This is the place your parents warned you about when you moved to New York: a literal underworld packed with the kind multihyphenate party people who are equally enthusiastic about yoga and mezcal. It’s urban Tulum. There’s less fuss at the walk-in-only café around the corner from the restaurant’s entrance — a door disguised by a taqueria counter and a sign that reads “Employees Only” — but there’s a certain category of New Yorker who thrives on having what others don’t. Its heyday is over but with a wake strong enough to keep it a tough door. The reward for entrance is dining that’s like going to a house party held by a Mexican genie who lives inside a bottle of Justin Timberlake’s tequila. Making up the grinning crowd at secluded booths: a healthy mix of models and maybe the runner-up to People’s Sexiest Man Alive picking his way through red-snapper ceviche, cauliflower-and-avocado taquitos, grilled-octopus tostados, or a plate of tuna tartare with a tamarind glaze. If the food sounds light, you’re right; it’s playing to the delicious crowd.