Before Soho House showed up a few blocks away, the lobby filled the gap. Some regulars didn’t even know there were rooms upstairs until someone tried to rest their drink on a Rimowa. There’s also a well-used stripper pole.
The rooms feel like waking up at some tattooed, ambiguously multi-hyphenate’s place: artful nudes of his ex, crystal tumblers, wrinkled linens, and a few books he probably hasn't read.
