It sounds like the name of some bad 80s movie. Oh, I’m totally projecting and thinking of that late-night, cable stinker, Star 80. Sometimes the mind free associates in weird ways. Forgiving my wanderlust, I’ll go as far as to suggest that this joint’s name isn’t the only thing that reminds me of cheese. High ceilings and a retro fetish (for what era I’m not certain) leads to a place that is neither authentic nor cool. There’s something about the throw-back pseudo 60s, Austin Powers lounge that smacks of dumbfuckery. It was like they grabbed onto a joke of a trend without a hint of irony or a nod or wink. That weird space-age free love Brit thing is as dead as George Lazenby’s career. If you can ignore that whole shmegege (which may just be a mental tic on my part), this place isn’t wholly unpleasant. I wandered in with a group of drunken co-workers and quickly found a few of those square ottoman things that only seem to exist in New York City lounges. We were promptly served, and violently billed. You’d figure a place so close to buildings where illegal immigrants sew blouses for fifty cents a day would lighten up on all the numbers a little. But, then again, somebody has to pay for all that white pleather. [MF]