Hudson Terrace

The scene: it's raining cats and dogs and kittens and puppies. I had just finished my workout at NYAC (rather, my monsoon run in Central Park) and midway through getting dolled up for the Trident Swim Foundation fundraiser at the Hudson Terrace, I felt like I needed another shower. Disgusting.

I head downstairs and get stuck in "seeking-shelter-from-the-storm" traffic at the club entrance. About 20 people are hanging out under the awning, some on their cell phones, some fighting for cabs, most looking bewildered, all trying to figure out how they were going to make a run for it by getting the least wet. Some chick ran off in a white dress barefoot. Guess that's the way to go, if you don't care that you're walking through dog urine, pigeon and horse droppings, and disposed chewing gum. Disgusting.

After about five minutes of no luck on the cab front, I decided to rough it and try my luck on another block. Thank goodness I managed to steal a small, bright purple umbrella from work which felt more like an over-sized hat than an umbrella. I could feel the water from one of its broken spokes dripping down the back of my dress.

Cab! No lights. Cab! Ugh. No lights. Cab! All lights. Shoot. Wait. He's stopping.

"Whay-uh uh-yoo go-een?"

"46th and 11th?"

"OK. Gayt een."

Open door, close umbrella, saved.

"Whay-uh uh-yoo go-een?"

"46th and 11th!?"

"Oh. Sorry. Get out."

"Ya' KIDDING ME!?"

"Sorry meess."

I was so amazed I couldn't do anything but cackle out loud. Did this seriously just happen? Wow. After about a dozen more unlit cabs flew by packed with lucky, dry riders, my knight in shining yellow armor came to whisk me away to the party.

When I googled Hudson Terrace I was confused it wasn't on 58th and Columbus. Was this not the outdoor space at the Hudson Hotel? Rats. I quickly learned that's the Hudson Sky Terrace and we're going to the plain ol' Hudson Terrace. The New Yorker used to throw elaborate launch parties at the Sky Terrace and I was excited to return to my old stomping grounds. Guess I'll have to plan my own reunion.

I strolled up to the Hudson Terrace, on 46th and 12th (I ended up getting out of the cab at 52nd because the traffic on 11th was so horrendous), and the first red flag was the scantily clad woman stumbling outside the entrance like she was looking for her next hit. Disgusting.

I walked in and there were a few yuppies with clipboards holding their laundry lists of guests. Who knew the Trident Swim Foundation had so many supporters?

"What party are you here for?" Aha. Multiple events.

"Trident."

"Head to the elevator on the right."

"OK. Thanks."

I got on the elevator and I could hear thrashing club music seeping through the walls. It was only seven o'clock. The tall black man on elevator duty gave me a Cheshire cat grin. He reminded me of Djimon Hounsou with his smile and voice.

"Is that club music I'm hearing?"

"Yes. Have a good night!"

I was not ready for this. I thought I was going to a spa-like, tranquil terrace to meet some friends. When I got off the elevator I was in club central -- bright lights, shiny surfaces, bottle service and music I only listen to at 1 a.m. -- and I knew no one.

No sooner had I walked in than I couldn't wait to get the hell out of there. I invited Springbok to come join me, and I think he was considering it until I said, "Stay far far away. It's awful. I will meet you later."

Minutes ago I told JB I was writing about our night and he responded, "Yeah. Terrible. Make sure you mention all the turd-looking bankers in there." I had to wade through about a dozen groups of them until I found a familiar face.

"Activista!" I shouted. Thank god.

I scored my free sip of wine that came with my ticket and we went to the bar.

"A Manhattan, a gin and tonic and a bud light, please." The only positive thing about the place was there was no wait for service.

"Would you like that up?" The orange bartender with a grease-tight ponytail asked.

"Yes, please."

Don't ask me why, but Manhattans are my new favorite drink. In my mind I'm actually drinking more by drinking less. I watched her prepare the gin and tonic before she had to ask for help for the Manhattan. Great. I handed her my Visa.

"You can just close it out."

"Sure."

She turned around, put my card down and got ready to take on the next drink order.

"Ummm, I said close it out."

"We have a $50 minimum for charge cards."

"5-0?!"

"5-0."

I'm sorry, I just paid $40 to get in, I don't have any more cash. And could you not have mentioned that as you TOOK my CARD?

"Activista? JB?"

"We should have cash."

The three of us fuddled with our wallets like we were 6-year-olds and cumulatively did not have enough to cover the $37 tab for three drinks. Typical of the media maven/swim coach/unemployed lawyer trio. Activista offered to put our drinks on her already existent tab and the bartender woke up and realized she actually could run my card.

"I'll close you out. I'll get in less trouble doing this than -- " and she mumbled something under her breath.

Than what, taking our cash or running Activista's card? This chick was bananas.

My eyes popped out of my head while I was signing the receipt. Forty-seven bucks for two drinks and a beer? Ask anyone. I am no cheapskate. Hate 'em, can't trust 'em, don't hang out with 'em. If I have to ask you to contribute more money than you already have to a dinner or drink tab, consider yourself off the M-list. But this was out of control. I wish I'd taken a photo of the receipt because you're not going to believe me. I was charged $3 for having my Manhattan "up." Up, by the way, meant served in a martini glass without the stem. That and she added a $10 gratuity.

"Gratuity is included?"

"Yeah, it's our policy. We ALWAYS include gratuity."

I wish I had spoken to the manager. By "our policy" she meant her policy, for sure. Had I wanted to spend that much money on a drink I would have gone to Bemelman's, Milk & Honey, Tailor or any other real drinking establishment where I'd happily drop $20 on a well-constructed, artful drink.

Not only did she include more tip than I'd put down for a $37 dinner, but she got about 19 percent more than I would have given her. My patience was boiling as I nearly chugged my Manhattan to get out of there. Two hours of my life I'll never get back. Disgusting.