The Delancey
168 Delancey Street
@ Clinton St.
212.254.9920
Reviewed by Abby Davis

    Ok, so I’ve been reading a lot of Vice lately. Don’t ask me why, maybe it’s the heat frying at my brain, maybe it’s to compliment the grisly news I’m constantly bombarded with on TV and in the papers, or, maybe it’s because my best friend just got a job working for AddVice (a section of Vice which deals primarily with all the hot parties.) For whatever reason, I’ve come to the conclusion that a human’s intelligence actually decreases by a few points after having read just one article in Vice. Therefore, to not feel like Jessica Simpson walking down the frozen foods section in the supermarket, I’ve decided to spare myself the torture and pain of this knowledge, and to only read it when I’m tipsy. Ok, drunk. Fine! Totally wasted off my ass. God knows that’s the only way those Vice writers work anyways. Now, I know what you’re thinking dear reader- what the hell does Vice magazine and it’s dehumanizing effects have to do with The Delancey? Let me explain…

My friend, the one who works for AddVice, has generously been sneaking my name onto all of her party invites. (You’re beautiful Caroline, absolutely beeeautiful!) As it turned out, one of the parties she insisted I go to happened to be the Vice party thrown at the Delancey. Now for the tricky part: I am actually going to try to write this review as if it were going to be printed in Vice magazine. Hmm…how will I be able to conjure up such infantry, sexism, racism, and general stupidity to meet the expectations that Vice would clearly require? Booze. Plain and simple. It’s only 1:30 in the afternoon however, which does prove somewhat problematic. So, kind readers, if you don’t mind excusing me, I’m going to go do my laundry, fix my brown suede pumps, and get shit-faced all to return at a later point to resume this article. For you, of course reader :)

Hey ho!! What’s poppin’? Ok, so like, what’s the deal with paraplegics? I mean, is it necessary for them to eat in restaurants with other people? Dude, I don’t need to be eating my dinner and look over and see a women eating spaghetti with her feet…er, hands, whatever you want to call them. And fo real, what happens when she has to take a leak? I mean, does she wipe with her feet and then just walk on them again? All I’m sayin’s hygiene man, pure and simple. Whoaaaa, dri-zzz-unk. Yessum. So, it’s been two mojitos, and I’m working on my third glass of wine. But, my evening, like every other thing in my life right now, has been completely backwards. I mean, I got me some ass, and then I got drunk. What’s up with that? Fuck it- alls I can say is, at least I got some, and then I really got some! Ok, ok. The Delancey. Let’s do this shit so I can go back to watching Anna Nicole Smith’s soft core porn movie. Cool. The Delancey is shit. Not the shit, but just shit. I mean, what’s up with all the white homeboys scaling the walls to get in? Is fucking Spider Man their leader or something? And for the love of god, please spare me the red roped off section which anyone can just jump right over. Come on, if you’re going to pose some pretension, at least do it right. Truth be told, with everyone raving about how hot the three floors of the Delancey were, I was expecting a lot more than what I got. Shit, one of the floors isn’t even a floor, really. It’s just the main room, a downstairs area, and then the roof. Which, at that feces party Vice threw, was so packed, I couldn’t even make it up to the goddamn roof. Some AIDS-infested homie spilled his beer on me, and those bouncers can just suck my cooch. (oh my god- Vice would fucking love that last sentence! Politically incorrect, and vulgar. God I’m good.) Who the hell thought up the brilliant idea to put a bar right across from the Brooklyn Bridge? I mean, that’s like giving every beanie wearing artist a free invite. Whoever thought of this must’ve been anally probed as a baby by second cousins. Who did this? Huh? I want to fight you. Seriously, I’m hot. I’ll give you my number just so I can kick you in the head… You deserve to be fed those dying fish which barely swim in the fountain on the roof, and then thrown off by some angry patrons who have to wait nearly an hour just to get into your shisty joint.

Ok, so I’m pretty much done here. I’m feelin’ good, kinda sick, but never-the-less good. Ok, so actually, I really dig the roof top. It’s beautiful. And true, the fish don’t swim, but there’s something serene about being able to drink a chill margarita under palm trees which overlook the Brooklyn bridge. It’s dope, it really is. And, if you go back on a Tuesday, (as I did,) there’s no wait, and hardly anyone’s on the roof. It’s like being at a BBQ with better drinks, and better fashion. So fuck it. Go and make up your own mind. I’m full of contradictions and it’s not just the alcohol playing black jack with my emotions. Shit, I’m late. I gotta go meet my drug dealer on the corner of Clinton and Delancey. Hmm…maybe I’ll get a drink afterwards.