I admit this with some amount of shame, but I don’t know my beer. Sure, terms like “dark” and “light” I can get a handle on, but especially a few months ago I might have guessed that Doppelbock and Weizenbock were monsters from German folklore rather than something I would ever drink. Because of this handicap, I would have expected that wandering into a haven for beer enthusiasts would make me feel like a Neanderthal entering the Louvre.

It's Friday night and you're dead-set on going out—soul itching for excitement, belly beseeching you for booze. But where to go? You'd like to drink, but not too much. You want to dance, but can't handle ear-bursting bass right now. You'd like to see-and-be-seen, but don't really want to cough up all your cash. In a city crammed with bars, how does one decide on a final destination? Destination Bar, an East Village staple, makes the choice for you.

At the end of a long week, the body and mind belong in a happy shavasana—or fetal position, whichever you prefer—under a fluffy down comforter for some well-deserved rest. Instead, I ended up at a sweaty dance club, which perhaps was the most natural and needed antithesis to my truer instincts.

It’s been a long day. And a late night is looming--got to get the May issues of the magazine off to the printer. Taking a break to check my email, I’m reminded of an invitation to a single-malt scotch tasting this very evening. In celebration of Tartan Week (whatever that is—the Irish have their day, the Scots have their week, I guess), it’s happening just across the street from the office, so—swearing to myself (and my boss) I’ll be gone no more than a half-hour, I descend into the still-light, but still-cold April evening, an associate in tow.

NYC is the continental capital for ultra high-end nightlife experiences. Extravagance and excess are trademarks of our city's tippling culture, and the options are tantalizing—haute cocktails made by master mixologists, lounges furnished with seating upholstered in ostrich leather, table service underneath crystal chandeliers and late nights on packed, quaking dance floors.

Funny man George Carlin once said: "One tequila, two tequila, three tequila, floor." He must never have been to Mercadito.

The Cold War may have ended decades ago, but Jelsomino is just warming up. This Russian karaoke club hits Midtown in a blaze of post-Soviet glory. Waiting inside the red leather door is a glowing circular stage, a team of waitresses ferrying glow-in-the-dark cocktail trays, a catalog of 60,000 songs (many of them in Russian, searchable via tableside iPads) and a pack of at-your-disposal professional backup singers to help every patron sound like a superstar.

Whiskey and jazz. A pristine pairing of supremely complimentary pleasures. The two go together like milk and honey, yin and yang, Ella and Louie. Hand me a scotch on the rocks, if you will, and let the lady croon: Heaven...I'm in heaven. It's Thursday night and I step out of the office with this dynamite duo on my mind.

Tick-tock: the clock hands turn and night descends upon New York City. Out come the night crawlers, the iconoclasts, the debonairly dressed and the dance-crazy dreamers. Hoards sick with Saturday night fever spill onto the streets looking to fulfill wanton desires. Suited gentleman hold open cab doors for ladies struggling to stride in heels too high.


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