It looks nothing like the place before it.
That was Antonioni’s—all Italian charm and animal-print wallpaper. This is a place that somehow pulls off a combination of that classic low-key Taavo Somer rusticity with a pinkish-light, neon-art, marble-topped version of the ’80s. And the banquettes are made with Shinola leather.
You will at some point smell a delightful smoke.
Which will be swiftly followed by the sight of an entire chicken that’s on fire. That chicken is meant for the two of you who are on the date you should be on here, but a third could get in on it, too [dumb stage wink]. Also: try the kohlrabi bisque and have some wine.
It’s a cool-kid place.
There’s French pop and R&B in the air; even the website has a .fr domain. The bathroom mirrors are black. There’s a wraparound booth of pink velvet and mirrors tucked into a narrow slot in the wall. The waiters and waitresses wear 1984-like gray jumpers. And the median patron is something between winsome art-school grad and untelevised Jenner.
They must exist somewhere.