Maybe it was the Tang. Maybe it was the TV dinners. Maybe it was the million shades of taupe.
Maybe it’s because someone just made The Brass Monkey, a miraculous little French-tinged homage to history’s most Ultrasueded decade, now open in the Warehouse District. (Your slideshow and your menu.)
Yes, you’re right. It is a lot of concept. But there’s also some admirable restraint at work here. The brass-topped bar and light fixtures are subtle. And those big globes of onetime French streetlights—casting a warm glow while you and a date feed each other steak frites and Lyonnaise salads—are the closest you’ll get to a disco ball.
It lets loose in all the right places, though. Like that room filled with vinyl records and (soon) turntables where you can go put on headphones and listen to some old Styx or Rod Stewart.
The bar: obviously stocked with Harvey Wallbangers and vodka-spiked Tang to sate your post-work longings. But if you just want some Fish Styx, bologna sliders or a TV dinner served on a porcelain tray, well, they have those, too.
Just like Alice used to make.