Good things happen when you’re around.
Birds sing. Flowers bloom. Giggles turn girlish. Meter maids have unprecedented changes of heart. And locked doors seem to fling themselves open.
That last bit of magic is about to come in handy...
Introducing The Office, a super-exclusive den of strange potions, handcrafted elixirs and the occasional bottle of 60-year-old Irish whiskey, now open... ish.
You see, this latest project from Grant Achatz and Co.—located in Aviary’s basement—one-ups Next’s almost impossible reservation system: it’s strictly invite-only. Expect to rub elbows with a select group of foodies, celebs, pols, those with a taste for $450 snifters of 1944 yellow chartreuse... so, people like you.
It’ll go down like this: at some point, maybe after a dinner, maybe after cracking open some whiskey ice cubes at Aviary, you’ll feel a tap on the shoulder. Suddenly, you’re whisked to what feels like a wealthy art patron’s secret drinking lair. You’ll knock back antique coupes of bourbon spiced with red pepper, burnt corn husk and guajillo pepper. You’ll sip honeydew-and-celery gin and tonics through rare plant stems.
But there’s no liquid nitrogen here. No immersion circulators. Just 180 tinctures informing a limitless array of cocktails, a snug four-seat bar, a few club chairs and a deep leather couch.
And, of course, those girlish giggles.
Birds sing. Flowers bloom. Giggles turn girlish. Meter maids have unprecedented changes of heart. And locked doors seem to fling themselves open.
That last bit of magic is about to come in handy...
Introducing The Office, a super-exclusive den of strange potions, handcrafted elixirs and the occasional bottle of 60-year-old Irish whiskey, now open... ish.
You see, this latest project from Grant Achatz and Co.—located in Aviary’s basement—one-ups Next’s almost impossible reservation system: it’s strictly invite-only. Expect to rub elbows with a select group of foodies, celebs, pols, those with a taste for $450 snifters of 1944 yellow chartreuse... so, people like you.
It’ll go down like this: at some point, maybe after a dinner, maybe after cracking open some whiskey ice cubes at Aviary, you’ll feel a tap on the shoulder. Suddenly, you’re whisked to what feels like a wealthy art patron’s secret drinking lair. You’ll knock back antique coupes of bourbon spiced with red pepper, burnt corn husk and guajillo pepper. You’ll sip honeydew-and-celery gin and tonics through rare plant stems.
But there’s no liquid nitrogen here. No immersion circulators. Just 180 tinctures informing a limitless array of cocktails, a snug four-seat bar, a few club chairs and a deep leather couch.
And, of course, those girlish giggles.
