Last Thursday, Colleen Chia, 33, and her husband, Donny, also 33, were all gussied up for date night.
They had shelled out a total of $315 for an exclusive, members-only, seven-course Colombian extravaganza. But they wouldn’t be dining at one of the city’s finest restaurants — or even on proper china.
Rather, the couple headed to the desolate, two-story South Street Seaport mall that was closed for demolition.
“Go up the escalator two floors and make a right. Someone will be there to greet you,” a woman told them upon arrival.
A wrong turn or two later, they eventually found the dining room: It was the former mall food court.
Lights from the Brooklyn Bridge illuminated the brown tile floor and the faint scent of stale mop water perfumed the air. The cuisine was served on throwaway bamboo plates and laid out on folding tables set up cafeteria-style. The clanging of two pot lids commenced the feast.
Welcome to Dinner Lab, the most exclusive new dining experience in town.
Brian Bordainick, 28, a Teach for America alum, launched the roving, members-only dining club in New Orleans last year with three pals. It quickly became a sensation, known for pairing up-and-coming chefs, many of whom work on the lower rungs of top restaurants, with a hungry, adventurous fan base keen to sup at out-of-the-box locations — including a helipad, a church and a motorcycle dealership.
Since its launch, Dinner Lab, which is featured on Wednesday’s “Top Chef” season premiere, has expanded to Austin, Texas; Nashville; Los Angeles; and now, New York.
Last week’s dinner for 120, cooked by Gramercy Tavern alum Mario Rodriguez, marked Dinner Lab’s Big Apple debut — for the lucky ones who were able to get in, that is.
The culinary club’s New York memberships sold out in less than 48 hours when they became available in late August, despite the hefty $175-per-year fee — and that doesn’t include the costs of individual dinners, which can range from $40 to more than $100, booze and tip included. According to Bordainick, there are nearly 5,000 people on the wait list.
But that — like the gritty spaces and the fact that locations aren’t revealed until the night before an event — only adds to the appeal for Dinner Lab rats.
“You have to go through this abandoned mall to get to this unique, beautiful place. It’s like you walk down a dark alley . . . in the middle of nowhere, and you come across some awesome restaurant,” says Nicole Rock, 28, who was enjoying the meal with a colleague. “It’s kind of raw.”
But being a member doesn’t mean that the challenge of scoring a seat is over.
Spots at the first three dinners, the second of which is happening tonight at a secret downtown location (Bordainick fears city officials would shut it down if they were to find out), were filled within four minutes.
“I’ve just been very prompt,” says member Colleen Chia of nabbing her place at last week’s event. “I pretty much stopped everything at 3:57 p.m. [just before seats went up for grabs]. I was constantly refreshing my browser.”
“We like the whole alternative dining idea,” adds her hubby Donny.
But even if the dining is “alternative,” the clientele, surprisingly, isn’t.
Bordainick admits that Thursday’s event, which was overrun by couples in their 30s and a smattering of 40- and 50-somethings, took him by surprise.
“I thought it was going to be like all 21- to 24-year-old hipsters running around,” he admits, adding that the flash-sale aspect of Dinner Lab can make it difficult for young, creative types to partake.
“I’ve gotten a few angry hipster e-mails, for sure. They’re like, ‘You know, when I’m bartending, I can’t get back to the computer in time.’ Which I totally understand.”
Hipsters aren’t alone in their discontent.
Claire Carlin, a 28-year-old who lives on the Upper East Side and works in ad sales, snagged a membership and a seat to the first dinner.
But she got boxed out for the second and third.
“What if this keeps happening?” she asks. “I’d like the opportunity to go to more events. I’m paying $175 a year, but I can’t get in . . . There are too many members.”
Bordainick plans to address those complaints by increasing the number of foodie fêtes. “We’ll get up to two a week. It does stabilize a little,” he promises.
And he hopes to up the ante with the locations.
So far, Bordainick has gotten a big fat “No” from the NYC helipad owners he’s approached (“We’ll get there, I’m sure,” he says). But he is planning a dinner party at a school in the South Bronx that helps students coming through the juvenile justice system.
“To be able to bring people to a space like that . . . when would you go to 138th Street? There’s not a reason to,” he says, adding that he would place security at every street corner from the subway station to the locale.
And while most people wouldn’t associate a school or a gritty, empty food court as having romantic potential, Dinner Lab has had its fair share of love experiments.
“We’ve definitely gotten a ton of what we call Craigslist misconnection e-mails that come through the site: ‘Hey I sat next to so-and-so. I didn’t get a chance to get their contact info,’ ” says Bordainick, who adds that weekday events tend to skew toward couples while weekends “are more wild, kind of throw-down party atmospheres.”
Hedge-funder Payson Holm was there with an equally preppy finance friend. Both were scoping out the club before bringing any lady love interests to the table.
“It’s a fantastic first-date spot,” Holm, 25, declares midway through the night over flank steak arepas with a chicha corn beer. “It’s not your everyday dish.”
Or your everyday crew. Which is a good thing, according to diners.
“I love how approachable they make it to try new things and meet new people, which is something everyone in New York could use more of,” says Ben Walker, 28, who works in the food business and was there as a guest of his friend Claire Carlin.
“I think we all get stuck in our comfort zones and hang out with the same people and go to the same restaurants,” says Walker, who lives in the West Village.
He and his (single) tablemates, whom he’d never met before, chatted about their theoretical wedding plans and their distaste for the small plastic wine cups provided at the dinner — no Riedel glassware here.
“What am I supposed to do with this? It’s like a shot glass,” gripes Walker.
But the annoyance didn’t dampen his mood, or the party.
“I think we’re all going to go home together after this,” Walker laughs.
“My sister has tables at Avenue,” he adds. “Everyone is welcome.”