For $48.5M I Better Get a Butler

Whenever I play the “where would you live in this city if money were no object” game, the West Village is always at the top of my list. I imagine early morning strolls through cobblestone streets to get my latte and a perfect pain au chocolat, saying hi to my neighbor Jake Gyllenhaal along the way. (This is my bedroom, Jake! Just in case.)

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This place is nothing like the “little” townhouse I imagine for myself in that dream life. It’s a glass mid-rise with never-ending views of the Hudson River, which I guess will do. The kitchen is a bit tiny, but if you have a personal chef (which I assume you will), who cares? You’ll probably never set foot in it.

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What really won me over about this place is this bathroom (one of TEN). That soaking tub alone would do it if it weren’t ensconced in a million-dollar, glassy view, but the fact that they’ve got a CGI armchair in there really did me in. Imagine having the time, money and space just to have a seat in your bathroom! Though the towel rack is a bit far from the tub, TBH.

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While you do get your own private, 27-foot pool foot on your sculpted outdoor space, I’m a little annoyed that this place doesn’t come with a full-time butler. Because at $48,500,000 (I just had to stop to count zeros) I really expect a butler.

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And if I’m being picky, which I am, the master suite is a bit far from the other bedrooms. I mean imagine if your baby wakes up in the middle of the night! How will you ever get to them before dawn? Though, I’m probably thinking like a peon here. The night nanny will handle that. But still! What if!

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Who am I to judge though? If you’ve got $50M dollars—or $191,000 (estimated) a month for a mortgage—to plunk down on a West Village penthouse and you can deal with running a marathon in the middle of the night to your children who are so cold and lonely, then more power to you. Tell the brokers I sent you their way.

160 Leroy St, Penthouse North, pics via Elliman

Not a House for Mere Mortals

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There are houses for normal people with uneven floors, mice that live in the walls and closet-sized bedrooms, then there are houses like this one on Grace Court Alley. This is one of those houses you see and you wonder who the hell lives there. I’ll tell you who: not you. Not me. People who live here eat ambrosia – the real Greek god kind, no the Jell-o and Cool Whip kind – for breakfast, lunch and dinner and they never get fat. They buy new underwear when all the pairs they own are dirty and just throw the old ones away. They have Netflix accounts of their own and don’t even share the password with all of their family members. This is not a house for mere mortals.

Grace Court Alley is in Brooklyn Heights and it looks like a set of what you imagine quaint New York City looks like (Forgotten New York has a deep dive if you want to read it). It’s a movie set of itself. Cars may drive down this alley sometimes, but only the cars that pull into the private garages of the homes here. Anyone else who drives down it immediately thinks to themselves, “Oh god! Oh god! What did I do? I DON’T BELONG HERE!” At one point in time this alley was just the entry point for the stables that belonged to the real showpieces of the neighborhood. But now, most of us would kill to live in the stables of those houses. Because now they don’t look like stables, they look like this:

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Son. Of. A. Bitch.

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Can you imagine eating cereal in your t-shirt and 13-year-old comfy pants one morning in a room this pretty? Well you’re not allowed to. Those pants deserve to be put in the trash just like a pair of single-use underwear. And just forget about sunbathing on this deck or watching the snow gently fall from your glass-enclosed reading nook, ok?

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But maybe you’re a fancy person and you’ve got $10M to spare (up 270%!!!! from its last sale in 2011). If so, 6 Grace Court Alley is the place for you.