An Ode To The Saturday Night Scene At Casa Cipriani...

A weekend or so ago, en route to the Sheep's Meadow with a friend, a French tourist stopped us, mystified by the sea of people in front of her, to ask, "What is going on here?"- certain that this many people sitting around aimlessly in one place must only be because of some concert or event. While I laughed, my friend simply responded, "Oh, no - it's just there's too many people in this city so we all have to come here." 

For lack of space, choice, and a distinctly New York desire to be crowded. 

Such is the case, in my opinion, with Casa Cipriani. If only there were a better, easier, more convenient option, we'd all take it - but alas, like a floundering flock desperate to be seen, each Saturday we are put out to pasture, to graze on Manhattan's southernmost tip.

The Lamborghinis and Porsches parked in the circular drive - signaling props that read suspiciously more as furniture than actual cars driven by members - set the scene immediately upon arrival. As does the plush holding pen for plus ones and guests waiting to be checked in. A front row seat to the fascinating parade of people set about making this their place. The outfits, the fillers, the couples with excitingly large age gaps! Honestly, you don't even need to go upstairs - just sitting here is a thoroughly entertaining Saturday night on its own.

But head up to the fifth floor you do. And oh, what fun awaits.

It's Saturday at around 10:30PM when Casa Cipriani comes alive. Though of course by that point in the evening all of the best perches have been claimed...

Off the elevators to the right, it's the front stretch of tables, you see, that are the prime spots for the young social set. Perfectly positioned to ensure you lay eyes on everyone who walks in. That you don't miss a single opportunity to casually run into someone. It'll take arriving at around 8PM latest to snag one of these. But hey, patience is a virtue.

Beyond this cat walk is the proper lounge area, where you'll find a generally older, less excitable crowd settled into sofas, pretending they don't care if you notice them. A ridiculous notion, obviously. I mean, why go out - nay, live even - in New York if not to be noticed?

Oh, and at the very front there's the bar - a mess of late comers, drink fetchers and ladies of the night.

Off the elevators to the left, there's the jazz club, tucked away and seemingly reserved solely for people who don't really know anyone here, which is both wonderful and woeful depending on how you look at it.

Past this no-man's-land is the dining room. It is a Cipriani restaurant in every way - a bit underwhelming, a bit overpriced, and fully enjoyed most by those 60 and above.

But back to the main stretch where your best chance at feeling social exists - behind the chunky slug of a line for the women's restroom that has Surf Lodge saying, "oh come on, now that's ridiculous" - where the transactional nature of this, and for that matter most all, members only club ferments.

No one is really here to have fun. They're here to be funded. And this place is probably the best in New York for those looking to play the game that tempts you at every turn in this city.

For like a second, at around midnight maybe, you might think the music's really good and people might actually dance and actually enjoy themselves in a way that pushes past performance. But they won't. That second will pass. It will walk all the way outside to the terrace to try and bum a cigarette off some pack of vague Europeans.

One drink later and suddenly it's 1AM. The bar swells with late comers on their last stop. Phone numbers are exchanged, lunches scheduled, and that's it. Lights on, music off. Back down the elevator, through the entry pen, out to stand in the driveway to stare at your phone while tracking every inch of your Uber's movement.

Was it worth it? Worth the membership fee or pinning down your member friend to escort you? Worth the trek from wherever it is you came from - inconvenient to uptown and downtown alike?

I mean, what else is there to do?

If only New York were so easy to understand.

[Photo via Casa Cipriani]