You couldn't pay me to talk to those people, let alone approve of their money-wasting peacocking. 'Ugh, so obnoxious! Who do they even think they are?'

We checked our coats and hung out by the bar, standing and dancing in six-inch heels, and when the inevitable sparkler march of an overpriced bottle of Grey Goose began, we'd mock the group of finance bros or tacky European tourists it was heading towards. Then, in my early twenties, once I was able to get through the doors on the merits of my own hotness (half kidding), my friends and I had no need or desire to interact with douchebags impressed by their ability to bribe models with bottles provided to them by the establishment. What reason was there to squeeze around a dripping wet table mostly filled with mixers, anyway? Stranger still, I was having an amazing time.īack when I first started going out in New York as a fresh-faced 17-year-old with a terrible fake ID and creepy promoter 'friends,' I'd roll my eyes at the ostentatious display and self-importance of my fellow underage tablemates as we sipped watered-down vodka cranberries handed to us by our 'host.'Īfter gulping down what would always end up being our one free drink, I'd head to the dance floor and wouldn't return to the table until it was time to dig through the coat pile and go home. On a recent Saturday night in the city, I found myself in what I'd usually consider a strange situation: downstairs at TAO, lights flashing, music insane, with a sparkler-lined champagne bottle heading right towards me.

Tao downtown bottle menu