The Nihlistic Epicurean
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I entered from the side street, as all good discoveries begin—accidentally, while pretending I needed more stationery and less existential dread. It was my first real day wandering SoHo, where every window display flirts with your soul and every overpriced candle promises redemption. Naturally, I followed the scent of absurd beauty.
There it was: Champers. Not hidden, but waiting. A French-inflected champagne bistro masquerading as a fever dream. The interior? Emerald green and gold, lush and cinematic, like stepping into the private lounge of a 19th-century Parisian courtesan with excellent taste in lighting. Soft pink glass chandeliers hung like delicate lies—utterly unnecessary and therefore perfect. It felt like Paris if Paris had better lighting and less existential guilt.
The champagne was crisp and celebratory, as if it too had just escaped capitalism for the afternoon. The glass caught the light, and for a brief moment, I believed again—in bubbles, in decadence. I sipped slowly, pretending the world wasn’t on fire and the bubbles weren’t my coping mechanism. Knowing I should Drink it now, before tariffs turn it into contraband.
I didn’t come for food, though the menu offers a surrealist’s take on luxury—caviar and Ruffles, shrimp cocktail, deviled eggs that laugh at time. But it wasn’t about sustenance. It was about ambiance, about pause, about sipping something cold while the world kept rushing toward oblivion outside.
The service was light-handed and gracious, as if they knew this wasn’t your first existential spiral. They let me linger in peace, which is to say, they let me be human in velvet-upholstered stillness.
In sum: Champers is not just a bar. It’s an exquisite little protest against the mundane. Go for the champagne. Stay because beauty still exists—even if only by the glass.