Dispatches from the Spotted Pig staff party

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This is how we do
Rub-a-dub-dub, booze in the tub

The economic meltdown may continue to ravage businesses across the city, but everything seems copacetic at New York's favorite gastropub, The Spotted Pig. Or so it appeared last night at Ken Friedman and April Bloomfield's bitchin' faux-house party annual staff party, held at the Meatpacking District's exclusive Soho House.

Well-lubed staffers—having been plied with spa treatments and movie screenings during the day—traipsed from the "Library," where the Super Bowl flickered on two flat-screens, to the two luxe, retro-outfitted hotel suites where spontaneous dance parties (Tony! Toni! Ton!, early hits from the Gloved One) would break out (n.b..: The 6'5" Friedman has some moves for a man of such vertical tendencies). There were passed nibbles from chef Neil Ferguson, and—in true high-rolla' fashion—a bathtub full of ice and champagne. The food was a touch humble (fish-and-chips, mac and cheese, the occasional skewered bit of pork belly), especially given the high bar set at previous years' events (Mario himself presided over last year's feast).

But the staffers were grateful, and thanks to an open bar, none too shy about issuing rave reports on the pleasures of working for Friedman and chef Bloomfield. Said one five-year vet, "I walk past other restaurants and they are empty, so I'm happy to be running around and busy at the Spotted Pig."

The after-party (or, as Friedman called it, "serious drinking") went down at the Rusty Knot, but we're more curious about the sleepover back at the Soho House that followed. We wonder how many Piglets are doing the walk of shame today.—Jordana Rothman and Daniel Gritzer