The Observer has heard from multiple sources that W.I.P. (the site of the brawl) and Greenhouse (the club that it was spawned from, which shares the same property and address) can operate again, and will do so beginning on July 8th. A spokesperson for the club confirmed: W.I.P./Greenhouse has reached an agreement—"in principle"—with the city to reopen in the coming week.

Even if the legal injunction preventing the club from operating has been temporary lifted, there's still the issue of the club's liquor license to deal with. The license, which was revoked via emergency suspension on Tuesday by the New York State Liquor Authority, is still showing up as inactive on the NY-SLA's website.

On Tuesday, the club's management will meet with an administrative judge for the SLA, in which they'll challenge the agency's emergency suspension. An NY-SLA spokesperson did not immediately return a request for comment.

fkamer@observer.com | @weareyourfek

Of course, the police department won't say they shut down the club where the R & B brouhaha occurred—W.i.P. (or "Work In Progress")—explicitly because of the fight, but the reasons remain undisclosed by the department and unclear to anyone who will talk:

The department’s chief spokesman, Paul J. Browne, said in a statement that W.i.P., as well as a club above it, Greenhouse, was "closed as a result of several violations in a stipulation agreement that was made by the owners and the N.Y.P.D." A sergeant in the police press office said on Sunday that he was unaware of what those violations were or of the details of the earlier stipulation agreement.

Emphasis ours. They also, for what it's worth, arrested the club's manager for "outstanding warrants." Like the NYPD's shutdown of the club, none of the violations the club's manager was arrested for were made clear. In fact, the only public, civic action explicitly tied to the club's fight that's been made public?

A politician's pithy attempt to capitalize on it:

City Council Speak Christine Quinn released a statement today announcing an emergency meeting between her office, the NYPD and the Nightlife Association. "I am deeply concerned by reports of the bottle throwing melee that injured more than five people in SoHo this week," Quinn said. The speaker said she wanted "to send a clear message to all nightclub patrons that bottles cannot be used as weapons and to determine if the guidelines surrounding bottle service need to be updated or reworked."

It may be worth noting that the three main characters in this fight aren't white. Why?

They stand in stark opposition to those involved in the fight at Meatpacking District club Double Seven just four months ago that involved (of course) attractive women, and the belligerent chest-beating drunks courting them, who got into fights attempting to win their hands. The stars of that one were a prince of Monaco (who also happens to be Grace Kelley's grandson), a nightlife owner, Paris Hilton's ex-boyfriend, a bunch of models, and some moneyed downtown hipsters, all slugging away at each other.

Like the W.i.P. fight, people landed in the hospital, a jaw was broken, and (of course) bottle service was involved.

But unlike the W.i.P. fight, Double Service remains in operation today, and no manager was arrested.

Furthermore, it didn't inspire any calls to action by New York's political class. It was brilliant local tabloid fodder, but unlike the Drake and Chris Brown fight, didn't quite make the national papers. To be fair, it's not like the NYPD or Christine Quinn didn't have any reason to look into W.i.P. prior to this.* It's just surprising that they didn't, at least given the lesser threshold required.

After all, W.i.P.'s creative director Stuart Braunstein quit not three weeks ago after the suicide of artist Adam Grant, prior to which, his work—a $40,000 sculpture on display for viewing in the club—was destroyed, and the club was uninsured for such a thing. W.i.P. was given clearance by the local community board to open in part to its dedication to the idea of itself as a gallery. So why wouldn't they be insured like one? And how was that never looked into? Of course, when confronted with a report on Braunstein's departure from the club, W.i.P. fired back that Braunstein was (as sources told BlackBook) involved in a physical altercation with a female employee, something that (if true) never caught the attention of any city officials, either.

It might be worth mentioning here that Greenhouse—the club above W.i.P. which shares a building and some ownership—was the site of a fatal shooting in 2010, which makes that time they were accused of a racist door policy look like a small nitpick. Barry Mullineaux—an owner of W.i.P.— previously had his massively popular Chelsea nightclub Stereo shut down for good after a shooting in 2008.

To recap:

Shootings, accusations of a racist door policy, destroyed art, and accusations of management/employee physical altercations couldn't raise any serious red flags, cause a club to close (let alone act as serious impediments to one opening), or yield the attention of a local politico. A fight resembling the one at W.i.P.—except with all caucasian men, who didn't happen to be pop stars—didn't result in a club's subsequent NYPD-assisted closure, or get a City Councilwoman to climb atop a soapbox.

But after all of that, one fight between two pop stars over another one—none of whom were white—did. And now we know!

fkamer@observer.com | @weareyourfek

[*In the interest of full disclosure, we should maybe mention the fact that the New York Observer had their holiday party this year. To the best of this writer's knowledge, amazingly, no bottles were thrown.]

Andre!

French nightlife impresario Andre Saraiva’s Le Baron—with respective locations in Paris and Tokyo, easily two of the most exclusive nightlife spots in the known universe, the likes of which you will never see the inside of—has been anticipated as the messanic salvation of New York City nightlife. Especially ever since word of its stateside arrival was confirmed...in March 2010.

In October 2010, it was rumored the Chinatown club was going to open the following month. No dice.

Last June, Mr. Saraiva was here to supervise construction over Le Baron, even though he didn't know if it was ever going to open (or so he told our nightlife correspondent, who may or may not have had a panic attack induced by Mr. Saraiva's cryptic answers).

Last September, Mr. Saraiva was reportedly spending much of his time hard at work "relaxing in France with lovely arm candy [socialite] Annabelle Dexter-Jones." Not shockingly, Le Baron has been about as elusive in its pre-natal stages as entry to it will inevitably be once it opens. For those who think they stand even the most remote chance at entry, however, good news:

The 32 Mulberry club's liquor licence has been approved. Scott Solish at Eater reports:

The liquor license for Andre Saraiva's nightclub has finally been approved by the State Liquor Authority, clearing the final hurdle for the club to open. No word on the exact opening date, but the hipsterati are already clamoring for it to open as soon as possible. It took almost 22 months from the time the project was announced for the place to clear all of the necessary hurdles, and from what we hear, expect the new three story Le Baron to offer the tightest door since the Beatrice in its heyday.

Will it be open for Fashion Week in Februrary?

Will it be open for Fashion Week in September?!

Will it be open for Robot Fashion Week when the robots eventually take over in due time?!? Because that's still, at this point, more likely to happen before Le Baron opens. Meanwhile, New York City's nightcrawling scenesters can still spend their evenings attempting to cadge drinks from their moneyed older dates at the Electric Room as Nur Kahn secretly transmits subliminals upon their delicate, desperate psyches. Hold out, young urbanite! You may be roused from your (distinctly French) existential nightmare in due time. Salvation may be forthcoming, yet.

fkamer@observer.com | @weareyourfek

Illo: Andrew DeGraff

On one of the last busy evenings of Fashion Week, the suppertime clique that had turned up for the AnOther magazine dinner at the Fat Radish on Orchard was making the trek to the after-party. A breeze had split the night’s air. Most of the gang opted to walk, despite—or due to?—the hash brownies with which many, including The Observer, had topped off the meal.

Well, not everyone: Daphne Guinness, in heels that lifted her 10 feet toward God, cabbed it.

The gang sauntered over to the Bowery and, upon taking a left, entered meandering streets that looped like a child’s doodles—endless ovals of turns, each leading to an alleyway, a familiar passage, a dead end. We were looking for Apotheke. Finding it without a smart phone? Forget it, Nate. It’s Chinatown.

But we did have one, and so made our way to the elbow of Doyers and the swanky mixological wonder surrounded by kids, some on skateboards, many feigning confusion at not being on the list.

Inside, one found the same gridlock at the bar, but something was off. Everyone who had been at the dinner, Dasha Zhukova and Olympia Scarry and AnOther editor Jefferson Hack … where had they gone? Did they skip out for some other bash? What were we missing?

“Should we check out the downstairs?” our friend said out of nowhere, in a whisper.

So that was it. In a few moments we had ducked behind the bar, wedged through a tiny entrance, dodged the hanging pots and pans lining a maze of storage tunnels, and found ourselves in a low-ceilinged but expansive lair. This was Pulqueria—a forbidden city of nightlife fever dreams. One of those hidden places you stumble upon one night and forever after wonder where exactly it was, or whether it existed at all. To judge by the faces of those who had made it inside, the joy, the hardly hidden smugness at their discovery, it might have well been El Dorado.

Pulqueria is just the most recent night spot to upgrade its original offerings with a tiny, “hush-hush” venue-within-a-venue. With space in Manhattan running out and community boards in a prudish state of mind, well, you might as well dig down on the space you’ve got rather than try to expand outward.

As if we didn’t have enough nighttime anxieties, what with all of those velvet ropes and stony faced doormen. At any given time, at any bar in the city, there may be somewhere directly beneath you—or above?—where people are having a better time than you. How can you enjoy yourself when the real party is likely elsewhere? Look left, then right—is something missing? Start asking around about the other place, you know, that place. You know, the place.

Each sneaky spot’s got its own variation on the theme, but the defining characteristics tend to stay the same. These places are dark. The ceilings are low and the drinks—sorry, the mixologist-curated creations—are priced sky-high. True, none of them are secret for long, thanks to Twitter, streetsmart blogs and, ahem, New York newspapers. But we all know that’s not the point. They feel secret once you’re there, and that’s often enough to seal the deal.

Pulqueria joins an impressive roster of places in Manhattan peddling booze on the down low. There’s PDT, on St. Marks Place, which made a bit of a splash when it opened inside the Crif Dogs weiner shop in 2007. The charm there comes from an entry ritual worthy of Clark Kent: you slide into the red phone booth in the corner of the greasy spoon, pick up the receiver, and ask if there’s a table available. Which brings up a nice irony: if you see a phone booth in Manhattan these days, you’ll have a better chance of finding a drink than a dial tone.

The contrast between boardwalk grub and high-end gin is key here, and other joints are determined to milk the same clash. The Back Room—a bit of a misnomer, given that it actually has no “front”—lies at the end of an alley and past a sign that reads “Lower East Side Toy Co.” Those seeking the boîte Second Floor on Clinton must brave the galloping herd of tequila fiends who frequent the decidedly rowdier Barramundi. Then, there are the periodical pop-ups: Simonez Wolf’s celebrated Madame Wong’s party has taken up semipermanent residence at Jobee and, now, Red Egg—anonymous Chinatown eateries by day, celeb-heavy hot spots at night.

Bathtub Gin, a recently opened 1920s-styled watering hole, is accessed through an innocuous-looking place called Stone Street Coffee Company. Walk past the line of French presses (they actually serve coffee!) and push the wall. A red glow spills through the cracks. There is actually a battub inside. “The whole point was people come to have coffee during the day not knowing what’s behind there, and you open the door to a whole new world,” Dave Oz, the manager and owner, told The Observer.

Not that these two-faced venues are anything new. The Prohibition-era speakeasy begat the gay bar back room, and in the disco days, clubgoers sought out small spaces in clubs in which do things in private. Bathrooms always work, of course, but there were other, more comfortable locales, namely dead area behind walls, and P.V.C.-laden industrial corners. Rather than policing every forgotten pocket, the thinking went, why not stick a few bottles of liquor and a bartender down there, sweep up the soot, throw out the warped two-by-fours, and make things official?

For example: the Strategic Tao Group at the Dream Downtown hired Nur Khan to take the storage space beneath the ground floor and whip up a super tiny, super exclusive spot. This became Electric Room, the toast of last month’s Fashion Week, despite the fact that guests have to brave a steep and entirely unglamorous truck ramp that tunnels beneath the building. On its first night serving booze, Adrien Grenier christened the walkway by being the first person to trip.

And deep under Don Hill’s, a now-closed west Soho rock joint Mr. Khan reopened with Paul Sevigny in September 2010, an even tinier place, unknown to most everybody dancing to the Misshapes upstairs. If you got past the security personnel standing conspicuously in a nook by the raised V.I.P. lounge, a rickety staircase would take you to a cement cavern lined occasionally with metal racks. It was a space reserved for bands pre- and postperformance, and also a super exclusive spot for those fed up with the body-on-body scrum of the dance floor.

Venturing beyond that, the truly adventurous enter what appeared to be a mix between a boiler room and Turkish bath—just a box, really, the size of a tiny Manhattan bedroom. The last time The Observer ventured in was just a few weeks before Don Hill’s shut its doors for good, and we chain-smoked as a young man who claimed to be a doctor described the intricacies of open heart surgery. Good times.

Two of the city’s most conventional secret rooms lie directly adjacent to each other at the juncture of Kenmare and Lafayette: Cafe Select and La Esquina. The former’s already small enough that an even more minuscule hidden space within would seem unnecessary, but have no doubt. Make a right at the boiler room, and there you are.

Then there’s the backroom at La Esquina, hidden beneath a taco joint that came to the block already dinged up, as if it had been there for years.

“It’s almost the hardest place to work,” said a former employee, “because people think they’ve already made it in, and then you have to turn them away.”

Now, almost twelve years after the closing of the West 43^rd St. location, Club New York is set to re-open, with a new space and (hopefully) a cleaner image.

“I always had a plan to reopen,” drawled Michael Bergos in his thick New York accent. “This was always going to happen.”

The nightclub owner, who also owns a few other sleazy late-night locations in the Big Apple, Los Angeles and Las Vegas, told The Observer that he has been scoping out venues downtown, citing Meatpacking as a potential location for Club New York, part deux.

After some snooping, we discovered that in 2000, only a few months after three people were brutally wounded inside of his now-famous establishment, Mr. Bergos trademarked both the phrase Club New York (for bar and nightclub services) and Club NY (for clothing, and most specifically, t-shirts).

When asked why he chose to protect the rights to his defunct club’s name, the club owner said that title is “worldly recognizable” and that it was important to preserve the “history” of the Midtown lounge.

Has the club owner talked to Diddy about his plans for the new nightspot? Mr. Bergos was dismissive, saying simply: “He has nothing to do with me. He has no control over this.”

Let's hope there will be better security control at the new Club New York™.

Mr. Grossich: Well, it’s not so much snobbery. At the end of the day, I’m a marketing guy, and marketing is all about selling and finding a niche that you can own and cultivating that niche. … If you want to wear shorts and a ripped T-shirt and go have a drink somewhere, there are plenty of places you can go.

The Campbell Apartment’s dress code says: ‘Proper Attire Required. Absolutely No Athletic Shoes, T-Shirts, Sweatshirts, Baseball Caps, Shorts or Torn Jeans.’ Did you write that?

We started off with the simple ‘Proper Attire Required,’ but it was too open-ended. … I must say I appreciate your respect for our dress code, because there are journalists out there, who will remain unnamed, who have almost a vendetta against us because they were turned away at the door when they felt that because they were journalists that should somehow make a difference.

I assume you mean Times’ restaurant critic Frank Bruni, who wrote last year about being turned away from Campbell for wearing ‘a pair of very, very expensive Tod’s shoes’ that your doorman mistook for sneakers. Did you apologize to him afterward?

That wasn’t the person I had in mind, but certainly to start apologizing for our dress code starts to challenge why we have a dress code. Honestly, I can’t recall what we did, but we try to train our hostesses as best we possibly can, because it’s a very touchy subject. You walk in and, you know, I understand it, people take it very personally. It’s like—‘Max, I don’t think you’re worthy. Get the hell out of here!’

Your company describes its lounges as the city’s ‘most refreshingly civilized places.’ Isn’t poshness and civility out of vogue?

With all that’s going on in the world, and all the issues with people losing their fortunes or not being able to get a job or make any more money, it’s a relatively small expense to treat yourself to a plush environment, a well-made drink.

Does your World Bar in the Trump World Tower still have a $50 drink with drops of liquid gold?

Yes, we do.

Isn’t it a precarious time to be a king of the New York cocktail lounge—sort of like being a top Hummer salesman?

Overall, it’s a very sophisticated city that’s been at the center of this kind of lifestyle situation forever.

Lifestyle marketing seems dead: People aren’t buying something because it taps into what they want to be; they’re buying it because it’s a bargain or will really help.

It depends on what you’re selling! We’re selling ambiance, we’re not selling Chevrolets.

But isn’t the fancy, cigarette-holder, horn-rimmed era gone? The days of the big swinging dick, as Michael Lewis called the Alpha Male trader, were declared dead in September.

Goldman would argue differently, I think! That’s another story.

You opened New York’s first cigar lounge, the Cigar Bar, but now people can’t smoke in your places (except the Carnegie Club). You openly hated the ban when it was created, but what about now that it’s been awhile?

I still think it was somewhat arbitrary. We are living in a society that has particular freedoms. … The flip side for me is obviously I’ve saved an awful lot of money reupholstering.

You recently leased a former post office on the ground floor of the iconic Empire State Building for the Empire Room, which opens in the autumn. Its style harks back to the 1920s?

People, particularly in times when things are difficult, want to hang on to something. I think, universally, people continue to think that the past is somehow better than the future.

Eater.com made fun of the chandelier and dotted carpet: ‘It's like being on a third tier cruise line or maybe a Marriott Renaissance.’

Obviously, they’re not our customers, are they?

Your places have gobs of nostalgic, Old World glamour, but one thing they don’t have is youth. Are you envious of hip but gourmet downtown places like Death & Co or Milk & Honey?

Not really. We get those people, but it’s a different experience. We don’t shun youth, but we certainly have a franchise that I guess one could consider a little more—I don’t want to say adult—but a little more sophisticated in that respect. I’m sure we have plenty of customers that enjoy both.

Are you dismissive of the gourmet, organic cocktail movement?

I respect it, but there’s a point where, in my mind, it becomes almost too precious. If you’ve got 150 people and the bar is three-deep, there’s not a lot of time to make a drink with an eye-dropper.

Graydon Carter’s mural-covered Monkey Bar and Waverly Inn both want to be versions of the Chrysler Building’s vintage, gilded Cloud Club. Have you been?

I’ve been to Monkey, not to Waverly. … He’s had great success. Granted, you can’t overlook the fact that he’s the editor in chief of a very popular global magazine, and I’m sure that has something to do with it. But still.

You owned a modeling agency, among other things, before going into cocktail lounges. Do you miss it?

We had some success. It was called Punch Models, we were a boutique modeling agency just before boutique modeling became very in vogue. The thing I can say I’m most proud of is I didn’t lose my shirt. Didn’t get rich, didn’t lose my shirt.

Tishman Speyer basically evicted the Ciprianis from the Rainbow Room at Rockefeller Plaza earlier this year. Would you be interested in it?

We’ve been approached about it. … It would certainly be possible to take over the Rainbow bar, but to take over the food service? No.

You were reportedly sued for discrimination last year after hiring only women for hostess jobs. The Equal Rights Commission apparently fined you $15,000, but you appealed. How did it turn out?

It was ridiculous, frankly. As I understand it, what happened was, there was a gentleman who came in, we were interviewing for hostesses. There were other men there, he wasn’t the only man. It wasn’t that it was a man or a woman—we didn’t choose him! I really felt like we were set up a little bit, and I was really put off by all that. And if my memory serves—it’s been a while—I think we settled for far less than that.

You filed suit in State Supreme Court three years ago after the Parks Department replaced your Patio Café with the New York Milkshake Company in Dag Hammarskjold Plaza. What happened?

On the surface, we were simply outbid. … As the judge in our case continued to say to us when we were presenting our side of the argument, his refrain was, ‘Why would anyone want to do business with the City of New York?’ And perhaps he was right.

mabelson@observer.com