You Can't Come: Frederick's

In this week's edition of our groundbreaking nightlife series, we decided to cruelly send special correspondent David Klein to the new VIP club Frederick's, which boasts such illustrious members as Lizzie Grubman, Holly Dunlap, and Harvey Weinstein. Lo and behold, David made it past the pearly gates and discovered a boatload of shit inside. After the precious jump, the covert analysis of the members-only orgy.

If I learned anything from the Red Sox harrowing World Series victory this week, it s that there is absolutely no correlation between looks and athletic talent. Now some people may claim that Pedro and the boys broke some sort of curse, but I don t believe in such hogwash. You see, I have been experiencing a catastrophic drought of my own, failing time after time to be quenched in the City s most revered watering holes/snow blower dealerships. As much as this sucks, it did happen to afford me an inadvertent Cyndi Lauper song reference, which is always nice.

Undeterred by my recent losing streak, I continued to aim high and head to Frederick s, the recently opened almost neighbor to Bergdorf s. My date for the evening, Ms. Elle Hyphen-Lastname was excited about the prospects of hobnobbing with the rich and sort-of famous and I didn t want to disappoint. But when we arrived shortly after 10, things looked grim. Are you on the list? the bouncer inquired. We stood frozen. Guest list only tonight. Curses!

Dejected, we immediately headed not so far east to Tao which used to be hotter than a hipster in an arcade fire. My, things have changed. The drab Fodors-clutching cliental combined with the ultra-tacky Asian d cor gave the place a disturbingly Epcot feel.

Parked next to a woman in a wife beater and leather pants, I decided to blend in with my environment and choose substance over style for my drink selection. As tasty as my Blue Zen was, I wasn t quite what an alcoholic neon beverage had to do with enlightened introspection. Suddenly, I was jolted by a rush of blue blood through my veins.

Muffy, I proclaimed. Let s roll. Who the hell is Muffy? my companion asked. I had no idea. But I was certain that we needed to head back to Frederick s and fulfill my destiny.

Reinforcements were called, and 20 minutes later I found myself surrounded by three gorgeous dames. With a newfound a confidence, I sauntered up to Frederick s and, after a long scan by the bouncer, was actually permitted to enter. I felt more relieved than Bill Buckner.

Once inside, however, my spirits began to sour. The surroundings stood in stark contrast to those of Tao. The front bar could ve come from any Sheraton lobby and the oval-shaped back room was equally unspectacular. Scanning the lackluster crowd, I quickly realized that we were stuck in the losers lounge. The real action was way back in the VIP lounge which we were told was strictly members only. Unfortunately, the only thing in my life that s members only is an old skool red jacket: 60 percent polyester, 100 percent awesome.

We strategically claimed a table that allowed for brief glimpses of Frederick s inner-sanctum, which reminded me of the room where dear Uncle Alistair used to read Dickens and engage in cheeky indiscretions with the maid.

Aside from an inventive drink selection including a lovely Pimm s Cocktail, Frederick s also offers a revolutionary menu of small Japanese dishes with not-so-small prices. Using my Creskin-like powers, I predict that this culinary innovation will become the next big New York phenomenon several months ago.

As I nibbled on my tempura quail egg, I couldn t helped but notice Jocelyn Wildenstein (insert lame joke here) and the wildly dressed elites who were pouring into the members only room. What was going on back there? An early Halloween soiree? An Eyes Wide Shut Orgy? Murray Goldstein s bar mitzvah party? I may never know.

As Groucho once said, I don t care to belong to any club that would have me as a member. With Frederick s, I don t think that s something I will ever have to worry about.