We want to let you in on a secret about tonight.
But before we do, you have to promise us something.
Don’t tell anyone else. Under any circumstance.
Okay, we’re just scaring you. But really, keep this one buttoned up.
Unveiling Madame Wong’s, a run-of-the-mill, fried-rice-serving Chinese restaurant that’s surreptitiously moonlighting as an off-the-wall, occasionally password-protected dance club, discreetly open now.
You’ve known for quite some time now exactly what your weekends were missing. A dark, sinister, high-decibel-level, mirrored disco lounge from the impresario behind Le Bain. You just didn’t know till right now that it would faintly smell of duck sauce.
So you’ll make your way to Chinatown sometime after midnight, and you’ll be looking for a derelict eatery that’s covered in old newspaper. If that’s not specific enough, it’s the one with the cross-dressing Lady Gaga parked out front.
Inside: well, it’s a lot like 1930s Shanghai. There are paper lanterns, crimson curtains, one abandoned grand piano (BYO tip jar), several forsaken Lazy Susans and a coat check that’s been reappropriated as a spare bar. Ordering a scotch: not the craziest thing you’ve done in a coatroom.
Now, should this information disseminate to the masses, there’s a good chance Mr. Gaga and Co. may start requiring a password before granting entry into this three-room circus.
We hear it’s a randomly generated fortune cookie cliché.
But before we do, you have to promise us something.
Don’t tell anyone else. Under any circumstance.
Okay, we’re just scaring you. But really, keep this one buttoned up.
Unveiling Madame Wong’s, a run-of-the-mill, fried-rice-serving Chinese restaurant that’s surreptitiously moonlighting as an off-the-wall, occasionally password-protected dance club, discreetly open now.
You’ve known for quite some time now exactly what your weekends were missing. A dark, sinister, high-decibel-level, mirrored disco lounge from the impresario behind Le Bain. You just didn’t know till right now that it would faintly smell of duck sauce.
So you’ll make your way to Chinatown sometime after midnight, and you’ll be looking for a derelict eatery that’s covered in old newspaper. If that’s not specific enough, it’s the one with the cross-dressing Lady Gaga parked out front.
Inside: well, it’s a lot like 1930s Shanghai. There are paper lanterns, crimson curtains, one abandoned grand piano (BYO tip jar), several forsaken Lazy Susans and a coat check that’s been reappropriated as a spare bar. Ordering a scotch: not the craziest thing you’ve done in a coatroom.
Now, should this information disseminate to the masses, there’s a good chance Mr. Gaga and Co. may start requiring a password before granting entry into this three-room circus.
We hear it’s a randomly generated fortune cookie cliché.
