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Ascend an escalator bathed in lime-green fluorescence; weave your way through a sea of overstuffed leather club chairs; glide onto a glowing glass floor; settle into a rococo sofa; gaze at the luminous primary-colored ceiling mural painted by Francesco Clemente. By the time you're served by the dressed-to-thrill waitstaff, you'll feel as if you've stepped into a glossy Versace ad. The Hudson is the quintessential post-millennial hotspot, complete with the requisite Philippe Starck décor, Page Six celebrity endorsements and assorted hangers-on milling about—all of whom are playing the same harmless fantasy of the Beautiful Person who's had sex in the city. — Andrew Yamato

With its elaborate rooftop garden—ersatz jungle vegetation and funky seats (if you can get one)—the Hudson's patio may be the swankest place in the city for outdoor imbibing.