In such crazy times as these, wouldn’t it be nice to transport yourself back to the environs of a simpler,
more innocent era?
Like, say, the Nixon era?
It’s kind of possible at the Flower Shop, a bi-level place for real laid-back cocktail drinking with groups of people you favor, now open on the LES. Here’s what to know:
It’s comprised of two floors.
The top more restaurant-like, the bottom more of a rec room bar.
There’s a dream team behind it.
The ownership has collectively been involved in Up&Down, the Randolph, Carbone and other places you’ve enjoyed. The chef once worked for Mssr. Boulud.
It’s so ’70s-ish.
Wood paneling as far as the eye can see envelops you as you hustle or get hustled at the pool table next to the—wait for it—pink fireplace. You stretch your arms wide over the back of the rangy leather banquettes. You’re basically a Jethro Tull record and a baggie of shitty weed away from a time machine.
The food is not bar food.
Unless your local barman slings plates of ricotta agnolotti or marinated beets with blue cheese, in which case, you’ve got a criminally underappreciated barman.
But the cocktails are cocktails.
Some classics, some originals. You know the drill. If you want a cold brew martini, that can be arranged. An eponymous margarita contains jalapeño and also exists.
There’s photographic evidence of all the aforementioned here.
Like, say, the Nixon era?
It’s kind of possible at the Flower Shop, a bi-level place for real laid-back cocktail drinking with groups of people you favor, now open on the LES. Here’s what to know:
It’s comprised of two floors.
The top more restaurant-like, the bottom more of a rec room bar.
There’s a dream team behind it.
The ownership has collectively been involved in Up&Down, the Randolph, Carbone and other places you’ve enjoyed. The chef once worked for Mssr. Boulud.
It’s so ’70s-ish.
Wood paneling as far as the eye can see envelops you as you hustle or get hustled at the pool table next to the—wait for it—pink fireplace. You stretch your arms wide over the back of the rangy leather banquettes. You’re basically a Jethro Tull record and a baggie of shitty weed away from a time machine.
The food is not bar food.
Unless your local barman slings plates of ricotta agnolotti or marinated beets with blue cheese, in which case, you’ve got a criminally underappreciated barman.
But the cocktails are cocktails.
Some classics, some originals. You know the drill. If you want a cold brew martini, that can be arranged. An eponymous margarita contains jalapeño and also exists.
There’s photographic evidence of all the aforementioned here.
