Baldwin Barmacie

Finally! A place you can wear jeans and sip bubbly without having to ward off Vinnie Barbarino trying to buy you a Singapore Sling. It’s golden. And creamy. Much like those skin-tight white lamé pants you wore last night. With a sunken bar, white barrel armchairs and the DJs rockin’ it with Arcade Fire and The Killers, it is utterly devoid of pretension. Blissfully free of over-glossed 17-year-olds who snuck in with their big sister’s ID.