Taïm.
You know the place.
Oh, you know it.
The things you’ve done in its name...
Relationships have ended.
Careers have been compromised.
Falafel: defiled.
So this—this one’s for you.
It’s Bar Bolonat, a charming West Village corner of Israeli experimentation from the woman behind Taïm and Balaboosta, opening tonight.
This’ll be a date-night winner, what with its neighborhood-spot allure and its small, gleaming marble bar and its... understated drapery. (Never underestimate the power of good drapery.)
Here, you’ll feast. It’s a delightfully complex world of Jerusalem bagels (lighter, not boiled, covered in sesame seeds) with za’atar (herb dip). A world of turkey shawarma tacos. A world where roast chicken and pomegranate live in harmony.
Our suggested game plan: grab one of the spots along the banquette around the back of the bar. Get all that stuff. Then split a bottle of Shvo blend, a red from Galilee. (We hear it started out as water.)
Eventually, dessert time will roll in. You’ll both declare, “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly eat another thing.” And laugh coyly. Then your waiter will break the news that chickpea-crusted, ganache-filled chocolate falafel exists.
You’re both done for.
You know the place.
Oh, you know it.
The things you’ve done in its name...
Relationships have ended.
Careers have been compromised.
Falafel: defiled.
So this—this one’s for you.
It’s Bar Bolonat, a charming West Village corner of Israeli experimentation from the woman behind Taïm and Balaboosta, opening tonight.
This’ll be a date-night winner, what with its neighborhood-spot allure and its small, gleaming marble bar and its... understated drapery. (Never underestimate the power of good drapery.)
Here, you’ll feast. It’s a delightfully complex world of Jerusalem bagels (lighter, not boiled, covered in sesame seeds) with za’atar (herb dip). A world of turkey shawarma tacos. A world where roast chicken and pomegranate live in harmony.
Our suggested game plan: grab one of the spots along the banquette around the back of the bar. Get all that stuff. Then split a bottle of Shvo blend, a red from Galilee. (We hear it started out as water.)
Eventually, dessert time will roll in. You’ll both declare, “Oh no, I couldn’t possibly eat another thing.” And laugh coyly. Then your waiter will break the news that chickpea-crusted, ganache-filled chocolate falafel exists.
You’re both done for.
