At this chic NoHo gem, indulge in small plates, lobster rolls, and cocktails by the flickering fireplace, all while enjoying top-notch service and vibes.
"How similar is it to TGI Fridays? A distant cousin in Tom Ford and Margiela. What if Fridays had a club underneath? The answer to that question is Jean’s, a Noho restaurant where french dips and thai chicken salads lead to subterranean hyperpop lounging. The food, with an assist from farm-fresh produce, is better than it needs to be, and the white-tablecloth dining room is perfect for when your want your dinner to feel like a night out." - bryan kim
"Jean’s has clubstaurant coursing through its veins. There's one big difference, though—the food at this palatial, two-floor restaurant in Noho is actually good. Upstairs, they serve produce from their very own farm, and downstairs, there’s a disco ball in a dark red room that once hosted Snoop Dogg and regularly hosts amateur East Village-based DJs. Eat a juicy burger next to someone who has 129k followers and wears sunglasses indoors. Take a shot of lobster bisque and ask yourself whether that's Gigi Hadid across the room. It’s sceney. It’s mysterious. It's a one-stop-shop for the sexiest night of your life." - willa moore, sonal shah, bryan kim, neha talreja, will hartman
"You can technically eat a pretty good burger here on a regular Tuesday, but that's not how you should do Jean's. Come on a Friday, and drink seven chili oil-spiked martinis next to a table of micro-influencers whose main food group is vape smoke. Then, head to their blood-red club downstairs, and have one of those nights you haven't had in so long. Jean's is annoying, and it's also a little charming. The lettuce in your towering caesar salad comes from their farm in Pennsylvania, and on this past Mother's Day, moms ate free. " - bryan kim, willa moore, neha talreja
"Walk by this pizza stall in Ponce City Market and your ears are immediately assaulted by noisy garage band music. There's also old-school pizzeria lighting fixtures combined with an order counter covered in pop culture stickers that jump from the Rat Pack to Notorious B.I.G. Then, workers behind the counter start tossing up huge circles of dough as if the visually and audibly loud venue needed a wee bit more to overstimulate. While you can order a whole NYC-style pie, most people (including us) opt for a giant slice, which you can top with the usual options. And that's why keep Pizza Jeans in mind when want to pop in for a quick, tasty slice after a BeltLine stroll. photo credit: Amy Sinclair photo credit: Amy Sinclair photo credit: Amy Sinclair" - Juli Horsford
"“Are you here to check-in?” was what I was told when I first entered Jean’s. Having pre-gamed dinner, I replied, “Like at a hotel?” The lion-maned host was wearing an LBD—Little Black Dress; her adjacent colleague, an off-duty Calvin Klein model in an LBT—Little Black Tee. The vestibule was moody and neon-lit. Diners in line behind me tittered over finally scoring a table. The door to the dining room had a porthole that offered a peek into the revelry beyond; had I pulled out binoculars, I’d have seen the long twenty-six top ready for a tableau to rival the Last Supper (later, inside: it was a pre-Fashion Week party). It felt just like checking in, truth be told, but to an exclusive club, where reservations are one-night memberships into a Manhattan of the past, where hot young things of the contemporary moment present themselves in 3D, wearing DKNY and Cavalli, instead of going live on Instagram. The throwback energy extends to the menu, which puts an exclamation point on the adage “the classics are classics for a reason”—grilled oysters ($18), lobster rolls ($36), a very good-looking burger ($28). The Caesar salad ($20) was a particular highlight, featuring meaty anchovies curled into themselves like rosettes, backed up by crisp leaves presented like a sculpture, drunkenly leaning on each other like a capella bros that might hook up later tonight. Shoutout to the special when I dropped by: an immense singular raviolo, covered in black truffle shavings, that leaked an egg yolk when cut—pure decadence on a plate. Though the kitchen does well for itself, the overwhelming word on the street is that no one’s really at Jean’s for the food. This manifested in the crowd. At the table next to mine, a server asked if everything was all right; an LBD’ed woman said that she sent back her French dip because she didn’t realize a French dip is a sandwich and she doesn’t “do bread.” After casting yearning glances at the fashion party in the center of the gilded dining room, she and her boyfriend left a half-started burger on the table. My eyes met another diner’s, and, for what it’s worth, we agreed: “I’ll fight you for the fries.”" - Matt Ortile