Some guy is opening a colossal Midtown restaurant tonight.
Allegedly he’s a big deal.
His name’s, what was it?
Ralph Lauren or something like that?
Sounds made-up.
Anyway, take a look at The Polo Bar, an astonishingly spot-on titan of an erudite dining experience
from the crown prince of Americana, opening tonight.
Horses.
Sorry if that seems out of context, but it seemed ludicrous to go any further without putting that word out
there, because they’re everywhere here. Leather and wood: also everywhere. And tweed-pantsed bartenders.
And oxford-button-downed servers. And a majestic fireplace. It’s just exactly what you imagined in your
most Laurenian dreams. (Here’s your slideshow corroboration.)
And you pause at the bar, where you walk in, and you marvel to yourself, “Polo shirts did this,” and you
have a winter punch (if ever there were a day for it).
Then you head downstairs, famished and full of winter punch. And you marvel to yourself, “This feels like
a glorious Ralph Lauren–decorated living room. And I’d like a large burger.” And then you see one of the aforementioned oxford shirts and say,
“I’d like a large burger.”
