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Need to conduct a 300-man poll of business school graduates? You could easily do so at this tri-level space with time to spare for a Bud Light. The townhouse-style megatavern—with its two marble bars (one of them with 40 taps) and its 43 plasmas (if you count the ones over the urinals)—has sucked in Murray Hill’s young exec set with a force that has almost ruffled their Polos and untucked their J. Crews. On the first floor, Stern School swingers jam the space between one endless bar and the bolted leather U-booths big enough to seat a Georgetown seminar. Upstairs on the mezzanine, fraternizers get a bird’s-eye view of their targets when they’re not ricocheting off designer-purses on their way to another slew of booths. A wall of televisons espouses one type of excess; a dizzying menu, with four types of steak, Szechuan spaghetti, tofu burgers, and fried ice cream, showcases another. Those who make it past the bouncer to the leafy roof deck can admire the Empire State Building and wonder when the management will find a way to project the Yanks games onto it. — Daniel Maurer