It looks like slumming hipsters will put up with anything to say they’ve been to a “legendary” strip club. That’s the only explanation for the Pussycat’s current vogue. The decor is shabby; the strippers, predictably bored; and the management, unabashed about airing unpleasant prejudices. If you must go, eschew the desperation downstairs in favor of the upstairs lounge. Its wooden beams and vaulted ceiling oddly bring to mind a countryside retreat—now frequented by the prepsters who call the Financial District home.