Heaven corsets wholesale Is Above Manhattan, and the Dress Code Is Relaxed

Photo corsets wholesale You can find 6,300 square feet to socialize at Plunge, the lounge atop the Hotel Gansevoort. You probably will not find Bermuda shorts. Credit Kitra Cahana/The New York Times MY flight to the rooftops of Manhattan began on a summery evening when I was denied admission to Hell. Like its Biblical namesake, the place I call Hell is below ground level: you have to take three steps down from the sidewalk to enter. Appointed with red walls and staffed by waitresses in red dresses, the joint literally brims with smoke, fire, alcohol, dance music and other manifestations of sin.

I used to go to Hell on a regular long gown dress basis. It's three blocks from my apartment. It's open from 5 p.m. to 3 a.m. And as you may have already surmised, it's a cigar bar operating under a grandfather clause that allows it to survive as one of the few remaining indoor retreats for aficionados of fine tobacco like me.

But my latest attempt to revisit Hell was aborted by a newly hired floor manager. He deemed me inappropriately attired because I was wearing a pair of EE-width running shoes with my blue blazer and designer jeans. I directed his attention to the wooden cane I was carrying, and explained that I was recovering from a recent foot surgery.

"I saw you limping," Hell's gatekeeper admitted. "I'm still not letting you in."

Suddenly, something entirely unexpected came over me. There was a time not so long ago when I might have flown into a cane-wielding rage. Instead, I felt a rush of pity that brought a smile to my 55-year-old face.

Continue reading the main story In retrospect, I hggdgfhfggsda should have thanked Hell's gatekeeper twice over. There's nothing wrong with enforcing a dress code. But according to the Americans With Disabilities Act of 1990, it's illegal to discriminate on the basis of a physical handicap. I reckoned I'd just been given probable cause for a lawsuit that might win me millions of dollars in damages and/or a lifetime of free drinks.

Secondly, and far more fortuitously, being rejected by Hell's gatekeeper prompted me to embark on an executive pursuit of infinitely more enjoyable alternatives in the heavens — the rooftop bars and lounges that have proliferated across the city's skyline. I figured my pursuit would benefit from a bit of (relatively) youthful guidance, so I met up with George Gurley, a 38-year-old fellow journalist and sybaritic soul mate, on the roof of Soho House, a hotel in the meatpacking district.

Up on the building's seventh level, the Soho House roof is well above and beyond Hell, and it permits smoking. Its centerpiece is a four-foot-deep swimming pool surrounded by white canvas umbrellas, lounge chairs, cushioned banquettes, a bar and a restaurant section with 70 seats. As with the fabled New Yorker cartoon, the view to the west seems to extend from the Hudson River all the way across the Pacific Ocean.

The roughly 200 patrons on hand that evening made the rooftop feel full but not claustrophobic. During a brief tour, the Soho House manager, Charles Irons, said that admission was limited to guests staying in the hotel's 24 rooms, and the 3,500 members who pay initiation fees of up to $1,400. I spied males in outfits ranging from business suits to Bermuda shorts, and several women whose skirts were about the size of table napkins. My running shoes and cane were no problem. "We describe our dress code as casually formal or formally casual," Mr. Irons said.

My gaze kept drifting toward two clusters of men and women who were reclining side by side on the banquettes. I noted that they kept exchanging glances and smiles without actually engaging in conversation. Mr. Irons informed me that the banquettes were referred to as "beds" because they encouraged flirtation and socializing without creating unwanted pressure to consummate a relationship. As he put it, "They allow you to have a ménage à trois without really having a ménage à trois."

I felt my cheeks redden like the sunset that was now inflaming the distant horizon. My pal George came to my emotional rescue with a well-timed white lie. "Looks like it's getting dark," he said. "We should go on to the next place."

Thank you for subscribing. An error has occurred. Please try again later. You are already subscribed to this email. View all New York Times newsletters.

See Sample Manage Email Preferences Not you? Privacy Policy Opt out or contact us anytime Minutes later, we were looking down on the pool at Soho House from Plunge, the rooftop lounge 14 stories above ground level atop the 187-room Hotel Gansevoort at Ninth Avenue and 13th Street. The change of scenery was comparable to ascending from a cozy beach resort to the deck of an aircraft carrier during Fleet Week with the Doors version of "Who Do You Love?" pulsating from the sound system.

Operated by the longtime nightclub impresario Steven Greenberg, Plunge sprawls across 6,300 square feet sectioned into bars, dance floors, decks and a swimming pool area reserved for hotel guests. Unlike Soho House, it is open to the general public from noon to 4 a.m., and it does not charge admission. The male dress code excludes hats, Bermuda shorts, flip-flops, athletic jerseys and T-shirts with printed slogans, but not men on crutches or canes who are forced to wear running shoes.

Continue reading the main storyGeorge and I found an even more spacious tropical-themed rooftop at 230 Fifth, named for its address at Fifth Avenue and 27th Street, which is also operated by Mr. Greenberg. Perched on the 21st floor, the roof garden encompasses a whopping 14,000 square feet decorated with palms, wisteria and hibiscus. By the time George and I arrived, it really was dark, and rather foggy. Bathed in gold, green and blue floodlights, the Empire State Building was more than half a dozen blocks away but it looked close enough for us to reach out and touch.

"We have windows and we have the sky," Mr. Greenberg noted in a telephone interview. "I don't know why anyone who has the ability to choose would go to a club with four walls and no windows that doesn't even open until 11 p.m."

As it happened, George was bound to answer that question sooner than was wise or healthy for either one of us. After departing 230 Fifth, I sneaked peeks at the rooftops of the 185-room Gramercy Park Hotel and the 100-room 60 Thompson hotel, which normally limit admission to hotel guests. Designed by Ian Schrager and Julian Schnabel, the Private Roof Club and Garden at the Gramercy Park Hotel boasted art by Andy Warhol and Damien Hirst. A60 at 60 Thompson featured ceramic fire pots and darkened cityscape views reminiscent of Fritz Lang's "Metropolis."

Although I felt as if I'd found pieces of heaven at both boutique hotels, I reminded George that we still had at least a dozen more rooftops to cover. They included Cabana at the Maritime Hotel on West 16th Street and Ninth Avenue, Bookmarks at the Library Hotel on Madison Avenue, the Sky Terrace at the Hudson Hotel on West 58th Street and the Pen-Top Bar and Terrace at the Peninsula Hotel at Fifth Avenue and West 55th Street.

George, however, insisted on redirecting our odyssey in a diametrically opposed direction. "It's still early," he said as the clock struck midnight. "Let's take it down."

Next thing I knew, we entered a nightclub and I was struck by déjà vu. It was several steps below the sidewalk, and it was brimming with smoke, fire, ash and alcohol. But instead of sporting formally casual or casually formal attire, the patrons wore porkpie hats, tight-fitting T-shirts, vintage dresses and the studied looks of hipsters from a bygone era. A D.J. was playing music from the 1970s and '80s.

George made me promise not to divulge the name of the joint for fear that might lead to its closing. Suffice to say that it was my idea of Purgatory. It was neither a rooftop Heaven with a breathtaking view nor a subterranean Hell with no mercy for the disabled, but a netherworld that simultaneously suffocated me in joy and sorrow.

With the wee hours of the morning rapidly approaching, I decided to call it a night. The last thing I heard as I hobbled out of Purgatory and onto the sidewalk was the Talking Heads singing, "I'm an ordinary guy, burning down the house."