The Eldridge

Caption: Really?

I received an e-mail from Young'un asking, "How much of a d-bag is this guy?" Below the question he linked to Eater's first article about Matt Levine's club The Eldridge. The words "closing the weekends," "laser-engraved entry cards" and "friends and family" frightened me.

The Eldridge entrance, with its wallpaper of books, like the wall-size, plastic CD holders tweens dump on their walls for art, was an artificial, contrived version of Paris' Shakespeare and Company. Owl Eyes looking through Gatsby's library came to mind, and I wondered, are those books even real? Is Levine for real? Or will he be New York's next, tragic hero?

As I kept reading more about Levine, he softened his rhetoric. Perhaps in response to the uproar his arrogance and condescension ignited on behalf of New Yorkers who, god forbid, stay in their city on the weekends. Just read any of the comments linked to blogs on his new club and you'll get a sense of what I mean. I champion the idea of steering away from bottle service only in clubs, but the odd hours and the card to get in are extreme. Sure, build the club with the exclusivity factor, and they will come. Just look at the success of The Beatrice Inn. But I think his attitude will backfire.

I did learn one good thing about Levine. He has a bulldog puppy named Boss. If Boss is the bouncer, I will wait in line every weekday and happily let the crowds flow by.

My buddy Ray LeMoine, who just returned from several days and nights of convention madness with little to no sleep, continued his party streak on Monday night. It is Fashion Week, after all. He went to the opening of The Eldridge and here's what he had to say:

Last night I stopped by the opening of downtown's newest club, The Eldridge. The place made me want to leave America more than Sarah Palin's speech. But what can you expect from a guy who runs a company called Steelo Clothing? Matt Levine not only runs Steelo, he also calls his bartenders "butlers." So it was pretty much a given that the place would suck. But The Eldridge goes beyond sucking and is among the worst executed clubs in recent memory.

First mistake? The faux bookshop entrance. No one who's actually read a Pynchon novel is dumb enough to buy a $600 table -- or even pay $20 for specialty cocktails. Second mistake? Inviting a cross section of the sub-21-year-old DJ/whigger/post-Misshapes crowd and the over-35 sleezeball scene, while missing the entire 25 to 35-year-old crowd that runs downtown. Third mistake? Hiring a faux-Farnsworth doorman who wears pink, plaid shirts tucked into cowboy jeans. Fourth mistake? Opening a club in a space too small for actual dancing. Did I mention the corny lighting? Weak DJ? Cheesy girls?

There was great buzz after the Apotheke opening last week. I guess two good new clubs can't open in the same week.