Brooklyn at dusk. The sky stretched out like a neon T-shirt. Beautiful women in red lips and men in vintage eyeglasses lounge in a converted waterfront factory and nibble on pastured meat. They drink artisanal liquor until they fall into bunk beds built from the guts of an old barrel yard. The Wythe Hotel, which opened in April, might have been conceived by a writer, setting up a parody of... More >>>