Profile

Like most of its patrons, the venerable Townhouse has been around the block; its longevity is guaranteed by its clientele—a section of the gay population often ignored or underserved at most other bars. Serving over-40, wealthy-seeming men from points east of Central Park or reachable only via Metro-North, The Townhouse steers clear of disco balls, dance floors, and DJs. Instead, the three tidy bars here resemble those found in grand-dame hotels and gentlemen's clubs. The décor of hunting prints, dark fabrics, large couches and wood chairs manages to be cozy without crossing the line to stuffy; the bartenders' monogrammed Oxford shirts come off as cute, not pretentious; and, the dress code, while strict, isn't overbearing or hard to achieve. The front bar, usually the busiest, comes alive during happy hour while a second bar, reached through a small annex, is anchored by a piano on which proficient ivory-ticklers croon standards for an appreciative crowd. A more private lounge can be found downstairs, where slightly risqué photos hang above dark couches and men tend to sit together in pairs ready to cruise. — John Rambow

No hats, no torn clothing, no sleeveless t-shirts or cutoff shorts, no workout clothing or gym gear.