Chef Driven Hospitality has opened a new French-inspired cocktail lounge in Hell’s Kitchen. Bar Bas joins the hospitality group’s portfolio of Francophilic darlings that includes Marseille—the restaurant above Bar Bas—Nice Matin, and Nizza. The bar serves cocktails infused with Provençal herbs and liqueurs alongside Champagne and French wines, while the fare leans towards gourmet late-night snacks and pre-theater bites.
With an ambiance that is animated but not overwhelming, Bar Bas is a fantastic spot to drink with a group. My friends and I plopped down on a plush sofa in the middle of the salon, and we didn’t have to shout over the music or surrounding conversations. The subdued lighting, quiet nooks, and artful canopies on the ceiling also make it the sort of bar that Tinderella would dig as an after-dinner detour.
The Noble Martini is a standout—a frosty glass and sidecar pulled straight from the freezer and garnished with a cornichon and olive. For a bit of late-night ballast, order the short rib cigars with lemon tahini or the French charcuterie board.
It might eventually take on more of a nightlife vibe once Midtown’s pre-theater diners and after-hours salarymen catch on. For now, it’s a welcome refuge in Hell’s Kitchen, soigné but laid-back.
The Ghosts of the Friki Tiki
When I attended Bar Bas’s media opening in late May, several journalists reminisced about the venue’s former life as The Friki Tiki. New York doesn’t have the same élan for tiki bars as Los Angeles or South Florida, but the city has a handful of cherished spots for kitschy, frozen booze bombs. I haven’t lived here long enough to remember The Friki Tiki firsthand, but I gathered it was something of a faux-tropical institution in the same echelon as Tiki Chick, Sunken Harbor, and Paradise Lost.
If you look carefully, a few tiki Easter eggs remain embedded in the French Riviera theme. In the stairwell leading down to the lounge, a thick grass mat still wraps the railing. The third drink I ordered, the Joie de Vivre—a blend of dark Diplomatico rum, mint, and rosemary served over pebble ice—looked and tasted like it retained at least a trace of tiki DNA.
As I drained a fourth cocktail with a French name I pretended to know how to pronounce, I tried to recall an old tale about a Breton sea captain who brought home a shrunken head from his voyages in the South Seas. Back in France, he reported vivid dreams of wrathful Polynesian deities. He eventually went mad. By that point, my colleagues suggested it might be time to call an Uber.
