The high-priced joy of Jimmy’s hot Negroni
Get in, loser, we’re going tasting.
This is a cautionary tale about jumping to conclusions.
It’s early on a Friday morning, and my Inner Saboteur™ is trying to convince me I was going to have a bad time at Jimmy. I was invited to the bar’s cocktail tasting by Hanna, a fabulous industry publicist who I met only a couple weeks ago, and I want to make a good impression.
Yet, I keep reading and rereading Jimmy’s website and Google reviews, and the more I keep at it, the more I don’t want to go.
For starters, the starting price for any cocktail is $20. That’s an objectively high barrier to entry. One of the most egregious things on the menu is a cocktail starring Clase Azul, a notoriously syrupy tequila that’s paired with lime and orange juices and garnished with olives. Cough up $50 and that one (1) cocktail is all yours.
On the 18th floor, Jimmy sits on top of a boutique hotel in SoHo. The website boasts that the decor was, “inspired by Picasso's Blue period,” which makes me wonder, How many synonyms exist for the word “pretentious”?
The site also says that one of the founders developed a bunch of bars for The Venetian in Vegas, among a laundry list of bars that are well outside of my orbit. Me and The Vegas Strip… we don’t get along. It is my least favorite place in all of America. Ergo, I don’t like that association.
But, with hindsight, I see that this is unfair.
Yes, the cocktails are pricey, but my misplaced anger towards them stems from not wanting to exclude friends who can’t afford it.
The fact that I don’t fully understand the Pablo’s Blue Period reference makes me feel dumb, so I react by thinking, Feck you, I’m no dumdum!!!
I also need to acknowledge that there is a bougie side to me. Like, tonight, I am very excited for an opportunity to wear my new oxblood Karen Millen heels and white Officine Général jeans. I spend an hour making sure that both my hair and lash extensions were untangled and coiffed for the gawds. I take my Zac Posen purse out of its protective bag and stuff it with everything needed for a night out/hostage situation (butt wipes, Buoy drops, 4-5 lip products, infinite bobby-pins).
The Clase Azul cocktail… still doesn’t get a pass. But, diff'rent strokes for diff'rent folks, I guess?
Again, this is my internal dialogue before I even leave the dang house! Just a hater butt-chugging her homemade Haterade. So intoxicating, so toxic.
Luckily, for me and everyone else, I don’t stay a hater for long.
I’m walking toward the ground entrance of Jimmy when I see two douchey-looking guys, wearing the same outfit (too-white tees and too-tight jeans), speed-walking to beat me to the door.
Yup, these are the guys I expected to see here tonight.
Within seconds, they begin arguing with the door guy about bringing up seven people, primetime on a Friday night, without a reservation. They claim that they “do this all the time here” — a statement that reeks of bullshit.
I’m eager to see how this plays out. Some of the Google reviews commented on the unyielding nature and sometimes outright rudeness of the bouncers there.
To my surprise, after some irritating pushback from the bag-o-douches, the door guy sighs deeply and says, “Let me call up and see what we can do.” I wonder if they’ve learned that, if these jerks have cash to burn, then they’ll take them for all they’re worth appease them.
The man nods at me with the phone to his ear. With a smile, I say I’m here for the tasting event. Thankful to not deal with another argument, he briefly smiles back and opens the velvet rope for me to head inside and up to the roof.
You exit the elevator and immediately are thrown into a choose-your-own-adventure scenario — go right and you’ll be in the spacious indoor bar area; go left and you’ll be outside with lounge seating and a luxe dip pool. Don’t panic, you’re not locked into your choice forever. The bar is essentially a giant oval, which probably helps with large crowds of people.
One thing to note though is that seating is very sparse (it seems to be a dance-encouraged environment, even as early as 7PM). I haven’t broken in these heels and I reeeeeally hope I don’t have to stand the entire time.
I walk up to the bar and ask one of the b’vested bartenders where I can find the tasting event area. For some reason, he doesn’t know. While I wait for him to get the answer, I take notice of the back bar and the music.
I was fully expecting some lazy Taylor-Swift-with-techno-beat DJing, so I’m surprised when I hear this intriguing house song (the one in the video).
“Yo, this is great. What song is this?”
“Give me your phone and I’ll take a picture.”
“…What? I just want to know the song.”
“Give me your phone.”
Yup, the DJ was insisting on taking a picture of his Serato screen instead of just telling me what the song was… Never had that happen to me before.
By the time I give him my phone, he had already switched to a different song. So, this picture is both useless and annoying. Plus, when I get home and Google the song he did take a picture of, nothing turns up.
A barback directs me to a roped off area near the pool where Hanna and Michael, her partner in business and love, greet me with warm hugs. I notice that Michael is casually holding Hanna’s purse as we chat and she tends to final touches. Immediately, I understand the dynamic of this PR power couple and I dig it heavily.
Hanna tells me that I’m the first to arrive, which I actually don’t mind because I’m a gigantic dork I like to be the foundation for the party.
It was only a couple of minutes before I met my first tasting friend — Kristie, an Aussie from The Sydney Morning Herald who covers travel and hospitality. Somehow, we get to talking about how she once got website domain hacked, but legally! (A cautionary tale within a cautionary tale: Don’t let your domain ownership lapse!)
One of the servers asks us what we want to drink. Kristie orders… something. I can’t hear exactly what it is over the gusts of wind that are blowing out my blow out. Still, I say, “I’ll have the same,” without much thought because I live dangerously.
Now, let’s talk about the tasting menu for this press event — a selection of Jimmy’s new fall cocktails.
The menu… gave me a lot of pause when I read about the drinks at home.
Not So Hot Chocolate (Served Cold) - An icy-cold adult version of Hot Chocolate garnished with edible white snowflakes
Midnight Negroni (Served Hot) - Topped with steaming hot chamomile tea, it reimagines the Italian classic of gin, Campari and sweet vermouth
Pumpkin Espresso Martini - An invigorating variation with maple pumpkin butter
Caramel Apple Mezcal Sour - A spin with mezcal, salted caramel and apple cider
Fall Spritz - Made autumnal with blood orange spiced syrup
When I showed the fall menu to industry friends, it was met with contorted faces and/or groans. Aaron, a buddy in the wine world, said, “Sounds like those are in the Trying Too Hard Hall of Fame.”
I’m telling Kristie about all this when, out of nowhere, the theme song for “The Addams Family” comes on. Sure, it might be Halloween weekend, but what happened to the interesting, spooky-adjacent house stuff? This was not a cute vibe shift, but then again, the DJ took a picture of a song for me, so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯.
I try to mentally shelve those intrusive thoughts as the server brings us two spritzes.
On the nose, the rosemary sprig and the Aperol are doing wonders together. I go in for a sip. Wow, this is way sweeter than what a Spritz should be. Then, in come the wintery spices on the finish note — lots of ‘em. It takes a while before they dissipate off my tongue.
But then I think, Hey, my palate might be wonky because I’m on the rag. (Science much???) Either way, it only takes a couple more sips before the cocktail is fully in my belly.
Kristie and I agree that maybe we shouldn’t drink all of the cocktails to completion tonight. I order a Pumpkin Espresso Martini and a Caramel Apple Mezcal Sour for us to share/swap.
After we order, I take note of one of the servers, who I find out is named Vick. He has bleach blonde hair and looks like he could be a mean gay. Luckily, he’s far from it. It’s Vick’s first season at Jimmy, but it seems like he might unconsciously give out mean gay energy as a self-preservation tactic. Looking around at all the posh yet basic biddies and bros outside of our roped-off area, I think I would probably be the same way.
When Vick comes back with our drinks, I ask if there are any plates or napkins to help us eat the hors d’oeuvres that have eaten up all the side tables. There are none, so I say fuck it and put the pizza on my white jeans. C’est la vie.
First, I sip the pumpkin espresso martini.
It’s… surprisingly great.
The maple pumpkin butter makes it nice ‘n’ creamy but it doesn’t take away from the balance of sweet, bitter, and savory. It’s not overly pumpkin-y either — autumnal on the nose but not on the palate, which I like.
However, to call it a martini is a biiiiit of a stretch. It’s opaque as fuck and there’s zero vermouth involved. It’s closer to a pumpkin Irish coffee than anything else. I get that they are trying to capitalize on the espresso martini boom, but c’mon. Let’s get real.
Kristie hands me the caramel apple mezcal sour. It tastes like… nothing? I don’t know if the mezcal smokiness canceled out the sweetness or it’s just my period palate or what, but Kristie is down to take it for herself.
I’ve struck up a conversation with some hangers-on for a New York Times food columnist (for the record, she brought six(!) non-journalists with her to this press event, which I thought was a little uncouth). Once I take back the pumpkin espresso thingy from Kristie, I overheard them shit-talking the drink.
“Oh man, isn’t that martini so gross?”
“Actually, I think it’s pretty good,” I say as I take another sip.
“Yeah, I guess it’s not that bad.” “I kinda like it, too”
Just goes to show how much ~cooler~ being a hater is.
Out of nowhere, I hear a lot of squealing and aww-ing. I turn to find the floppiest yellow lab puppy wearing a set of devil wings. Tony, the fifth or sixth Australian person I’ve met tonight, and his partner, Anna, introduce me to Dante, who I am now in love with.
We get to talking and they tell me that they have another party they are going to after the tasting.
“So, you’re just gunna bring this puppy around with you all night?”
“Yup!”
“Are you sure dogs are welcome at this party you’re going to?”
“Not sure, but it should be fine!”
This… This is the mentality of people of means.
In their opinion, they have the financial means, therefore they have the logistical means. They’re jumping to a conclusion that might end up annoying a lot of people (as a dog mom, I know this is a strong possibility).
My anxiety starts to creep up in my throat, so I excuse myself and go to check out the shitters at this swank-a-dank joint.
The toilets are extremely clean, but also… brutalist for some reason? The rest of the joint feels so sexy and upscale; why do the toilets feel like a villain’s war room? If you’re not going to provide hooks for the ladies, then at least have some softer lighting to help us feel attractive while we balance our purse and pee at the same time.
Now, on to the most controversial drink of the evening: the hot Negroni.
Ostensibly, it’s a regular Negroni (a 1:1:1 ratio of gin, sweet vermouth, and Campari), with chamomile tea poured on top of it.
When people ask me what my favorite cocktail is, I say a Negroni. It’s my favorite because the original iteration is divine, but there’s also so much room to play around with it. On my honeymoon in Milan, I had a flight of 3 Negroni variations that was so innovative and decadent that I almost demanded that the bar owner charge more than €20 for it.
But… Negronis are famously served with a big ass ice cube inside the glass. Why in the wet heck would I want a hot one? How would heat change the molecular makeup of such a perfect drink? And chamomile tea? It’s a relatively mild tea, pero like…. por que tho?
Vick hands me a clear mug with the hot Negroni inside. Looks inviting, but let’s see how it tastes.
Me drinking a hot Negroni is like that scene in Ratatouille when the critic eats the ratatouille. The chamomile steam coming off the cup instantly transports me to my childhood, drinking tea with my mom on our trampoline outside in 50ºF South Florida winter. As the liquid flows downward, the bittersweet warmth of the Negroni feels like a hug happening from the inside out.
Um, excuse me!? Why am I having a flashback sequence right now?? I did NOT plan on transcending space and time on this day.
I take another sip just to make sure I’m not hallucinating. Nope, it’s just as good the second time.
I’m finding it hard to maintain the conversations I’m having because all I want to do is drink this magical beverage. Even after the intense rooftop breeze cools it down, it was still great.
Jimmy’s hot Negroni is incredibly delicious and I cannot recommend it enough. It should be noted, though, that it is most definitely a nightcap. I mean, it’s chamomile tea for crying out loud; that shit is renowned for putting asses to sleep on the regular. But, even as I’m sipping it at Jimmy, I’m thinking that I can’t wait to start making these at home.1
Here’s the big question though: Would I pay $20 for it? Signs point to yes, if the mood and ambient temperature were right.
I know some of you might still be asking, “Why mess around with something as perfect as a Negroni?” Because innovation is about breaking rules every once in a while. Like Morbius said in Morbius, “Without tasking risks, there’s no science.”
So profound, so wise, that Morbius is!
Suddenly, somehow, I am now the last person at this event. I think I was so jazzed about my hot Negroni that I spaced out. I realize that forgot to take a picture of it as I down the last drop.
Hanna and Michael say goodbye and leave me in the roped off section. Then, the rope disappears.
As the Great Overwashed descends into the area, my night quickly descends into creepiness.
It was abundantly clear that I was there alone. The runt in a herd of antelope. I was not drunk, despite all the tastings I had, but I was still vulnerable.
Vick and some other servers began clearing away the food. Like the good little Brooklyn raccoon that I am, I tell them to pump the brakes. I’m grabbing four (4) slices of mushroom pizza and a literal handful of gouda when an older man sporting a white-on-cream suit and a shiny bald head sidles up next to me on the bench.
For the sake of me not getting sued, let's call him Joseph.
As I’m shoveling the pizza and cheese into my gullet, I find out that Joseph is yet another Australian. I ask him why there are so many dang Aussies at this place, and he explains that one of the owners, whom he is friends with, is from Australia. (I later tried to find out which owner he was talking about; I couldn’t find any Aussies in the bunch but I might be wrong.)
For about 15 minutes, we chat (i.e. he talks while I gorge myself). I want to politely leave the chat because it’s getting late. Before I can do this, Joseph turns to me.
“So, can I kiss you?”
I almost choke on my crust.
“What??? Hell no, I’m married!” I point at the obvious tattoo on my ring finger.
“Well, that doesn’t need to matter.”
“Well, it matters to me!”
“Come on, just a little kiss.”
“Dude, no.”
This goes on for at least 10 minutes. He keeps trying to egg me on, even reiterating that he’s friends with the hotel owner. I reiterate that still doesn’t make me want to kiss him.
As someone who is here as a guest of the bar’s PR team, I don’t want to make a scene. With a measured volume, my tone quickly shifts from jokingly annoyed to seriously offended. I take the remainder of my pizza slice and say “I’m leaving now, goodbye,” and walk toward the elevators.
I guess it’s apropos that this night was bookended with douchey guys who feel entitled to ask for anything they want, even if they aren’t at all deserving of it.
A silver lining: I felt extremely empowered saying, “I. DO. NOT. WANT. TO. FUCK. YOU.” to a grown man in a suit.
So, the conclusions I jumped to before leaving the house… were they correct? Let’s go with 80% no, they were mostly incorrect.
If i wasn’t in a roped off space with this curated crowd, I don’t think I would’ve fared well coming here solo. It really does remind me of a Vegas bar, where you stick with the group you came with and don’t really mingle until you, and the rest of the bar, are drunk with liquid confidence and overpriced tequila.
I got lucky. I had a great night thanks to the new people I met. The hard truth is, if you’re not rolling with a solid crew, then you might not have a good time. You might even get hit on by a creepy dude who thinks money = sex appeal. Strength in numbers is recommended, along with a reservation so you don’t annoy the hardworking staff.
Yes, the ambience was cool — honestly, when is drinking next to a pool on a rooftop not dope as hell? But, like most places in the city, you’re mostly paying for the view. The music definitely went off the rails, but the weird DJ choices actually lent to funny conversation starters.
Will I ever go back? Yes, for a very, VERY special occasion, one that also justifies a roped-off area. Otherwise, probably not.
It’s a bar best enjoyed for fat, bottomless wallets, and that’s just not how I’d use my money most days. But, if I had a fat, bottomless wallet, I’d love to ball out with my friends and treat them to this utterly SoHo experience.
One thing is 100% certain: If I hadn’t tried out Jimmy and stayed at home stewing in my Haterade, I would’ve had any kind of good time.
So, don’t jump to conclusions. At Jimmy, and pretty much any bar, just be upfront about who you are and what you want, and you should be okay.
If you, too, want to make a hot Negroni at home, I found a couple variations that might’ve inspired Jimmy’s version, like this one from Beefeater that uses their blood orange gin. I tried it with Bayab Orange & Marula Gin that definitely kicked it up a notch. I kind of love the simplicity of it being a regular Negroni with tea on top, but I encourage you to get weird with it all. 🖖