The New Griffou Review

My mom tried lemonade as a little girl, hated it, and never sipped it again. One day, at a family picnic in Alley Pond Park out in Queens, on the hottest day ever recorded -- 147 degrees in the shade, you can look it up -- she was in need of a beverage. The only thing available, my momma told me, was the lemony stuff. Dying of thirst, melting in the summer heat, she forced herself to drink it -- and she loved it. A valuable lesson not lost on my wise mom. She had spent so many long years not enjoying something she really liked because she only gave it one try. So my mom taught me to try everything in life twice, just in case the first time you got a bad batch. This advice has caused me some grief, but some great rewards as well. Indeed, a 12-year relationship after a horrible one-night stand resulted from heeding my mom's guidance. Funny thing is, mom never liked her. Dad taught me some stuff as well, but this is a family blog.

Anyway, after a less than thrilled review of the new Hotel Griffou the other day, I was lambasted by my inner circle. It was, I was told, just “a bad batch,” an “off night” at a place that is actually marvelous. “They are for sure going through some growing pains and are working the kinks out, but it’s all good now and please come back.” I returned to the scene of my bad dine last night and was pleasantly surprised. I could no longer read a newspaper in the middle of the joint as the lighting was adjusted and sexy. I could hear my companions (and more importantly myself) speak. The food was really beautiful. Meaghan, my server, was a delight, although I’m still waiting for my pickled watermelon appetizer, which I am told is fab.

My first encounter on a midsummer Friday was less than impressive. I should have known better—this bunch has summer homes. Last night, a super-duper, well-dressed, adult, moneyed crowd was on hand. I think the new door guy—who was I believe a server last time I checked in—had a great effect. I spotted ex-Trump-adore Marla Maples, Ocean Drive honcho Jason Binn, Tao owner Mark Packer, actress Famke Janssen, and a wealthy, worldly mix of beauty, brains, and class. There were downtown club types all dressed up—disguised as regular people—and when Butter and 1Oak co-owner Scott Sartiano left, I was easily the worst dressed fellow in the room. I don’t particularly like the mish-mosh of the decor, but when the place is packed and the lights are low and the drinks and wine list are real, it matters not. So I gave it a second try, and mom’s wise advice won the day. Hotel Griffou is a coup for well-heeled adults.

My design work is like a canary in a coal mine. If I’m getting work, it indicates that good times are ahead, as new projects take about six months to open and require considerable planning and investment. Everywhere I look, people are just now getting funding for their downturn-dropped dreams. Three months ago, this wasn’t happening. Now my partner and I are entertaining offers from all over the states and even Asia. Deals that were dead are being resurrected, and deals being done on shoestring budgets are getting re-funded. This is great news for construction crews as well as actors and artists who need jobs. It seems a bottom is perceived to have occurred, and growth, although slow, seems steady and inevitable. I wonder what this will mean for bottle-buying. Will the frat boys return in full force to re-ruin nightlife, or has the glamour worn off on the concept of “buy the bottle to lure the model”? My job is to answer questions like this, not ask them, but I will take a minute to consider. I do know that more owners are looking for cozy booths for their future boites rather than straight-run banquettes. This seems to indicate a return to more intimate gatherings of four to eight people rather than the ever-expanding tables of ten or more. Will dance floors and cashier booths make a comeback as well? Oops, I did it again! I promise answers on another day.