If brat girl summer screamed, Frank Sinatra winter hums—slow and sexy. Real ones know that Manhattan in the winter is a ballad, not a banger. Yes, it might still be 80 degrees out, but we’re ready for the fur coats shrugged over slip dresses, shades thrown on after midnight and martinis poured so cold that they bite back. All to the tune of a jazz soundtrack.
Low-lit booths at The Nines, martinis at Bemelmans, the clink of ice against cut crystal at Temple Bar, cigs that never actually get lit. Mhm. Swipe for the mood board.