On Sunday New York Times writer Alex Williams broke the news that trendy New York City bars, clubs and restaurants are too crowded with the hoi polloi on Saturday nights. You know the drill: Saturdays are officially the new Sundays, where everyone who hangs out until the wee hours during the week stays home to “decompress.” (Even guys like AJ know this—Thursday night is the night he balls.) Even our hallowed haunts on the Lower East Side have become unbearable on Saturdays.
But a funny thing happened on the way to the abolition of Saturday night. They forgot to include people who have those little inconvenient things called real jobs. The article quotes author Candace Bushnell and publicist Jonathan Cheban and talks about Nicole Richie’s nightlife habits. We just couldn’t help noticing (a) that taking your nightlife advice from Cheban and Richie is part of the problem and definitely not part of the solution and (b) that these aren’t people who have to be at their desks five or six mornings a week. Of course losing Saturday night doesn’t matter to them. For those of among us who report to, say, a trading desk before the dawn five days a week, it’s another matter entirely. Saturday nights still count.
And, of course, it is precisely investment bankers and traders who the Times discovers out on a Saturday night.
[After the jump we get mean and divisive about the two different finacial types the Times finds enjoying themselves on a Saturday night]
Reading deeper into the Times Style section than we normally care to, we recognize two different types of financial types out on a Saturday night: the redeemable and the unredeemable.
Last Saturday, four Manhattanites in their early 30s were huddling over a low table downstairs at Buddakan, the cavernous pan-Asian restaurant in the meatpacking district. “During the weekends, you get a lot of clutter, if you will,” said Brian Kirimdar, 30, an investment banker. He and his wife, Ashley, tend to hide out in restaurants on Saturdays, avoiding all but a few of the Chelsea clubs. “You don’t find too many bridge-and-tunnel people at Cielo or Marquee,” he said. “You really have to pick and choose.”
These folks are the redeemable. Nice, married couple. He works in investment banking. She’s probably a teacher or something. They’re at Buddakan, which counts against them, but they’re just there to have dinner with another couple—so we’ll call that a toss-up.
These guys are probably unredeemable. Saturday night is the night they ball.
And lest it seem that only the locals greet Saturday with a sniff, even some of those outside the 212 area code have had it. Around the same time that night, two well-dressed men from Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn, were standing in line outside BED New York on 27th Street and talking about how club owners take advantage of their Saturday-night patrons.
“It’s club politics,” said one of them, David Choukroun, 26, a trader with slicked-back hair, dressed in a camel overcoat and a white scarf, describing the escalating charges for bottle service on Saturdays. “If you’re here with three guys and three girls, they’ll tell you, ‘All right, two bottles.’ Then you walk upstairs and they’ll be like, ‘Oh wait, how many are you? Oh no, it’s two more bottles.’ ”
So why bother?
He turned and nodded toward two young blond women in line in front of him, wearing shoulder-exposing black party dresses and shivering in the 40-degree weather. “You don’t have to ask me why I come here.”
One final thought: how many of these article have to appear before Saturday becomes the new Saturday? We almost suspect that Times writer Alex Williams is up to something truly devious—writing about the death of Saturdays so it can secretly, quietly be revived. Then those of us who have to get up early during the week can start going out on Saturday nights without fighting through the crowds.
On Saturday, They Rested [New York Times]