For all the ribbing that PDT's been getting (sssshhhh ... we're an ultra-secret speakeasy! Now let's hire a publicist!), the most oxymoronic not-so-underground underground bar seems to have created its own backlash. Still, with all the potshots being hurled at it, few have really bothered to mention that the place ain't half that bad, peeps. Seriously, give it a break.

(For the PDT virgins: It stands for "Please Don't Tell," and you access the bar through a phone booth located inside Crif Dogs, in the EV.)

We swung by recently, and getting in was a breeze. In fact, we kinda looked like morons because everyone seemed to know to make a beeline for the phone booth. We, on the other hand, made a beeline for what we thought was a phone booth, but which turned out to be the bathroom. Nice.

After speaking into a small intercom in the booth, you'll see the wall open up and you've suddenly got a bouncer standing between you and what looks like your Uncle Joe's swanky basement love shack: taxidermy, wood, dark, moody. He'll ask if you have a reservation (his name's Brian, in case you wanna seem mondo cool. Sweet guy. Has a headset. Looks like he's gonna take your HSN order for wrinkle cream.), but he'll probably end up just making you wait at Crif and have a hot dog. Within three minutes, we were in. That's it?! Come on, Brian, we were ready to bribe you with our leftover hot dog.

The place is narrow and kinda cramped, with a few seating areas and a lit bar counter. Intricate wood slats on the ceiling. Strange "Antique Roadshow"-type paintings. We can live with that. But overall, surprisingly chill. Crowd was mellow and not scene-y, at least on that particular night. Signature cocktails seemed to be heavy on the bitters -- not really our thing. Stuck to champagne and a Riesling. I think. Sorry, 'tis a blur ... might've been kinda drunk already.

Too bad the place is hampered by its gimmicky antics, which is what everyone has ended up focusing on. Then again, it probably would've wound up being just another bar if it didn't pull a few stunts, and we wouldn't have written about it. So there you go.

 Photo by: wheat_in_your_hair / catherine

La Esquina is sooooooooooo 2005, but we have to admit that it took us two years to finally drag our asses down to its subterranean nether-regions. Oh the horror, you say? Well, we'd been avoiding the place like the plague. Must've been that Andre Leon Talley piece that Vogue ran eons ago, in which he muses about schmoozing there after some Fashion Week show. Dunno with you, but we're frightetend of Andre Leon Talley. Pee-in-your-pants frightened. Goobumps-barfing-goosebumps frightened. Let's-dress-Jennifer-Hudson-in-a-solar-powered-sardine-can-at-the-Oscars frightened. We're sure he's a lovely man, and he's certainly earned his stature among fashionistas. But the thought of bumping into him and his billowing cape at the "Employees Only" staricase that leads down to La Esquina might've been too much for our bladders. (Touche!)

In any event, looks like the place still has some juice left in it. Lotsa purdy folks that you actually might wanna sleep with—always a good gauge. Plus, Elle magazine's Nina Garcia was dining at a nearby table and looking tres chic: LBD, spikes. Not that we'd wanna sleep with Miss G, lest she unleash a stinging "Project Runway"-worthy quip about our sexual prowess. Easy, Nina, easy. Hopefully, Miss G had a cellphone signal down there for that Blackberry she's been shilling. Can you hear me now?

Photo courtesy of Bravo TV