“NOBODY NEEDS TO KNOW THE PRICE OF YOUR SAAB”
Gabriel Kuri and one fine brand of Tequila get the Arts in pre-emptive Armory revelry mode at the Top of the Standard.
It’s Monday night with a chill, not my favorite, as it brings to mind that contrary to my current perception this is not the dead of winter but merely the tip of its calling card, that this sad state of affairs – double-huddled over myself to take the few steps out of the cab, too cold to give my $0.75 cigarette the dignified end it deserves – is not only going to intensify but also promises to stretch endlessly into view for another five long months – practically the end of my life, I reckon.
Well my early-week morosity thawed in proportion to the tip of my nose as I gazed at the eerily hypnotic Wonderland video-montage haunting the otherwise pitch-black elevator. Even before you reach the 18th floor, you know your friends at The Armory have you pegged for a truly civilized evening. The Un-boom-boom-roomed decadence hall that exists at the top of the standard is a most welcoming haven, all glossy, padded whites and polished natural wood, fire-placed little nooks nesting around the original peacock bar, the space between afflury with Eames-inspired lamps and very well-dressed nymphs indeed. Needless to mention, as you find yourself plushied into layers upon layers of 70’s glam you also happen to be floating inside a glass box perched atop the city, the river practically lurching from under your feet. Ah, yes, the joys of finding oneself inside a deserving bar. Enough of that. You lush.
