My most inappropriate friend Bartok’s final night in New York was on Sunday, leaving me no choice but to take her to witness the infamous Sunday night karaoke at Cipriani Downtown’s upstairs private club. While we drank and put on make-up at my apartment, I attempted to prep her for what I knew would be an inevitably raunchy evening:

“The whole upstairs club is run by this ominous figure Braid who’s ultra scary, intimidating, and what I imagine a physical manifestation of Satan to look like. He subtly runs the door from upstairs via a headset while Jack, his right arm, physically enacts his orders about who gets in and who stays out below on street level. Men who are members (membership involves giving Braid/the Cipriani’s establishment $2,000 - $4,000 depending on how well-connected you are) always get in and usually have house accounts. Very hot women that Braid hopes might double as prostitutes for his clientele of elderly Guido members also get in, assuming they have at least one name to drop of a resident table-hound inside. A man who’s not a member is subject completely to Braid’s “mood,” which is utterly unpredictable and sadly holds the fate of many a ruined evenings. In fact, if you walk around West Broadway and Broome eavesdropping between the hours of 11 p.m. and 1 a.m., the main subject of discussion by practically everyone is if Braid is in a “good mood” or “bad mood.” “Good mood” means Braid’s accepting non-member parties who want to purchase tables, assuming they
a) have an equal number of girls and guys in their party
b) sign on for a 2 bottle or Cristal minimum and
c) slip him at least $50 throughout the course of the night.

As I found out, failure to spend what Braid considers enough dough (which he never clearly outlines, so you basically have to guess) or failure to slip him enough cash homage results in essentially being blackballed from the Cipriani’s clubbing establishment. This happened to two male friends of mine in from London. I took them there with some female friends of mine and “good mood” Braid granted Jack to grant us entrance. Several nights later, we returned, the same group of people, and were informed by Jack that Braid felt that we hadn’t spent enough last time and that my male friends were talking to too many ladies. I pointed out to Jack that my London friends would have gladly spent more dough had our waitress politely told us (I mean, they earn money in pounds, partying in America is like a tax deduction for them). At this point Jack took my arm, ushered me away from my group and said:

‘Braid is not happy with you right now, bringing men here. We don’t need their business. The good time upstairs is for members. Take them somewhere else.’

A nearby girl overheard this exchange and touched my shoulder. ‘It’s not you,’ she said. ‘Braid’s in a ‘bad mood’ today. People have been texting about it all night.’

I was flabbergasted (although I shouldn’t have been considering I know the drill), left, and boycotted the establishment for several weeks until, like every faithful going-out addict, I ended up there drunk on an anonymous Sunday.”

As Bartok and I walked to Cip’s from my apartment, drinking vodka out of plastic cups we’d brought from my apartment, I attempted to outline for her the cast of characters:

“On karaoke night they utilize the best promoters since is the ‘glitterati night.’ This means a lot of starving models at the centerfold table, who usually pass one of the two mikes among themselves. Sundays at the corner table is usually Calvin, who’s rumored to own the largest escort company in the world, surrounded by his goons and (surprise surprise) a lotta escorts. On the table against the wall is Giuseppe Cipriani himself and his entourage. As you move back toward the fireplace you have members’ tables, usually in order of spending and frequency.”

We arrived and sure enough, everything I’d previously outlined stretched out before us. Alcohol is really the only thing that makes the whole Cipriani’s karaoke experience tolerable, hence why I ensured us getting a head start on the drinking on the way over. My friend who we chilled with for the majority of the evening forwent bottle service in lieu of ordering round after round of kamikaze shots. Nothing gets me retarded (and inevitably puking) like the liquor combination in kamikazes. A close Italian friend of mine at his own table was doing champagne. Hence a combination of vodka, Bellini’s and shots ensued. I even got retarded enough to tackle some skeletronic super model for the mike and ran around with it for a bit before Bartok saved me from myself and took it away. Braid happened to be in a “good mood,” making the entire evening that much more pleasant. He even took a liking to Bartok and forced her into doing his signature dance with him. I think he looks like a high leprechaun doing the jig, but whatever. The dance routine signals Braid’s level of wrath at the world is down so I like it. Later, Giuseppe Cipriani himself found Bartok’s unparelled charisma irresistible. It was late when we ended up at his table, Bartok – Giuseppe – Me – and a cute boy in a hat on my left. Since Bartok and Giuseppe were chatting it up I, very inebriated, turned to the young man on my left and commented that I approved of Giuseppe’s taste in women and had his type totally pegged. The young man agreed with my analysis of Giuseppe’s tastes:

“Yeah, you’re totally right. Trust me, I know. He’s my father.”

HUH!?

I double-taked and analyzed him with alarmed eyes: “Are you serious?”

“Yeah.”

“What are you? Like fourteen?” I asked in horror.

“Seventeen.”

I apologized profusely in a drunken stupor for making sexual observations about his father, to which he replied:

“Don’t worry. I know all abut Dad and his women. He’s crazy.”

“Where’s your mother?” I asked appalled. I knew Giuseppe was divorced, but how could his ex-wife let him take an impressionable teen boy into the evil sketchiness that is Cipriani’s Upstairs. “Is she in Venice?”

“Nah, she’s moved to New York now too.”

I turned to Giuseppe, pointing at the boy and inquiring, “This is your son?”

Giuseppe gave a small smile and nodded in agreement. The young man got up, “Bye Dad, I’m going home.” And off he went, leaving me and my open jaw flabbergasted at the table.

Just another night out drinking in SoHo.

An interesting article about Giuseppe and the Cipriani dynasty can be found here.