Dear Mr. Putin,
We need to talk.
About Olympic-worthy toilet-building practices.
About human rights.
About how we can maximize our shirtless horse-riding potential.
And here’s where we’ll do it…
At Ariana, a vodka-soaked Russian spot from a six-time Russian-Grammy winner. (As in, she won six Russian Grammys. Not a Grammy winner who is Russian.)
Anyway: it’s taking reservations for tomorrow night and beyond. Use it like so…
Pre- or post-whatever drinks.
In case you haven’t noticed, vodka is mounting a furious comeback. They barrel-age the stuff here. They put frozen caviar lollipops in it. It gets crazy. Bring a date and marble-bar it up.
Bending opponents to your will.
There’s a small, curtained-off area with just a couple tables and a private-stock liquor cabinet. It’s called the Cognac Room. It’s just you, the poor bastard you’ve brought along (we’re looking at you, Vlad), a lot of silence and the occasional Russian guy poking his head in to make sure everything’s cool. Think about it.
The last-minute Valentine’s Day freak-out.
No way this applies to you. You’d never be caught figuring out plans this late in the game. But… just know that there’s a skylighted stunner of a dining room tucked behind the bar. They’re doing foie gras éclairs. They’re doing the most opulent pickle plates this side of the Volga. And they’re doing something called Velvet Borscht.
New nickname: found.
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