In June, the American models Gigi Hadid and Emily Ratajkowski visited Mykonos, the Greek island, and confirmed via Instagram that money and beauty do beget happiness—or, at least, a pouty stare passing as happy. A month later, two women in possession of somewhat less square footage, in both the real-estate and leg departments, visited Mykonos, the bar. Could an evening of fifteen-dollar cocktails at a Chelsea hotel’s rooftop offer, if not all-around good fortune, then its believable illusion? The women hailed an elevator and deboarded at the roof. The Maroon 5 on the sound system was loud, but not as loud as the vacation-volume howl of bronzed women in their forties, draped on white couches; not as loud, either, as the fiftysomething man courting his date, while drooping into the personal space of a stranger. But what Mykonos party is not loud? thought one of the women, who had never partied in Mykonos. She ordered the Onassis Martini; it came with cucumbers, which, much as they do at the spa, successfully convinced her that she would shortly be transformed. The fried calamari was likewise so transportive that the woman transcended her doubts (would a supermodel have ordered her sea life grilled?) and ate it all. After a bartender asked the women if they had put a credit card down, he said, “O.K., back to your girl talk.” What did he mean by “girl talk”? wondered one of them. Cuticles and crushes? Or the matter the two had been discussing—Ph.D. programs? Either way—both dating and the G.R.E.s being nail-bitingly distressing—the obvious thing to do was to order another cocktail. Erubescent, one appeared before her. It was expensive and beautiful, and who’s to say whether she, holding it, did not also appear so? (127 W. 28th St. 646-484-4339.) ♦
