Finally, dusk has fallen, which means it’s cocktail time. Younger Dems might start in the West Village at the White Horse Tavern, where Dylan Thomas drank himself to death, or the Corner Bistro. Farther uptown, the Landmark Tavern has a cozy, old-fashioned pub feel.
Once hunger sets in, the donkey migration should head southeast to preternaturally trendy Soho. The corner of West Broadway and Grand Street has become a sort of mini-Paris, home to packed Euro-chic eateries like Felix and Lucky Strike. But if this feels a bit too precious, move south to Tribeca, land of lofts, converted warehouses and Robert De Niro’s airy TriBeCa Grill. In the thick of the more bohemian East Village is Cafe Tabac, where fashion types go to be seen looking beautifully nonchalant. You can sit upstairs if you know someone–or, better yet, if you simply look like you know someone. But wait. You’re cabbing it back to your midtown hotel and, amazingly, you still have happy feet. No problem. Drive right past Planet Hollywood and the Hard Rock Cafe on 57th Street–the twin towers of tourist traps–and shake your moneymaker at Le Bar Bat, so called because it has fake bats hanging everywhere. The remodeled church has a hot bar scene, spandexed waitresses, a Gothic-style dance room, good Thai food and, thankfully, no Batman merchandise. Eventually, of course, you must retire. None of the good convention stuff starts early, so sleep in and dream of a morning excursion to Zabar’s, the Upper West Side gourmet shop whose coffee and bagels will fight off the mightiest of hangovers. Or, if you have time, grab a bite at homey Sarabeth’s–your last refuge before heading back to save the country.
