I suppose she's often objectified, and has to contend with the most Paleolithic of male impulses all night—so she might appreciate a sweet and sunny place. Somewhere, perhaps, with blooms on the table and with genuinely gracious servers that wouldn't crinkle their brows at a stray speck of glitter. Danny Meyer-brand service is in order, but I'm not sure dining in the barroom at Gramercy Tavern is the right move here.
Another option is the bistro La Sirène—a stealthy arrow in my quiver that's decorated rather chintzily with fishing nets and posters of the Côte d'Azur. But it's an all-kinds sort of place, with sensual and occasionally chaotic food, and a bombastic chef-owner Didier Pawlicki who could make anyone feel comfortable. I've eaten cassoulet in the depths of winter here, when the windows would fog up and the entire place would burst into song. It's the kind of place that makes you feel affection for your fellow man, and that teases out the very best in people. Which, for a stripper, could be quite the welcome change of pace.