King Cole Bar

Perched beneath an imposing Maxfield Parrish mural on a seat upholstered in buttery leather, TONY revisited the King Cole Bar, one of the city’s grandest hotel saloons. The regal setting—a tight, clubby room paneled in gleaming wood—is steeped in legend. There’s that mural, which, according to century-old bartender lore, is a parody of John Jacob Astor IV (King Cole is depicted post-flatulence, to the mortification of his fiddlers three). But the lounge’s best-known invention is that iconic brunch-time nip, the Bloody Mary—a spicy combination of tomato juice, vodka, black pepper, lemon juice, Worcestershire and Tabasco sauces—that was born the Red Snapper, right here in 1934. To mark the libation’s 75th anniversary, the bar has unveiled a list of reimagined Bloodies, created by popular New York chefs. But when we visited to see how the warhorse fares in the hands of toques like Wylie Dufresne, Peter Hoffman and April Bloomfield, we were denied. “Just get the classic,” urged the bartender when we tried to sample the specials. “I don’t even know if I have all of that stuff.” He was right—only two of the 20 variations were available (five of them, including Dufresne’s, require 24 hours notice to prepare). Of those we could sample, the punchy Landmarc rendition was the best, with its addition of horseradish, olive juice, ketchup and stout. Cocktail progenitor Dale DeGroff’s Bloody Bull was imbalanced, with too much orange juice annulling brawnier components like beef broth. The drinks’ joyless preparation leaves something to be desired: When we ordered the classic, we observed the bartender slosh a prebatched mix over vodka and ice chips, and give it an apathetic stir. At $18 a pop (25 percent benefits Citymeals-on-Wheels), a little precision is in order. The same indifference plagued a Manhattan, made with a sloppy gurgle of sweet vermouth, Michter’s rye and a standard-issue maraschino cherry. Perhaps this is why the clientele (mostly suits and tourists) sticks with hefty pours of whiskey and cognac. If you can afford the extravagance of a soupçon of liquor in this place (among the most jaw-dropping: a $280 shot of Louis XIII de Rémy Martin), there are few more magical settings in which to do it. Otherwise, leave the mixology to your pals south of 14th Street.—TONY

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