Nong; Ritz-Carlton Lounge

Nong

"A-lew-sha, how ya spell that?" "I'm not even gonna try to spell that, but it's 'Nong' now." We meet at the long bar womaned by vivacious black-clad bartenders. The thumping soundtrack, coupled with a martini buzz, signals something must be happening, and maybe it might be happening here in this airy two-tiered space with huge front windows, punctuated by tubes of green and yellow lights and many low white candles.

Angelina: "This is funky, I like it."

Glasses are chilled. Our mixologist looks like a pretty version of Tori Spelling. Drink menu descriptions entice the upscale patrons, resulting in a whole lotta shakin' behind the bar. On tap, Brooklyn Black Chocolate Stout and the oddly popular Stella Artois. Upon serving up a "Moulin Rouge" of Stoli Vanil, Malibu, cranberry and lime, Tori lilts, "Tell me if you don't like it?you don't like it you don't have to drink it, rule of the bar." That won't be necessary.

"Ooooh," says Angelina of her dark pink Flirtini, a raspberry lurking in its depths. "Fancy-fancy," assents the bartender. I'm complaining about what a flake my latest flame is. Angel asks, "How old is this guy?" So I tell her. Peals of laughter. Long, loud gales of laughter.

The staircase is illuminated by colored lights. Underneath, a smattering of low lounge chairs. Angelina: "Romantic." There's a full menu, though even at the second-floor tables, martinis are the main thing. But the snacks we sample are delish. Succulent swords of juicy grilled chicken satay come with a chunky peanut-chili dip. They're atop red onion and Asian-vinegared and seeded cucumber (the element we fight over the most). A neighbor reports her spring roll is "good," "light" and "fresh." Tuna hand roll topped with jewel red and green tobiko induces spring fever with shreds of greenery, mellow rice and cuke. Our second-round Thai Dye is a strong frosty blast of curacao ocean-blue layered over purple-y grenadine. We wouldn't mind a third, but Angel thinks it might be talked about if we meet her pals late.

We float over to Tracy J's pub. Within two minutes of entry, the Jewish and pioneering Blue Devil proprietor has proposed to Angelina. He lets us know when the Biography he's featured in will be rerun. Angelina finds her table and says, "This is Lane. You're all too old for her." Pierre next to me says this was his first day, that they tortured him all day then brought him here and made him do shots. Another tablemate childhooded upstate, went to high school on the Island, moved to 34th St., went to work for a brokerage, hates snooty, likes snorkeling and loves tequila. Is he me? #25 brings us a bottle of champagne, as Angelina has stolen his heart.

A girl at the bar comes over to tell one of us to drink her whipped-creamy Blowjob shot already; her friends are tired of watching and waiting. The guys at our table are chanting, "Blowjob, blowjob..." The jammed room joins in, whistling and clapping. Duke won 84-37.

Nong, 220 Park Ave. S. (18th St.), 529-3111.

Ritz-Carlton Lobby Lounge

There's far less visible devastation around the neighborhood than I'd expected. A gargantuan job has been accomplished by the army of diversified workers; a pile has been transformed to a pit. From EnCon police to Parks to specialized iron workers to tenacious streetcleaners, an infantry buzzing about in carts and buggies and trucks and cranes, working on Saturday. A chopper patrols incessantly overhead. It's surreally almost like the area I'd gone to each weekday, but everything is different. Most of the elements are there, but altered, or in the wrong places. TKTS should be in the World Trade mezzanine, but it's in a trailer on the street. There are no lilies in the lily pond. No boats in the marina. No blue Lichtenstein sculpture to greet you at World Financial. And still unfathomably, cloudless azure sky where there should be towers.

We see the massive sets of tribute lights being configured with a last spin. We see the robed leader of Christian Orthodoxy, with a coterie of priests and a battalion of miked security, ascend the families' platform to pay respects. The petite ethnic-looking NY1 reporter parks her own car, schleps her equipment and runs to and fro like a maniac. Whitney Casey's cameraman drives, allowing her to finish up her lunch; he double-parks the WCBS van and does the schlepping, allowing leather-clad Whitney to wear very high-heeled boots. She unhurriedly beckons to him with less acknowledgment than you might give a dog. Proving the point that it is much better in tv news to be tall and blonde than small and dark.

Most passersby are engaged in attack-related discussion, but we happen upon a tableau of normalcy when a concerned smattering of Battery Park City denizens and a couple of walkie-talkie-ing park rangers surround a tree from which a dead pigeon hangs. Pre-9/11, "Pigeon Found Dead in Park Tree" could be like the biggest headline coming out of Battery Park City for months, and it's reassuring to see a passing of this small stature again worthy of attention. I see some tears here and there and feel them on my own face a couple of times. First at the memorial to fallen police at North Cove. Names will have to be added to the existing stone. And at the adjacent ad-hoc tribute, the thought of emergency workers all over the country picking up to come help is still stirring. Then, stumbling upon the final setup of the torn and scuffed sphere in Battery Park. We find the activity transfixing. The sculptor is present to offer direction. We can tell he is the sculptor because he is bereted, slightly scruffy and instantly likable, even at a distance. When the work is done, the hardhatted crew poses for a picture. The artist stands in the center of the grouping holding aloft a small golden pristine model of the sphere. We onlookers give a lengthy round of applause.

To the right of the "END 9A" route marker, a restful respite is found within the Ritz-Carlton. Outside, a shadowbox of blinking lightbulbs animates what looks to be a runner. Inside, monochrome abstracts punctuate the vaguely Zen-ish interior. There's a restaurant and bar, but we select a table in the pocket Lobby Lounge with a view of the Museum of Jewish Heritage. A Spanish guitar CD plays in the background. At tea time, the lounge fills up with hotel guests. Nearby conversation consists of "Jay, tell about your research unit at Rockefeller," "We had a delayed opening...," "All my furniture was damaged and I'm getting it replaced...I never slept well, but not like this," and, while strategizing with a subway map, "Hudson River, Harlem River, hmmm."

Asian accents, greens and yellows, stately chairs of dark wood, a central round table (I wouldn't expect Dot Parker to drop in here, but the pleasant coffee-sippers populating it are obviously enjoying one another's repartee), a baby grand and a big humidor. Pink-fronded flowers loll in emerald vases. Obviously attentively designed, but the space still tastes of hotel lobby. Unfailingly pleasant service here. The waitresses wear cowled green sheaths to match the upholstery. Ours has lived here only a few weeks, finds Battery Park City a bit isolating, but has fallen for New York.

A fun list of specialty drinks includes champagne cocktails. Thirteen vodkas are offered and martinis go for $12. My glass of Penfolds Cab Bin 407 '98 ($16) is smooth and smoky silk at the outset but the aftertaste has a bit of burn. Fine, but leaves me yearning for the gelatinous and full (and pricier) Bin 707 version. At around $90 a bottle retail, it's a treat to my mind; if you're from Barclays, you may consider it slumming. A fruity glass of Seghesio Zinfandel Sonoma '99, $9 here, can be found at Sherry-Lehman for $15.95 the bottle.

Three thick crabcake coins ($16) are barely breaded, but of stringy rather than chunky flesh. My companion says "tastes like chicken." Squigglings of peppery tomato and sour lemon sauces, and small dressed chunks of avocado over mache, brighten the small plate. The bacon, shrimp and tomato club ($15) combines spicy, crispy bacon with baby spinach, sweet tomato and a wet slaw that makes the outstanding country bread soggy in spots. Almost translucent, curly and golden kettle chips accompany. I'm offered mustard and ketchup, but the club's thin layer of herbed mayo is all that's necessary. The shrimp is overcooked, still it's a good combo. A British tourist who's ordered the same heartily pronounces it "Excellent!"

Coffee ($6) (that is not a typo) is just the way I like it; you could probably cut it with a knife and fork. Served in outsize plum-painted Villeroy and Boch, more like finger bowls than coffee cups. Specialty coffees, served in a French press, are available for $9. A posh and varied tea service is offered as well. On the menu, "Coconut rice pudding" ($10) is subtitled "coconut cream, mango foam." It comes topped with a tart berry coulis, no foam, or mango or coconut flavor. It's served in a large martini glass, speared by a feather-lite cookie that tastes like a Nilla wafer. The thick rice still has some bite to it and the white pudding is full-on mouth-feel creamy. The glass is fitted into a nifty wavy saucer that is supposed to provide dessert stability but looks a lot better than it works.

We finally make it to Century 21, which is wonderfully jammed. Some size 8 with the same taste has beat me to the punch on the third floor. Walking up Church, everything still seems familiar yet all wrong. Stock-still jaw-dropping is the sight of 100 Church, a building I'd worked in, and the realization that it was separated from devastation only by federal gray Church St. Station. Twilight joins us on our walk through Soho and back to midtown. On avoiding the site, this is a time in history. We're here during this time. There's really no hiding from it anyway.

Ritz-Carlton New York, Battery Park Lobby Lounge, 2 West St. (Battery Pl.), 917-790-2525.