The strangest thing about Pershing Square is its location: tucked under the Park Avenue viaduct. I had just come out of the wind and into this bustling restaurant with multiple seating areas-casual up front and more formal in the back. I immediately felt welcomed by voices raised in after-work conviviality. Red was the dominant color on the walls and seat cushions, and the brass railings lent an old-fashioned feel. I strolled over to the wonderfully-named Buzz Bar and joined my Manhattan friends, who were already two rounds ahead.

Once seated in a cozy leather booth, I stared up at the unusual ceiling: rough surfaced rectangles criss-crossed as if laid out on a walkway. Just as we were about to worry about bricks falling as cars drove overhead, we determined the ceiling was cork.

Our waitress-youthful and attractive, as they tend to be east of the Hudson-was unusually solicitous when I had trouble deciding on a drink: "Do you have some kind of lemon martini?" "A lemon drop?" she suggested. The angular glass was rimmed in sugar and brimming with lemon juice and vodka. I've been searching for a new drink (too many cosmos), and this tart concoction may be my new go-to cocktail.

My girlfriend Lauren had dined there before and was looking forward to the "Shrimpscargot" appetizer. She loved the idea of escargot-style butter and garlic on much-tastier-than-snails shrimp. She continued in the seafood vein with fat, sweet scallops served with sauteed vegetables. On this chilly night, I chose roast chicken but was more interested in the risotto that accompanied it: chewy aborio rice and earthy mushrooms that were warm and comforting. I also ordered creamed spinach, and theirs was perfect: its ramekin kept it piping hot, the slippery smooth spinach complemented by finely diced onion. Selecting from the $35 prix fix menu, James also opted for chicken, but he started with mixed greens crowned by a thick disk of warm goat cheese. The narrow choice of prix fix desserts was a disappointment, but James' unadorned ice cream satisfied in a homey kind of way.

Throughout dinner, I enjoyed their by-the-glass chardonnay, a delicious 2006 J. Lohr-crisp, lightly fruity, with a whiff of oak. Good enough to have a second glass.

Afterwards, James recommended an in-the-know bar within Grand Central. As we crossed the busy intersection, I gazed up at the impressive train station, so beautifully restored. The large neo-classical figures at the top were lit from below. The pale stone of their beautifully muscled arms were raised against the black Manhattan sky.

Inside, we saw a discreet stairway just to the right. We approached the secret bar with anticipation. But there was a flaw in our plan. The conservatively dressed hostess spied James' sneakers-curse his pre-dinner workout-and, with a polite finality, denied us entrance to the inner-sanctum that is The Campbell Apartment. Vowing to return with proper footwear on another night, we exited the station and once more engaged in that quintessentially New York ritual: finding the next place to have a drink.