Nothing makes me feel more like a coastal elite than eating at a chain restaurant that‘s only other locations are in Rome, Florence, and Milan.
The last time I was there I came in sopping wet from a torrential rainstorm that accosted me on the way back from a screening of L’Atlante at the Anthology Film Archives.
The other patrons stared at me like I was a sad wet dog that sullied up their white shag rug at their Hamptons beach house.
Due to the quasi-European “cute“/claustrophobic design of the restaurant, the kind that only sufficiently thin (and dry) people can efficiently navigate through, I found myself literally dripping on the people dining below me while making my way to my seat.
During the meal a woman from LA repeatedly insisted that my friend and I had British accents after overhearing our conversation (we don’t).
The food was delicious, as always.
