t’s nearly midnight on a Friday night, and Lobby (the new restaurant/lounge/club, which, by the way, is fabulous) has become the centre of the universe. The congestion is extreme, and extremely good-looking. In passing we hear the doorman say to a waiting couple, “...it’s just that we have staff with a certain look and a like clientele.”

Everyone wants a piece of this hotel-less lounge. But considering our travails as dutiful cocktailers, it seems only appropriate to take another look at a neighbouring lounge, actually in a hotel: The Roof Lounge

It is here we have a bar - alas, not in a lobby - as urbane at 8 p.m. as it is at midnight, serving social lubricants meant to be enjoyed instead of comprehended, where there are no velvet ropes and no I’m-so-fabulous-because-I’m-friends-with-Uma-and-Ethan. A place so flatteringly lit that if you don’t look good there, you should quietly excuse yourself, and go home.

The only cognitive obstacle you have to get past is that the Roof Lounge is fifty-six years old, which means your grandparents may have been here and enjoyed this room while your parents were still learning the alphabet. And bartender Joe Gomes, here for forty-five of those years, surely has lewd stories about them.

In 1930, The Park Hyatt - having taken three years to construct - opened its doors to the eager public. In postwar 1947, the Roof Lounge appeared, establishing itself as the archetype of the laid back hotel lounge to which newer spots so strenuously aspire. Located in the 18th floor, Roof Lounge is done up as a parlour, avoiding both overly ironic self-consciousness and overly theme-parky nostalgia. It feels natural, not forced - and so do the offerings.