Waiting for the Balthazar Election-Night Champagne Toast That Didn’t Happen

The vibes were off at Balthazar.

The famed brasserie is not just a restaurant, but in many ways, a great equalizer, at least where beloved New York City restaurants are concerned: Locals, tourists, celebrities, NPCs, editors, interns, service industry, students, himbos, cougars, the fashion crowd, dirtbag skaters, dirtbag bankers—they’re all there, always. Last night, they weren’t. I’m not sure who was. I once worked at the restaurent; I’ve had countless meals there. I can definitively say: Last night, things were plainly weird.

We decided to go to witness The Great Champagne Bet of Keith McNally. Earlier in the week, the restaurant’s mercurial mastermind took to Instagram to offer up a free bottle of champagne to every table if it looked like Kamala was going to take it during dinner service. A bottle of Taittinger—the champagne wagered—runs about $55 retail, probably less in bulk, but by no means a cheap outlay for a 180-seat restaurant.

My girlfriend, who beat a friend and me there, already had a martini in front of her when we arrived. She looked like a deer in the headlights, the way nobody should look with a martini in front of them. She was also the first to mention it: The crowd was off. Even more: The martinis were weak. We ordered one for each of us—same thing. Who sends a martini back? Balthazar’s made a million martinis, and they’ve all been good, and tonight—of all the goddamn nights—tonight was the night we had to sack up and tell someone that not one but all three that came to the table were watered down? This is a freak incident at a bar that pumps out nearly flawless vodka and gin cocktails, enough over a single year to get this entire city shitfaced, probably, and they’re probably in aggregate as flawless as you’ll find anywhere in the world. You try not see omens where you really don’t want to—definitely not at the shimmering rim of glass barware—but at this point, it was half past nine, and the early counts were starting to come in.

The next round that showed up were boozy, sharp, normal—some balance, restored, or maybe just the edge taken off. The needle moved again.

McNally sat in a booth in the rear of the restaurant, a laptop open in front of him. A guy dressed in full Uncle Sam regalia was hanging out nearby. Fun, sure, but in that kind of David Lynch-esque way, where things just on the precipice can turn on the dime further towards the profoundly strange. At one point, McNally decided to suddenly crank, at earsplittingly loud volume—as service was still very much kicking, as some diners covered their ears—both “Hey Jude” and Woody Guthrie’s spare rendition of “This Land Is Our Land.” At the peak of the song’s sadistically loud climax, someone shouted something from the large party seated in the “uptown east” side of the dining room. We looked at each other, and quietly acknowledged what we all believed we heard: “TRUMP!”