Although it's currently getting slaughtered in the final round of our March Madness–inspired bars "bracketology" tournament (it's up against Santos Party House, which has a particularly movable online constituency), the diminutive, elegant and somewhat unpleasantly located Raines Law Room did beat out former competitors in categories such as "Best new fancy bar," "Best new pretty underground lounge" and "Best new place to impress a date." Not bad. Let's take a look inside.
Getting in: It's not well marked, so you'll need to remember the numerical address if it's your first visit. A short set of stairs leads to a basement-level door, where you press a buzzer (the door is locked) and within a few seconds are greeted by a handsome Igor-type who says, literally, "Welcome. We've been expecting you." (There are no reservations, by the way.)
Digs: Pulling off the carefully orchestrated "vintage glamorous" look with minimal preciousness, Raines is a sexy, candlelit and sophisticated underground parlor, with a low, pressed-tin, gold-painted ceiling; exposed brick; and elegant wallpaper that, upon closer inspection, is writhing with naked people having sex. Décor items include vintage books stacked on vintage trunks, vintage chess tables flanked by vintage-style velvet ottomans and shadowy vintage mirrors. (It'd be easy to roll your eyes at if it weren't so genuinely friendly, comfortable and attractive.) Seats are dimpled leather couches and low-backed armchairs, scattered in clusters of twos and threes, with four larger and more-intimate booths in back, sectioned off by transparent black curtains. As soon as Raines hits capacity (about 50 people), guests who ring the buzzer are asked for their cell numbers and called when a table opens up—a polite and ingenious process that ensures the space never feels panicked or overrun, and that the wait for a drink is never more than five-ish minutes. The only aesthetic misstep is a subtle but cheesy mural of ‘20s-style silhouetted flappers and dapper fellows along the top of one wall.
Service: Since there isn't a bar proper—there's a bar "kitchen" (more of a "station") toward the back, stocked with a cornucopia of fresh fruits, vegetables, herbs and booze—there's no elbowing to order a drink. Instead, there's a pullable chain at every table that lights up a switchboard in back to notify the waiter or waitress on duty that you're in need of whatever. And although at first you feel like a Little Lord Fauntleroy—limply pulling a chain, inwardly whining "bwing me my dwink!"—it eventually feels much saner and more respectful than yelling over strangers at a bar.
Drinks: The menu of a dozen specialty cocktails is printed up and held in a golden picture frame on each mirror-topped table. They're all $13, served in fancy, dainty glassware and are, for the most part, terrific (the program was designed by Milk & Honey-er Michael McIlroy). An icy and delicious classic Manhattan, served in a chiseled-glass goblet, made us feel like we were an Arthurian lady, or an old-fashioned witch. Other highlights: the Gold Rush, made with bourbon, lemon and honey; and the South Side Rickey, made with gin and lime (and things we forgot to write down because we had enjoyed our Manhattan so much). Not recommended: The Negroni, which was a little too sweet.
Crowd: A mix of yuppies, 90 percent of who are probably within five years of 33. Since the vibe encourages you to act at least twice as charming, mysterious and sophisticated as you are, it was surprising to hear people talking loudly about Demi and Ashton's Twitters. Oh well. During one of our visits, a stunningly beautiful woman loudly requested Malibu Rum, so who knows.
Music: Old-timey jazz, pitch-perfectly warm and fuzzy, accompanied by occasional and benign indie-rock tracks.
Food: Although we saw a large plank of cured meats and cheeses in the bar kitchen, there wasn't an obvious way to get it (like a menu), and no one else was having it, so we let it go. Probably a mistake.
The bottom line: The smarter, calmer, handsomer and slightly smugger three-way lovechild of the Back Room, the Clover Club and the Bourgeois Pig. Classy and unpretentious, with surprising warmth. Will return! The perfect one- or two-drink bar for a vaguely special occasion (or a fancy date) when you find yourself, as one almost never does, strolling the mini-suburbs of Union Square. Bonus: An outdoor garden is planned for late spring.
The net results: What people are saying online
[Yelp]: "Perfect place for a romantic rendez-vous - comfortable seating arrangements with curtains, low lighting, the right amount of people, etc."
[Thrillist]: "Serving perfectly prepared, fresh-juiced, hand-stirred or shaken classic cocktails and punches designed by a Milk & Honey vet, Raines is a sultrily lit, tin-ceiling subterranean sleeve"
[Eater]: "The jazz soundtrack was really what pushed this establishment entirely into speakcheesiness"
[Citysearch]: "Weekends draw the usual well-heeled lounge-goers, while weeknights belong to a crowd of after-work types looking to socialize in style."
Raines Law Room
48 W. 17 St. between Fifth and Sixth Aves.
212-242-0600
Photo by Sam Horine
