V Bar. So this is where they keep the aging models. Or at least chicks who are “tall, skinny and somehow still hot with week-old bedhead and no makeup." "Overwrought accents and over-priced, over-large accessories” make even “not-that-plain Janes disappear into the wallpaper.” If you’re a guy looking to “trade his Jane in for a more statuesque and photogenic model”, join the “line of slimmed down Jesse Jameses vying to buy some exotic creature her next round.” Occasionally you might catch a “group of normals looking for a decent wine list” but chances are “they’re not just really, really, really VERY unusually close single pals on the prowl.” Enjoy the “Grüner, dim lighting and some of the newest bathrooms in the East Village” but don’t expect anyone to ask if they can join.

Hopefully, you’ll find Brandy Library's "well-endowed and perfectly indexed liquor menu" informative and distracting: you’ll be scouring it as you "wait and wait and… wait for Prince Charming to show up, or at least look up from the hushed conversation he’s having amidst a cluster of club chairs." While selecting a drink you’ll also wonder, "Where are all the cigars? There really should be cigars in this scene, or at least a cigarette girl in a sparkly outfit." Needless to say, neither the girl nor Don Draper appears to give you a smoke. Just as you begin to accept this, you spot, behind a curtain beneath the bar, "the gentleman's equivalent of 'the glass slipper': rows of personalized, engraved snifters.” The puzzled look on your face will prompt the bartender to explain, "Oh these? Our members each have a private bottle as well, miss." Suddenly, you realize this could go two ways: out the door, or with you “like Maggie Gyllenhaal in that scene towards the end of Secretary where she's glued to the desk [you'd sub in the bar] for days and days." If you pick the latter, you’ll obviously be less thirsty, but, still, the choice is clear: Run!

Welcome to Cougartown. Population: :(. Trying to parse why there are so many “groups of turtlenecked might-be-lesbians, but probably just moms” in the Empire Room is a waste of time. You’ll be better off pounding “cocktails poured so heavily the bartender brags that he's not allowed to comp a single one!” Are you getting this? Moms? Check. No free drinks? Check. And don’t even think about joining in when “suddenly every neck in the room cranes toward the one sharply dressed (okay fine, probably hottest man anyone has ever seen) fellow on the premises" because he only has eyes for the “barely legal ‘hostesses’ in matching low-cut LBDs and stuffed bra, ala the 8th grade graduation dance.” In this crowd you can hardly blame him. Sadly, "a trip to the observation deck offers no solace"; they've made it impossible to throw yourself off.

A place that has a "4-person party maximum" and "a hidden entry off the main dining room of a typical college campus style Japanese restaurant" turns out to be pretty hit-or-miss. On the one hand, at Angel's Share, you "run no risk of being outnumbered by a giggly gaggle of gorgeous PR girls tying one on after work." On the other hand you'll meet "dudes from Jersey proving to their even-more-out-of-towner pals that they know the real New York,” while strongly sensing a "1st time student/TA romantic encounter vibe” oozing from the little booths tucked in the corners. If you can distract yourself with the "heavily feminine cocktail list (which describes the less fruity drinks as ‘masculine’)" long enough for that guy you've been "trying not to stare at but jeez this place is so goddamn small" to offer you "Some chicken on a stick? No? How about a drink?" you might find yourself back here, "nose to nose in a corner booth" reliving those late school nights sneaking booze into Denny's. Now if only they had a bottomless cup...

Stanton Social, all "soft-focus lighting" and "yuppies with pretty girlfriends," is tailor made for the "nouveau-riche glass and steel condo dwellers" of the LES. If you are there on "an awkward first date" or enjoy "Heineken, Amstel Light and Stella" and "work in high-end construction," you'll fit right in. If you don't, it's only made worse by the limited "stick-out-like-a-sore-thumb perched high on a barstool smack dab in the middle of the room" and "obscured in a corner somewhere among the 21st birthday parties" seating options. Choose the former to be reminded "bartenders are generous and fun to look at," but if you are "trying to move past bartenders," you should move past here. Be on the look out for "creepy old Steve Buscemi lookalikes" and "Naima, winner of America’s Next Top Model Cycle 4." When the few "single men in the place fall at her feet," that's your cue to hit the road, alone.

Now this is more like it! Whiskey Park has a bitch “hitting refresh on Craigslist’s Missed Connections all morning.” Apparently some “Bergdorf blondes” were well aware that single men, “healthy, wealthy and charming as all-get-out," abound here. Sitting magically “across the street from The Ritz in Glittery Trump Tower” where “a dozen horses and carriages wait outside to sweep new - and thoroughly Congac’d - lovers off their (fingers crossed!) soon-to-be Louboutined feet,” this is the place to go if you’re starting to give up hope. That is if you like men who “live upstairs, you’ll love the view”, wear “Marc Jacobs button-downs with cufflinks from Etsy” and would love to “get you a box on opening day but you gotta consider it a date.” Where do I sign?

If you have your wits about you and aren't "a single woman in NYC trying desperately to get laid" you'll probably turn right back around once you open the doors to Ginger Man. Yes, there's something promising about walking into a room full of "a bunch of dudes kicked back, just trying to take the edge off," one "small-batch organic pint at time," up until it becomes painfully "reminiscent of walking in on your little brother's slumber party in the family den." You just know that as soon as you leave they'll all be high fiving that they "totally saw some nip, dude." Short of that, this crowd is happy to ignore you and spend some "serious QT with a pretzel, an iphone, a buddy and some cask-conditioned IPA." Whatever that is.

At first glance, Schiller's may seem "too cool for school." Walking in alone can feel like "the setup to a romantic comedy FAIL" as you approach the "bustling but insular" bar full of beautiful patrons. Fear not. Remember those boys in high school who lived "on the lake, owned their own boat and spent a summer at a kibbutz"? Well imagine if they all eventually became "kings of hipster paradise," but worked so many hours they "remained single well into their 30s"? They're all at Schiller's. Local "restaurateurs, artists and impresarios" are more than ready to regale you with tales of their success, and implore you to help cure them of their lonely nights. Have you been to one guy's "bar around the corner that is rapidly expanding?" Not yet! Have you seen another fella's "friend's installation up the block? If not, we could swing through and get cupcakes after? Or before?" Yup, just as soon as you clean the drool off your blouse. One does begin to suspect that these are "someone else's boyfriends" trying to see if they've still got it. They do.

Ask a stranger if I have a type, and just by looking at me, he'll say yes: finance dudes. Ask a friend if I have a type, and she'll also say yes: DJ, rapper or skater dudes with hand tattoos, grumpy demeanors and criminal records. I may be an upstanding, law abiding, responsible 9 to 5-er, but my type is trouble-- and that has to change. So, I’m embarking on a mission: to visit restaurants and bars that are theoretically full of well-adjusted gentleman, or at least fully-employed ones. I’m hoping to find someone I like inside, even if he's wearing a suit. Consider it a public service, a Zagat Guide for singles in the city. The first in a series after the jump.