West Village, Manhattan · restaurant
A 300-seat brasserie without a bad seat in the house—red leather, glowing wood, and a butcher counter up front telegraphing exactly what you came for. Steak frites and a properly molten French onion soup do the heavy lifting, but the deep absinthe list nudges dinner into a longer, looser night. Slip upstairs when the floor gets loud—the gallery’s quieter, a little more conspiratorial, and made for stretching things out.