Paloma at The Hotel Hendricks — A Girl's Guide to Drinking Alone

25 W 38th St btw 5th and 6th Aves, Midtown West

The Place: A vaguely Mexican bar in a new, trying-to-be-trendy hotel called The Hendricks, which is a gin brand and gin is not Mexican so I’m already confused.

The Time: Wednesday December 11, 5:45pm. I’m meeting my friend for a book swap event at The Wing Bryant Park and when I have time to kill, I obviously find a bar. Because this area of New York is a cocktail dead zone, my first plan is to go to a spot that Google told me about, called The Australian. It seems like it’d be different than all the Irish pubs around here but surprise! It’s just an Irish pub except...Australian. So I look across the street and there’s a hotel with a bar, so here I am.

The Vibe: But where the fuck am I? There is loud music playing outside, which is a red flag that I stroll right past. This bar is in the lobby and there is not a lot of space here so basically the lobby is the bar is the lobby. Filtering in and out are tourists rolling big suitcases, visitors sitting in the two cow-print chairs waiting for their Ubers, people asking the front desk for directions. The lights are that shade of yellow that make everyone look like they have jaundice. There are cartoony murals on most of the walls: Lenny Kravitz, Bowie, Dolly Parton. What’s the music connection here? Fuck if I know. I pull up a stool at the bar, which honestly, I shouldn’t call a stool, it’s more like a tray table with legs. There are no coat hooks under the bar!! Like, at least have coat hooks, my god. The ceilings are super high, which is nice, so the back bar of bottles is massive. The first two levels have spirits that are presumably used, and the rest of this massive shelving unit is Hendricks bottles. Just bottles upon bottles of Hendricks Gin. This hotel has to be related somehow but again, this bar is called Paloma, which is a tequila cocktail. I JUST. CAN’T.

The Bartender: There are two guys in aprons in front of me, and it’s a bar that maybe has room for 5 humans to “sit” on these plastic end tables. They’re both very nice and check in on me regularly. There’s another bartender around the corner, seemingly at a service station, and it’s then that I realize there’s probably a restaurant somewhere. The older man to my left is fully ignoring the people he’s here with (his family, I’m assuming) and spends a great deal of time insisting to the bartender, who has already said where in Mexico he is from, that tequila and mezcal are the same thing. “Uh, yeah, they’re different.” “No, I think they’re the same.” BRUH.

The Drank: Even though there’s gin literally framing this bar, it’s called Paloma so I guess I should order one. HAHA I shouldn’t have, because it is not good and it costs $16. It takes several minutes to arrive because the service bartender made it, while I’m not sure what the other two bartenders are doing. It basically tastes like sugar with some grapefruit flavor that’s been waved in the general direction of Mexico (thanks Noël Coward). The grapefruit peel they call a garnish is offensive to me. I work at a bar that takes its peels very seriously so I know I’m a jerk about this subject, but this peel is basically just pith. It does nothing but give off an unpleasant bitterness. I also get chips and salsa, a safe bet, I would assume. Wrong. One salsa is pretty good; the other tastes like watered down Tostitos. You can say it - I’m an asshole. But there are SO MANY good bars in this city, I shouldn’t have to pay a hefty chunk of change for poorly executed basic things. This shit is rough, you guys.

Was I Hit On?: Thankfully no, because this is a place that attracts folks like the one couple who come up to the bar and ask for a chardonnay and Macallan 12. A taste of the wine is poured for the woman, but they don’t have Macallan, which is such a deal breaker for this dude that, even after presented with a few similar Scotches, he decides they should go elsewhere. One bartender says to the other, “he’s a dick” and I heard him! I should not have heard him, but he’s right! That dude is a dick! But she’s no better because even though they have already decided to leave, she still tastes the wine and says “I don’t like it.” HELP!

Should You Drink Here Alone?: Do I really have to say it? Both Paloma and its accompanying hotel are dizzying strange places I never want to go again. I’m sure the Australian wouldn’t have been much better so maybe just avoid this neighborhood entirely. My head hurts. Can I go home now?

* UPDATE * Paloma is now closed