Nightlife

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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