At this glassy joint in the midtown Hilton, you choose among pricey “entry packages,” rent a coat (the ninety-five-dollar package comes with a faux-fur upgrade and a souvenir Russian hat), and enter a sort of frozen disco, complete with colored flashing lights and synth pop, where you drink booze out of an ice glass while relaxing on a pelt-strewn ice bench, admiring ice art. The house specialties, such as the Snowflake (cherry vodka, peach schnapps, white cranberry juice) and the Iceman (berry vodka, pineapple juice, coconut juice), taste like sugar, or maybe a loud, sugary color, with a splash of antifreeze. But you’re having an adventure. “This place is awesome!” an exuberant Canadian said on a recent evening, laughing atop an ice throne. He had brought his own toque. “I’m going to give my mother this idea—to make ice glasses. She’ll fucking love it!” The ice decorations’ strong New York City themes reach their apotheosis in a tiny rock-and-roll V.I.P. room, open to everyone, whose centerpiece is a pointillist ice portrait of John Lennon, who seems to be challenging you to explain to him what the hell is going on. If you laugh, you might fog up your glasses; when you leave, you might check for your own coat and hat, having forgotten that it’s summer. Like a sauna’s opposite, Minus5 has done the trick: back on Sixth Avenue, the heat feels good. ♦
Sarah Larson, a staff writer, has been contributing to The New Yorker since 2007.
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