I feel like I’m in the front row at a U2 concert,” hollered one of my guests as we sat pinned, more or less helplessly, in our stools at the crowded bar of Keith McNally’s boisterous new restaurant, Pulino’s Bar and Pizzeria, down on the Bowery. It was a Friday evening, and all around us hell was very loudly breaking loose. Assorted downtown nabobs (indie-movie moguls, neighborhood tattoo artists, bewhiskered male models) jostled for possession of their drinks among hordes of freshly scrubbed bankers and one or two dazed-looking thrill-seekers from the fine-dining hinterlands uptown. Out in the dining-room scrum, waiters squeezed between rows of tables filled with loud parties of Euro-swells and assorted food bloggers furtively taking pictures of the biscuit-thin, weirdly ovoid house pizza pies. McNally himself presided over one of the tables by the door in a blue cardigan, and although it was early in the evening, a restless crowd was already milling around on the sidewalk, eager to join the party.
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