Monkey Bar became one of my favorite Midtown restaurants because its modern history ran almost…read moreperfectly alongside my years in New York. I arrived in 2008 with very little, and when Graydon Carter revived the restaurant in 2009, I was beginning a rise of my own, first at a large global bank and then, to my astonishment, at one of the city's most powerful investment firms. The suits were daily, the walls were gold, and the pressure was so consuming that even success could feel like a form of attrition. After a few years, I moved to a smaller firm with Southern roots, where the culture was more humane, the work gave me greater autonomy, and I produced some of the strongest results of my career, even within an industry still governed by fear, greed, and status.
Inside, the red booths, low lighting, generous spacing, and hand-painted monkey murals made lunch feel ceremonial without becoming stiff. The room was timeless and handsome, with polished service, quality food, and the subtle assurance of a place where you could be proud to bring someone important. I especially remember sitting in one of those booths with two mentors, each only a few years older than I was and therefore close enough in vintage to feel relatable, trustworthy, and genuinely within reach. One had entered my life after I left the larger firm and helped me understand an earlier chapter that had also ended abruptly and, at the time, felt deeply unfair; the other had guided me through the smaller firm where I finally found a more sustainable way to work.
Over that long lunch, I introduced them, we discussed several promising ideas, and for a moment my career seemed to have reached the point where relationships, experience, and opportunity were finally converging. One of those ideas consumed an extraordinary amount of my time and energy, and I believed it might become the foundation of my next chapter. Instead, the arrangement eventually turned on me, the role I thought I had earned never materialized, and the business itself sputtered. My professional life, financial footing, and pride all collapsed just as COVID was beginning.
Then Monkey Bar closed in 2020, which made the ending feel almost unnervingly complete: the restaurant, the city, and the version of myself built around New York finance all went dark at once. For years, I experienced that ending as devastating and unfair; now I can see it as wisdom delivered through an unnecessarily rough process. The restaurant's later revival by a Chicago hospitality group feels fitting because it still honors tradition and ceremony while allowing the old forms to evolve into something healthier, looser, and more current. I have not been back since that lunch, but a return now would feel like visiting the museum of my past, not reclaiming a life that asked too much, gave too little, and finally lost its hold on me.
Even now, I remember Monkey Bar as a great Midtown lunch in a memorable room, surrounded by the residue of old ambitions and the gratitude of having survived them. The cocktails were sharp, the service was impeccable, and the dining room carried that glamorous old New York energy without feeling trapped by it. I remain deeply fond of the place, partly for what it was and partly for what it witnessed. Some restaurants become attached to a chapter of your life, and Monkey Bar holds mine with unusual grace.