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Betony, the new haute-earthy tenant in Brasserie Pushkin’s former space, didn’t entirely do away with the ornate. The chandelier is still there, as are the plush velvet banquettes. The back dining room’s concrete ceiling is etched with abstract Latin geometry, as if one of the construction workers had a Good Will Hunting moment. (Eamon Rockey, the general manager, said it came at the owner’s discretion—“he likes very opulent things.”)

Tequila looms large, and often not in a good way. Everyone who has reached maturity as a drinker has some truly wretched story about what they did (or don’t remember doing) under its boisterous influence. This has perhaps more to do with the way we novices, especially on the east coast, consume the spirit—it’s the shot someone hands us when we’re already too far gone, or the stealth ingredient in a margarita that was stronger than we thought. How to appreciate its finer points?

Why do you make fun of New Jersey? In many ways, they're on the cutting edge. Take, for example, consumer advocacy in the field of drinking. A great article by Christopher Baxter in the Newark Star-Ledger made me smile from ear-to-ear this morning. Authorities in the Garden State have been working on "Operation Swill" for a year, sending investigators out to find out which bars were passing off cheap booze as premium brands and pocketing the difference in price. The results are in, and the list of cheaters is long, featuring many big franchises. Namely, an Applebee's in Kearny, a Ruby Tuesday in Bridgewater, and no fewer than 13 T.G.I. Friday's. WTF, TGI? According to the story, "The investigation began as a result of complaints, confidential informants and new technology used to test liquor covertly purchased at the establishments by detectives." It's that last part that made my ears perk up: "new technology used to test liquor." Where can I get some of this technology? Can I buy it from the Russians? The North Koreans? The Chinese? I've got to have it, because I think I've found my life's calling. 

With a frothy strawberry margarita in one hand, a bacon-Vermont cheddar cheeseburger in the other, and your eyes fixated on the crystalline-lit Brooklyn Bridge and East River, one thing is clear: Watermark Bar is now open, and summer may commence. OK, so we haven't yet made it to the June 21st-summer solstice, but we can sure act like we have.

For the fortuitous drinker who also retains a shred of loyalty in their choice of watering hole, the relationship with certain bartenders can really blossom. No, not like that—she has a boyfriend, dude. I’m talking about a simple friendship not totally tied to the service economy at play. Stick around long enough with a friendly attitude, and you might just get a drink or two comped. Lucky you!

Could it be? A beer garden is now open that offers baby back ribs, cornbread, ping-pong, and board games – and it's in Manhattan?  Dreams come true, and its the lauded Blue Ribbon team who's making it happen with tonight's grand opening of Blue Ribbon's Beer Garden, right outside the Thompson LES. Just shimmy through the Blue Ribbon Sushi Izakaya to the terrace, and you've arrived. 

Chandon Brut Classic is a sparkling wine from California that tastes very good, costs $22, and comes in a red, white, and blue bottle that's inspired by the idea of the American summer. The Dream Downtown is a hip New York hotel owned by my Indian alterego Vikram Chatwal that's popular with celebrities, artists, and bon vivants of all stripes. Last night Chandon hosted a party at the Beach at the Dream Downtown, a funky day-and-nightclub by its second-floor swimming pool--to kick off a season of sun, fun, and bubbles. Naturally, the Chandon was flowing freely, both on its own--in white and rosé expressions--and in cocktails. I arrived early with my English friend Steve, and we plopped down on a cushioned bench by the pool and watched the scene unfold.

O.K. I love Sailor Jerry parties. The music always slams , the crowd is hot in a tattooed sort of way, and there is always an abundance of Sailor Jerry Rum around to... lubricate the attendees. Yes, I got me another tattoo: a sort of naked cheerleader, and for no good reason. I'm past the point of great philosophical meanings for my ink. I just like it. Maybe in 40 or 50 years I'll regret these hasty decisions, but I bet my eighth wife will think they're hot.