![]() ![]() Alas, it was a jug of water, magically turned to wine by amber bulbs that make everything soft and fuzzy. On a recent evening, after a glass of muscadet, I reached for a carafe filled with what appeared to be more of the precious liquid. Anyone who’s dined at McNally’s restaurants knows they’re lit in a very particular type of gold, a hue that suggests that, somewhere in France, a quaint town exists where it is perpetually twilight. That duo, with their aristocratic cheekbones, looked fabulous. Buy me a hard seltzer one day, and I’ll tell you about the nearby celebrity cuddled up to a person who was not their spouse. McNally, who recently quipped that people go out to eat to escape their spouses, has hung so many artfully worn mirrors that getting caught cheating here is assured. The space is a near replica of the old one, from the worn wood planks to the dark banquettes to the zinc bar to every other detail that suggests the venue is 40 years old and not a few months young. Let me munch on some bland king crab, and whoa, gosh, what a nice mop of hair that Mayer boy has. But the creamy pepper sauce covers up the flaws well enough, and oh, wait, is that John Mayer? At a table surrounded by women? Sounds about right. Such antics are more enjoyable than the filet au poivre, which is sometimes grayish and medium when ordered medium-rare, sometimes cold and blue when ordered rare. Why hello there, Dan Abrams and ex-Men’s Health dude-itor Dave Zinczenko (or his doppelganger), bro-ing it up in a booth. The second coming, like the first, remains a brilliantly fashionable place to people-watch. No reservation? You’ll get quoted a multi-hour wait, though a host concedes that they hold back tables for regulars. Things are a touch more crowded these days a line of aspirants regularly snakes toward the door. And so we feasted on bacon-loaded tripe and drank Stoli orange martinis (woof). When a hip burger spot I no longer patronize turned us away in 2005, Pastis took us in. It still is.Ī selection of dishes, including roast chicken, lobster, snails, and raw tuna ![]() The partying was wild at times, but it never truly devolved into the type of Rich Kids of Instagram debauchery that nearby spots became known for there were no dance-party brunches where magnums of Champagne came with sparklers or where jeroboams (if you don’t know what that is, you can’t afford one) triggered recognition by the DJ.īy Meatpacking standards, Pastis was chill and inviting. ![]() It simultaneously functioned as an affordable-ish hangout in an increasingly expensive nabe - remember when Samantha from Sex and the City revealed she paid $7,000 per month in rent here? - and a constant celebrity magnet. The first incarnation, which fueled the nightly party that is the Meatpacking District, was born in 1999 as a Balthazar sequel of sorts. The thing is, in the case of Pastis, it’s generally a good kind of same. Really, this is a certain segment of New York in a nutshell: more of the same. The new location, run by mega-restaurateur Stephen Starr, sends out roast chicken, shrimp cocktail, and drippy burgers a few blocks away from the old location, which was torn down to make way for a luxury home goods retailer that, on its rooftop, serves roast chicken, shrimp cocktail, and drippy burgers. ![]() Welcome to Pastis 2.0, the rebirth of Keith McNally’s downtown gem that you might’ve first learned about (like I did) because Lindsay Lohan and other A-listers were slurping onion soup there in the aughts. Voila: What was once an entire food hall, with myriad vendors and ample seating, is now a single chic French brasserie with two-hour waits. ![]()
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