Grand Bar & Lounge

Grand Bar & Lounge

310 W. B'Way (betw. canal & grand sts.)

212-965-3588

I sometimes call my friend Jane King the Know-it-all, in a sincere way. She does seem to know an awful lot. She's also my upscale girlfriend, because although she has worked hard for a living for many years, most recently as a security guard in London, she still maintains the upscale know-how of a surgeon's daughter and boarding school graduate. For our upscale meal, I wanted to go somewhere just a bit musty, not like the red hot Spice Market, more like the Plaza. I didn't feel like running up my tenement steps to put on the skirt and proper shoes necessary for the Plaza, so we went to the Soho Grand.

I happily detected a subtle musty smell just as we passed the black lion sculptures, and we got in without a second of hesitation. I could have sat in the larger room, near the casually dressed crowd, but I chose a smaller empty room where I could better listen to Jane's anecdotes.

"Five years ago, we couldn't even have gotten in on a Saturday night—it was always hip but kind of hidden—even the Mercer was more crowded!" Jane informed me. "I've been here many times, had two parties here." Recently Jane was at a Buddhist retreat, a Korean Buddhist cult upstate, and the leader wanted her to be his girlfriend. Sure enough, when I was at her sublet later that evening, there was a message from the Korean cult leader.

They had a tier appetizer deal on offer, three for $35, so we ordered Foie Gras from Hudson Valley ($19), Caviar Finger Sandwiches with crème fraiche ($21) and later the crispy Calamari ($14), which came with a green chili and almond mayonnaise sauce. The Foie Gras had an apricot topping, a little heavy cream and brandy. Quentin Crisp said a true star is someone you couldn't have thought of if you stayed up all night, and this Foie Gras, like a star, was an unprecedented combination that actually worked. The caviar sandwiches were finger thin, about four skinny slices, with what I took to be some sort of trout caviar. There was too little of it; I was just getting used to how it tasted when it was gone.

Meanwhile, Jane was telling me another great story, one with little or no point. "I went to Paris with someone I was in love with and he's not in love with me. I begged him not to make me go—but somehow he convinced me. I had some conditions: He had to promise to pay for the whole thing, tell me I was beautiful at least 30 times and write two stand-up shows so that way we…."

Then the Irish sous chef, John McAllister, came out. He's been here 12 years and wanted to be a chef since he was 13 years old. As soon as possible, he left the land of meat and potatoes for the CIA (Culinary Institute of America). While the other branch is a lot trendier, he told us, they try to keep this one quiet and relaxed. Celebrities can go from the elevator to the lounge and need never be seen. There's also an extension restaurant called the Yard, but the menu looked pretty common—garlic fries, hamburgers—and I preferred the borderline strange food served in the lounge, whipped up under instruction from executive chef Gabriel Sorgi.

Jane wasn't done talking about Paris yet. "One night we went to a cafe at 1 a.m., and he was a real foodie. He always had to stop everything and eat. There were only six people there; Karl Lagerfeld was there with a companion, and I was very excited because I was quite well-dressed. I was wearing see-through navy blue spring gloves, and my Burberry raincoat…"

Jane, who is working on a diet book, My Eating Life, says it's a really good idea to order two appetizers, because pate is very filling. It is impossible to have a salmon dinner after that, and appetizers are often the best thing anyway.

Jane sometimes coaches me in upscale thinking. When I lived in the projects, before she came and hauled me out, I was a terrible pack rat. I could not loosen my grip on the hundreds of slightly broken and used items I'd spent years gathering, but she was always telling me that if I got rid of a pot I could always buy another one. Now she's evolved her philosophy further and believes that if you help enough old ladies, another pot will just come floating by you.

The bill at the Grand comes to $46.17, and we tip $9. This is just about what my cell phone costs each month, but I don't balk—thanks to Jane, my idea of New York life continues to expand. o