Norwood is like a frenetic and fashionable teenager, dressed up in pearls one evening and ripped punk garb the next. One night it wants to watch a movie and the next, rage until 4 a.m., and it's allowed because nobody's parents are around to say no. Billed as a private arts club, Norwood's very name might evoke the stuffier, moth-eaten rooms of other New York creative orgs, but don't let its serious façade faze you -- the four- story townhouse hasn't a dusty drape or dour-faced secretary in sight. The inconspicuous brownstone on spotty stretch of 14th Street is always staffed with bright young things pouring bubbles, checking clipboards, and taking coats. They give Norwood the feeling of a well-executed house party siphoning guests amongst floors depending on whose soiree you've been invited to. On a recent evening, a tour of the sprawling club had the feeling of peeking into levels of a well-curated dollhouse. The top floor, a movie room, held several young ladies who'd escaped from the third-floor fete, drinking champagne,
playing Scrabble and watching a romantic comedy. The third level, dark and faux-circus gritty, found a crowd of shiny, unlined faces shimmying against one another to a DJ set, eventually clearing out when a folkish band took the mike. Many fled to dinner on the floor below where pillowy red banquettes cradled their sculpted bums as they looked on at plates of fries and burgers. Others found the ground floor lounge where a forest-like light sculpture hung above the bar and a fire roared in the hearth. Another bottle of champagne was ordered because the first was empty, and nobody's parents were around to object.

Norwood
241 W. 14th St.
212-255-9300
norwoodclub.com