only had she charged us for our meals, but also the extra items Cam had ordered for the table, as well as her cocktails.

Our sadistic server genuinely smiled for the first time.  Cam had neglected to give Lucy the manager's card to void those items off as complimentary, and had failed to mention it to the other managers, as well.

I also genuinely smiled for the first time that evening, as I slid the check presenter across the table to D.

"I think I'll let you pick this one up tonight... thanks, honey..."

* * * * * * *

Needless to say, this year when I received a text message that seven of my favorite guy friends were gathering for an anti-Valentine pub crawl across Manhattan's lower east side, I was all too eager to RSVP my confirmation.  A quick glance at the roster of guys in our caravan was enough to make anybody envious... man, woman, gay, straight, or curious...

Why subscribe to an overly-hyped Hallmark holiday with one person to whom you should be expressing affection year-round, when I could spend a spontaneous evening with not one, but seven attractive, driven, talented, hilarious men who love me for what's on the inside, and aren't expecting me to put out at the end of the night?  Furthermore, if one bar or restaurant was awful, we planned to simply pogo around to wherever the wind carried us.

By this point, I should probably explain the title of this entry: "My group Valentine's date with Bradley Cooper."  While that is not entirely true, it isn't completely false, either.  One of my friends in our group played Bradley Cooper's butt-double in the recent movie, "New York, I Love You."

Honest.  And yes, I said butt-double.  How many of your friends can boast that on their resume?

Though it saddens me to spoil the magic of Hollywood, if your palms got a little sweaty during the brief love scene with Bradley Cooper, it was my friend's bare derriere upon which you were gazing, not Bradley Cooper's.  How hot of a pooper must you possess to be cast to "butt in" for one of Hollywood's sexiest A-listers?!  Though he shall remain nameless, you can try to guess from the picture below (I hadn't yet had enough to drink at this point to ask the group for a shot of their cabooses...)

The point is, I found myself surrounded by some of the most lovable, charming, and incredible friends a guy could have.  Though we have all been in relationships, and hope to again in the future, it felt good to celebrate our individuality and the dreams we are pursuing.  Besides the butt-double (who is also quickly becoming an accomplished stage and screen actor), our group contained an independent musician who regularly does gigs around the city, two other successfully working actors, two managers... basically, all men who are making a living pursuing their passions in New York City.

While I will never, ever poo-poo love or having a special someone, this Valentine's Day reminded me that even while enjoying a successful relationship, it's so important to celebrate our unique gifts and dreams as individuals.  

If you ever want to plan a night focusing on a group of friends, here are some of the locations that we enjoyed that evening...

Our group slowly began to gather at Spitzer's Corner, a gastropub on the corner of Rivington and Ludlow.  They offer a unique selection of over 40 high-quality beers, and a menu that will keep you ordering beer after small plate after beer after small plate.  The open air room was lined with long communal tables, full of laughter and lively group conversation.

A dutch oven with steamed mussels and clams, in a saffron white wine broth, full of tiny, plump spaetzle noodles.

The beer-battered calamari and shrimp fritters with cilantro-lemon aioli disappeared instantly.

No bar snack makes a boy happier than macaroni with parmegiano reggiano, white cheddar, fontina, truffles, panko, rosemary, and thyme...

Our next stop was Paladar, a no-frills Spanish restaurant just down the street.  The menu here was a little hit-or-miss, but it was a good intermediate place to grab small plates for sharing... and affordable drinks.  Let me forewarn you to communicate your spice threshold upfront.

My roommate, David, had to abruptly excuse himself for a mid-chips-and-guacamole walk around the block to cool his tongue.  I will acknowledge that David responds to an extra sprinkle of cracked black pepper the way the average person would to a tablespoon of wasabi smeared on their tongue.  In his defense, however, even the things we requested mild came out with a lot of extra zip.

The Vampiro was a hibiscus margarita with chile-salted rim.  If the food and salt had not packed such a zing, I might have actually tasted the hibiscus flower nectar.  The balance of flavors was quite disproportionate, so I'd recommend just a classic Patron margarita.

The tacos were simple and delicious.  Above were my favorite, featuring perfectly grilled swordfish skewers.

I also enjoyed the empanadas with goat cheese and mushrooms.  Again, nothing particularly extraordinary about the dish.  Sometimes, a few simple delicious flavors are all you need.

After Paladar, we walked around the corner to one of the bars that always strikes me as oddly misplaced, yet a riotous time... Mason Dixon.  I suppose that in light of the holiday, the management hadn't anticipated a crowded bar.  Unfortunately, they were extremely understaffed and drinks took nearly 20 minutes.  But we did stick around long to enjoy our friend being bucked by the mechanical bull.  We've never had a problem with service before, so I'll chalk it up to poor business speculation from the managers.  Ordinarily, it's the perfect bar to head with a group of friends.  And since we had already planned on moving around, it wasn't that big of a deal to gallivant elsewhere...

After pints of beer, tequila, and an electronic cow, we were happy to settle in for awhile at the Whiskey Ward.  We found ourselves in trouble when the specials board advertised $7 for a can of Pabst Blue Ribbon accompanied by a shot.  Let's just say the bartender seemed to like us...  He eventually handed us a box of PBR, and said, "enjoy!"

Try the AK47, a shot of vodka accompanied by an espresso-dusted lemon wedge.  The website details their other nightly drink specials, including whiskey flights featuring three 1oz pours.  This was the ideal watering hole to end the night, pulling together a few tables, enjoying baskets of peanuts, and toasting to the gathering of incredible friends.  It was a beautiful reminder that sometimes if you go out with no itinerary beyond surrounding yourself in great company, you are guaranteed to exceed your expectations...

Musical Monday with Laura Bell Bundy...

What do you get when you combine vodka + a disco ball + the one night of the week that most Broadway theaters are dark?  You guessed it... a room full of chorus boys crooning show tunes. Add to that a 2,000 square-foot dance floor lined with industrial cabaret tables, surrounded by enormous video screens playing every musical theater clip imaginable, and it doesn't get much campier on a Monday.

Every Monday is Musical Monday at Splash, the famous nightclub in the heart of Chelsea.  If you arrive before 10pm, there's no cover charge.  And the downstairs bar features two-for-one drink specials, as well as smaller video screens... 

Musical theater videos begin playing at 7pm.  Be sure to look around as you enjoy the tunes, because when someone nearby is doing the full choreography to a particular number, it's most likely because they are in the actual cast.  On past Mondays, we've seen Patti LuPone, the casts of [title of show], Rent, The Little Mermaid, even the cast of Ugly Betty.  

Last night, for example, a spunky little blonde bombshell was spotted shaking her hips to "So Much Better" from Legally Blonde.  As soon as the video ended, the DJ introduced Laura Bell Bundy to the stage.  

Having recently left Broadway (Legally Blonde, Hairspray, and Wicked) to pursue a country music career in Nashville, she was here to promote her new single, "Giddy On Up."  She took a moment to express gratitude for the support she has received from the gay community, and then introduced her new single.

Take a pause to watch her video.  It's silly, incredibly sexy, and downright infectious...

Afterwards, she stayed at the club and mingled with the audience for a few hours.  Laura Bell Bundy was every bit as adorable and approachable as you could hope for her to be.  It was a real pleasure to meet her, and a refreshing surprise to see a Broadway star before the live Curtain Call actually began.  Click here (and use code "LBBCOOTR" in all caps) for a free download of her single, Giddy On Up.

Shortly after meeting Laura Bell, we ordered a refresher round from one of the newest members of the Splash bar staff, Scott.  It's hard to believe he was my baby brother's college housemate in Indiana, and in just a year has already tackled an off-Broadway role, and is now shaking things up at one of Manhattan's biggest clubs.  If you stop in on a Monday, be sure to say hello to Scott.

Beyond the celebrity appearances and the buff bartenders, the fun of musical Mondays is watching a roomful of Broadway fans singing and dancing to the most random compilation of songs.  The drunken syncopated clapping during West Side Story is hilarious, and Wicked always inspires some booze-loosened theater fanatic to mount a table and impersonate Elphaba or Glinda.

The climax of the night begins at the conclusion of the Dreamgirls montage.  When Jennifer Holliday begins her emotionally-charged origination of "And I Am Telling You,"  you know that a live performance is next. 

Hosted by the absolutely hilarious and insanely talented Emily McNamara, the Curtain Call portion of the evening features authentic Broadway talent performing usually five or six songs.  If you are fortunate enough, you'll even hit the occasional night that features the astounding vocal and comedic acrobatics of Emily McNamara herself.

Curtain Call alone makes the $10 cover charge worthwhile if you don't make it before 10pm.  Last night was one of my absolute favorites, and fairly frequent regular to Musical Mondays at Splash...  Shayna Steele (Rent, as well as Bette Midler's show in Vegas).  There's a bit of annoying banter at the beginning of the clip I captured, but once she settles into the song... watch out.  This woman can holler something insane. I hope you enjoy!

Musical Mondays is a weekly party at Splash in New York City, produced (and occasionally still hosted) by the exceedingly charming, handsome, and talented Scott Nevins.  Though his numerous NYC fans unfortunately now have to settle for regular visits (since his move to the west coast), he can be seen each Thursday on "The Smoking Gun Presents" on TruTV.  For Los Angeles musical theater fanatics, he now co-hosts and co-produces "The Star Spot" during Musical Mondays at the Eleven Nightclub.