Atwood

Into the ’Wood

Meet Atwood. She’ll Do Right by You.

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It’s sometime in January.

Vortexes are being polarized. Faces chapped.

So you duck into a nondescript winter vestibule, emerging into this bi-level wood-and-brick haven.

At the entrance, someone says, “We’ve been expecting you,” and hands you a plate of sweet potato mac and cheese and a Boulevardier.

Who are you, the Sultan of Brunei?

No, but they’ve got that stuff if you just sit down at Atwood, a Midtown sanctuary of cocktails from a Milk & Honey vet and a bunch of good stuff to absorb them. It’s opening any day now.

Have a look.



Thar she blows, floor one. There’s a second, too.



This is what you saw right before you sat down and had a stellar evening.



And this is the French Rickey that helped with the stellarness. Gin, seltzer, lime, absinthe. You’re taken care of.



You probably should have had the crispy chicken with honey before that, but hey, nobody’s perfect. And it’s never too late. 



Or their version of toast. Way to improve on toast.



Oh, look, you had another one. You rascal, you. This pretty little maid is a Grape Collins—like the “Tom” variety, but with grapes and other stuff.

Mmm, other stuff.

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