Supergroups are a terrible idea.
Just look at Slash’s Snakepit, or NKOTBSB. The fact that they existed was... pretty amazing, actually.
Like we were saying, supergroups are a fantastic idea.
Just look at what happens when the empire behind Seven Grand and the Varnish joins forces with NYC’s esteemed Death + Co. guys:
You get Honeycut, a dazzling collusion of cocktail legends that could only result in cardamom-spiked bourbon and a neon-floored disco, now soft-open under a random Downtown alley.
First: secure a date with someone who looks refined in a faded T-shirt. Someone who, when handed a 50-cocktail-deep menu broken into helpful subsections like “Classy as F**k,” smiles at you like it’s going to be a good night.
Then descend some alley stairs, and your evening starts at a horseshoe booth in a shadowy, mirror-ceilinged pool hall of wood-slatted walls and vintage rock, somewhere between purgatory and Flower Street. Down here, the handlebar-mustache-to-inked-sleeves ratio approaches 1:1, and drinks should contain rainwater madeira or cassis liqueur.
At some point, you’ll recognize a riff, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs or something, coming from a second room. Follow it to what they call the Disco, where the dance floor is made of pulsing LED squares and the on-tap cocktails arrive quickly.
Your “Billie Jean” moves are rather urgent.
Just look at Slash’s Snakepit, or NKOTBSB. The fact that they existed was... pretty amazing, actually.
Like we were saying, supergroups are a fantastic idea.
Just look at what happens when the empire behind Seven Grand and the Varnish joins forces with NYC’s esteemed Death + Co. guys:
You get Honeycut, a dazzling collusion of cocktail legends that could only result in cardamom-spiked bourbon and a neon-floored disco, now soft-open under a random Downtown alley.
First: secure a date with someone who looks refined in a faded T-shirt. Someone who, when handed a 50-cocktail-deep menu broken into helpful subsections like “Classy as F**k,” smiles at you like it’s going to be a good night.
Then descend some alley stairs, and your evening starts at a horseshoe booth in a shadowy, mirror-ceilinged pool hall of wood-slatted walls and vintage rock, somewhere between purgatory and Flower Street. Down here, the handlebar-mustache-to-inked-sleeves ratio approaches 1:1, and drinks should contain rainwater madeira or cassis liqueur.
At some point, you’ll recognize a riff, the Yeah Yeah Yeahs or something, coming from a second room. Follow it to what they call the Disco, where the dance floor is made of pulsing LED squares and the on-tap cocktails arrive quickly.
Your “Billie Jean” moves are rather urgent.
