Let’s ponder for a minute the platonic man-date. This is when testosterone-blessed pals convene for companionship, minus the fairer sex. Though manufactured trend articles would have us believe that one may man-date at a restaurant, I feel that’s pure, misguided poppycock. If I’m having a heart-to-heart with a hetero dude, I need wheelbarrows of alcohol to unlock my tongue. That calls for a bar serving cut-rate domestic brew and music noisy enough to drown out the conversation when I reveal, “I just wish I could cry, really cry, you know?”
So why in tarnation was I man-dating at B Flat, a jazz-themed basement hideaway in Tribeca? It’s so serene that one can hear ice cubes tinkle in a glass, not to mention me blathering about body hair cropping up in frightening nooks and crannies.
“Because we’re old enough to appreciate good cocktails?” asks my friend Aaron.
“Or rather, we’re old enough to finally afford good cocktails,” I reply, perusing the pages-long drink menu. It runs the gamut from Manhattans to woodsy Scotches. The prolific offerings borrow heavily from B Flat’s sibling: Angel’s Share, that upstairs East Village lair suffused with romance and sake-infused potions. This attractive combination has created unconscionable crowds. So to alleviate the crush, the barkeeps at Angel’s Share opened this underground locale.
The single, wee room is Spartan and refined, with a handful of wooden booths, about a dozen covered bar stools, a Coltrane poster on the wall and Louis Armstrong on the speakers. Like Angel’s Share, the crowd hews toward amorous twosomes, but there’s also a strong after-work, businessman component. This isn’t surprising, given the tony Tribeca digs—and the $12 price tag slapped on most libations.
“You’re paying, right?” Aaron asks, settling on the Biju ($10), which includes fiery, herbaceous green chartreuse, orange bitters, sweet vermouth and gin. I nod and ponder: Should I get the Groovy (shiso-infused vodka and yuzu juice; $12) or Giant Steps (wasabi-infused vodka and sake; $13)? These house specialties are named after jazz bigs’ albums and tunes (i.e., the Love Supreme and Kind of Blue).
“The Giant Steps,” says a “bar chef,” as these vest-wearing gentlemen are dubbed. With machine-like precision, he begins the drink-making process. The concoctions are serious-minded reflections of cocktail-making as art form. Ingredients enter a clear shaker and are lightly agitated before being strained into glasses with a care typically reserved for liquid plutonium.
“Oh, my gosh, this is so good,” Aaron says, sipping the Giant Steps. Instead of a blazing wasabi blast, there’s a mellow spicy undercurrent balanced by the dry and slightly saccharine sake.
The Biju is equally wonderful. It’s sweet without being cloying, and supremely quaffable. We drink. And drink. And then liquor works its magic, and our lips and tongues loosen in novel and exciting fashions.
“And that’s what’s wrong with me,” I say.
Aaron nods sagely, “I hear you.” We clink our costly glasses, taking small, measured sips. My man-dates, I fear, will never again be the same.
B Flat
277 Church St. (betw. Franklin & White Sts.)
212-219-2970
