La vie en rose: A bar by any other name wouldn’t be as sweet


This place would be fabulous in a snowstorm,” announced a woman in the nook next door. We concurred. A cocktail savored at the newly bloomed Stone Rose, in the Time-Warner building’s ritzy don’t-call-it-a-mall mall, would taste sweetest while watching flurries over Central Park, flakes piling up on the statues. Maybe it was the rosewood walls, or the sultry music, or the sexy red painting over the bar—but we were craving bourbon. The extra-dry bite of a Knob Hill manhattan ($16) exorcised thoughts of the, alas snowless, chill outside, while a frothy Stone Rose (Woodford Reserve bourbon, Grand Marnier, white cranberry juice, sour mix, and simple syrup; $14) tasted as sophisticated as the patrons of its namesake looked. The suit-and-tie set, though not our preferred drinkin’ buddies, provided fodder for an entertaining real-life soap opera—Look at that exec dating his secretary. And there, an actress-model and her daddy (or is he?). Hey, aren’t those two macho stockbroker types making lover-boy eyes at each other?—viewed from the safety of our soft white-leather banquette and bowl of almonds. Truth is beauty, or was that in vino veritas? Go before the last snowfall.

This article from the Village Voice Archive was posted on February 17, 2004

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