After three years of writing about New York’s restaurants, I know my way around the city’s dining scene. I’ve covered spots for taking dates, catching up with old friends, watching sports, and basking in Manhattan’s old-school glamour. But a few weeks ago, I found myself stumped: Where should I take a group for my girlfriend’s birthday party?
Curmudgeon that I am, I seldom get invited to parties, let alone plan them. But my beloved explained that she had what’s called a “friend group,” dear acquaintances with whom she intended to celebrate. I dutifully agreed to assist. Her criteria were an outdoor setting, good cocktails, and ample space for her pals to come and go as they pleased. My sole criterion was not blowing a month’s rent.
The answer came to me one night in my study, with a glass of Scotch, a roaring fire, and a tattered copy of Apuleius’s The Golden Ass. As I scanned an email from my financial advisor about gold ETFs, the dulcet chords of “Sweet Child o’ Mine” drifted from my record player. Wait a minute—eureka, man! Why, yes, I would throw her a party at Golden Child, the rooftop bar at Hotel Park Avenue!
There Will Be Tequila: A Birthday Party at Golden Child
A crow’s nest in NoMad, Golden Child boasts matchless views of the Midtown skyline. While Seed Library, the cocktail den in Hotel Park Avenue’s basement, monopolizes the property’s mixological glory, Golden Child’s cocktails are every bit as compelling, if less avant-garde. The fare is playful and light: gourmet hot pockets, an impressive selection of crudos, and the Golden Child Lunch Box—basically a school lunch if your mother were a Michelin-starred chef.
The birthday revelry unfolded on a glorious late-summer evening on Golden Child’s terrace, right across from the glittering cupola of the Metropolitan Life clock tower. I ordered a bucket of Champagne for the table, which the young women drained with alarming speed. Soon, they were clamoring for strong drink with the fervor of the James Gang.
A tray of tequila shots went around as the sun dipped beyond the Hudson. I flinched as a Chanel handbag swung within inches of my face. The girls howled with savage laughter. I warned the waiter, a handsome lad of innocent demeanor, to keep his wits about him like a man surrounded by wolves.
Around 9 p.m., we descended to Park Rose, Hotel Park Avenue’s lobby-level Italian restaurant, to toast Jackie with a final round of amari. When I encouraged Jackie’s friend group to return to Seed Library, the only on-property bar we had not patronized, a brunette in a Lilly Pulitzer sundress wheeled around and fixed me with a glare as sharp as razor wire.
“How come you know so much about bars, boy?”
“Well, I am a writer.”
“What’s that? A hell of a fighter?”
She reached into her handbag without breaking eye contact. I hastily laid my credit cards on the bar and offered to buy another round of tequila.
