New York - Norwood Club
Spring 2009
Frank's view 
Serious disconnect between 'Club spin' and reality
‘Norwood will be a private members club providing a stylish and comfortable meeting, eating and drinking haven in the heart of New York City to a sophisticated and international clientele of influential opinion-formers in the creative arts world. It will be a gathering place for individuals from all walks of the creative professions; painters, musicians, writers, chefs, fashion designers, and collectors to meet, socialise and collaborate. It will also be a salon of discovery through talks, tastings and stimulating events’.
Wow!
When the invitation arrived to visit New York’s latest den of pretentious poseurs, I reached for my personal salon of discovery (Apple Mac) and inquired inquisitively (Googled) the background to this sanctuary of elitism. The club’s web site showed little modest restraint.
‘On a typical vibrant day, the club will contain a cross-section of the Manhattan creative scene: an independent journalist interviews a young architect in the garden; a successful gallery owner lunches with an international art collector and a famous artist; a fashion magazine’s editorial director is having early evening drinks with three of her girlfriends; a novelist celebrates the launch of another book; an award-winning actor filming in New York invites his Broadway director friend to the Club for a late supper and catch up; a young film maker showcases his new project in the top floor.’
Like a child presented with a lavish dressing up box, I contemplated my options; a Hollywood producer (too big a risk of being caught out), a best selling author (too embarrassing when no one had heard of me), a wealthy European Art Collector (perfect). I brushed up on my Bacon, Freud and Franz Marc, then Camel and companion set off downtown to West 14th Street.
A mere stone's throw from the bars and restaurants of the Meatpackers District, Norwood House is an anonymous Manhattan town house approached by climbing a handful of steps.
We passed the reception desk test only to be knocked back at the second hurdle when the cloakroom attendant’s eyes beamed straight over my shoulder to the ‘best mates status’ couple behind.
The house is single fronted. A staircase winds its way up the left side of the building, flanked by a large, elongated room on each of the four floors. A small garden sits at the rear of the ground floor lounge and bar. The second floor belongs to the restaurant, the third is another bar, and the fourth, a screening room and outside smoking area.
Running slightly late and reeling from rejection by the coat girl, we decided to head straight to the restaurant. The pretty boy waiters in white shirts, black trousers and aprons were arguably in keeping with The Norwood’s sophisticated aspirations. The happy clappy 1960s Beach Boys style music, was not.
As we looked around the thirty or so other diners, it became apparent that there was only one female in the restaurant, and she was sitting beside me.
The diners included fathers with sons (albeit of a different nationality), oddly dressed Japanese twenty somethings and a few flurries of lovies.
The food was adequate and reasonably priced;
Seared Tuna Nicoise ($18), Wild Bass ($22), Duck Breast ($26), Filet Mignon ($38).
Disappointed that my European Art Collector persona had gone to waste, we retired to Soho House, just a few blocks away, for a nightcap.
The Norwood House clientele had been surprisingly unsophisticated. I revisited the web site:
‘Artists at lunchtime, fashion editors in the early evening and novelists for a late supper.’
....and we went for an 8pm dinner.
Oh dear. Missed again.
Norwood Club
241 West 14th `Street
New York
212 255 9300
http://www.norwoodclub.com/
Wow!
When the invitation arrived to visit New York’s latest den of pretentious poseurs, I reached for my personal salon of discovery (Apple Mac) and inquired inquisitively (Googled) the background to this sanctuary of elitism. The club’s web site showed little modest restraint.
‘On a typical vibrant day, the club will contain a cross-section of the Manhattan creative scene: an independent journalist interviews a young architect in the garden; a successful gallery owner lunches with an international art collector and a famous artist; a fashion magazine’s editorial director is having early evening drinks with three of her girlfriends; a novelist celebrates the launch of another book; an award-winning actor filming in New York invites his Broadway director friend to the Club for a late supper and catch up; a young film maker showcases his new project in the top floor.’
Like a child presented with a lavish dressing up box, I contemplated my options; a Hollywood producer (too big a risk of being caught out), a best selling author (too embarrassing when no one had heard of me), a wealthy European Art Collector (perfect). I brushed up on my Bacon, Freud and Franz Marc, then Camel and companion set off downtown to West 14th Street.
A mere stone's throw from the bars and restaurants of the Meatpackers District, Norwood House is an anonymous Manhattan town house approached by climbing a handful of steps.
We passed the reception desk test only to be knocked back at the second hurdle when the cloakroom attendant’s eyes beamed straight over my shoulder to the ‘best mates status’ couple behind.
The house is single fronted. A staircase winds its way up the left side of the building, flanked by a large, elongated room on each of the four floors. A small garden sits at the rear of the ground floor lounge and bar. The second floor belongs to the restaurant, the third is another bar, and the fourth, a screening room and outside smoking area.
Running slightly late and reeling from rejection by the coat girl, we decided to head straight to the restaurant. The pretty boy waiters in white shirts, black trousers and aprons were arguably in keeping with The Norwood’s sophisticated aspirations. The happy clappy 1960s Beach Boys style music, was not.
As we looked around the thirty or so other diners, it became apparent that there was only one female in the restaurant, and she was sitting beside me.
The diners included fathers with sons (albeit of a different nationality), oddly dressed Japanese twenty somethings and a few flurries of lovies.
The food was adequate and reasonably priced;
Seared Tuna Nicoise ($18), Wild Bass ($22), Duck Breast ($26), Filet Mignon ($38).
Disappointed that my European Art Collector persona had gone to waste, we retired to Soho House, just a few blocks away, for a nightcap.
The Norwood House clientele had been surprisingly unsophisticated. I revisited the web site:
‘Artists at lunchtime, fashion editors in the early evening and novelists for a late supper.’
....and we went for an 8pm dinner.
Oh dear. Missed again.
Norwood Club
241 West 14th `Street
New York
212 255 9300
http://www.norwoodclub.com/
Be Frank: agree or disagree? What do you think?
