If I owned had a supper club, it would be The Nice Guy. You don’t walk in—you slip behind the drapes like you’re entering a speakeasy for the very cool, very hungry, and very camera-shy. (Seriously, no photos allowed. The doorman has the vigilance of a nightclub bouncer crossed with a hall monitor.)

Inside? Pitch dark. Like, “I-hope-my-friends-aren’t-scaring-me” dark. And yet, somehow, the vibe is more velvet-lounge than haunted house. There’s live music so smooth it feels illegal not to sway a little, a bar glowing like jewelry, and a dining room that whispers, stay awhile.

Drinks? Start with the JoJo. It arrives in a retro champagne coupe, looking like it belongs in Gatsby’s hand. Vodka, elderflower, lemon, strawberries, prosecco—it’s refreshing, not cloying, and dangerously easy to love. The margaritas are also “sip too fast, order another” good.

Food rundown:

• Meatballs with stracciatella → Basically, Italian nonna comfort food leveled up to velvet-rope chic.
• Calamari with grilled lemon → Crispy, tangy, and marinara-approved.
• Porcini-rubbed skirt steak → Juicy, buttered, paprika-kissed perfection, with onion rings that deserve their own show.
• Chicken Parm → The Godzilla of chicken Parmesan: huge, saucy, unapologetic.
• Chocolate chip bread pudding → Brioche + caramel + whipped cream = the mic-drop of desserts.

Service? Flawless—like they’ve all done time as butlers in royal households. Ambience? Clubby, moody, and celeb-friendly (one poor guy tried sneaking a photo of the musician and was swiftly returned to his table—celebrity court is adjourned).

In short: The Nice Guy is less restaurant, more secret society of great cocktails, better food, and zero flash photography.