57 JFK St.

I was in a photo class at the Carpenter Center last semester, weeping crimson tears over my Visual and Environmental Studies project (which, since you ask, was about portraits of dogs) when my professor–a small, irascible chap with an unplaceable accent–walked in with a grin.

“Ah’ve just been to that new bar, ‘Om,’ and it’s very impressive,” he said.

“Hey, what do you think of this photo?” I asked, directing him toward the screen.

“The art there reminded me of a New York place. It was extremely well done—they must have put a lot of money into it.”

“That’s great… but, could you help me wi—“

“Sorry, but I’ve got to go. Don’t forget, class, I’m taking a look at your prints tomorrow.”

So, thanks, Om, for using up my professor’s single compliment for that week. He sure as hell didn’t offer any others in my vicinity.

Legend has it that this particular professor used to party with Bowie and Warhol, so I had high expectations when I headed to Om’s sweet media release party.

Hell, I figure if it’s good enough for someone who’s even touched Bowie, it’s good enough for me.

The first thing I noticed when a buddy—my “bodyguard”—and I walked into Om was a silky sheet of water flowing down the reception wall. My friend touched it, and expressed amazement at the consistent flow of the yellow-lit ripples. He’s a math concentrator.

The second thing I noticed was the publicist. Welcoming us with the cheer of a Mercedes dealer, she told us to enjoy the food, drink and décor and asked me if I thought this was what “the kids” were “cool with.” I replied that yes, it was.

And indeed, it is—mostly.

Décor first, since it may be Om’s biggest draw: the first floor is beautiful. The bar, backed by a rough-hewn stone wall, is illuminated with amber light. Plasma screens line the walls, streaming iTunes-esque visualizations in matching yellows and reds. One wall in the table area is covered with an ornate Tibetan painting of an intimidating-looking deity stomping on some fools and scaring away the bad mojo. Co-owner Bik Yonjan told me the work came from his father’s traditional art studio in Tibet.

There’s a semicircular VIP lounge, separated from the hoi polloi by a curtain of steel beads and decorated with Mandela on the wall and Buddha’s head on a pedestal. It’s unclear what is required to gain entry, but it sure is purdy.

Upstairs is also rather well-upholstered, though it lacks the suavity of the downstairs; it looks like the owners spent less exorbitantly up here.

While most will probably head to Om for its atmosphere, there’re some very good noshings and spirits to be had. Bartender Cliff Travers, formerly of Dali sibling Cuchi Cuchi, smiled at me from behind yellow-tinted indoor sunglasses and served me two colorful sampler drinks. The green one was supposedly flavored with green tea essential oil, while the pink one had…a raspberry on the rim. Both tasted super, despite one bartender’s whisper to me that they were keeping ‘em weak so the journos wouldn’t embarrass themselves.

The food was unique as well, or at least the appetizers were. There were playful, brown-sugar-encrusted lumps of tuna tartare, amazing little shrimps on toasts, and a “chocolate pate” with ultra-dense mousse topped by a berry-flavored gelee. The raw oysters were the sole misstep; I don’t know if it was the particular mollusk I chose, but it had a funkily “off” aftertaste.

I apologize for the lack of appetizer and drink names or prices; Om’s publicity department did not deliver that info to us by press time. Google, however, tells me that entrees range between $18 and $36, which places Om in the same league as neighbor Upstairs on the Square. The prices are reasonable: if you’re looking for an upscale date spot, Om is certainly equal to its older, pinker competition.

And if you happen to be a photography professor with a vaguely Celtic accent, you’ll probably like it better than my photography.

—Michael A. Mohammed