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Calling this place "sleepy"
is an insult not only to the so-named dwarf, but to the institution
of sleep itself. This joint is one step away from mummification. It
makes Robert Wiene's somnambulist look like a wild man partying in
Dr. Caligari's cabinet--know what I mean? It's not that you want your
wine bar to be a panties-hanging-from-the-ceiling-fan frat party or
anything, but when the cold hand of death is pouring your Pinot, you
know it's time to hit 'em with the paddles. It's not really as bad
as all that, but is in stark contrast to the other restaurants and
bars within two square blocks that are packed to the gills with mussel-eating
Francophiles and trendoids of all shapes and sizes (but predominantly
cylindrical and between a zero and three). Ara is actually a nice
little space--at once comfortable and nicely put together. The bartender
couldnāt help but be friendly, as it would have been really awkward
if she was snobby to her only customers. We sat and quietly sipped
our wine in relaxed coziness and chilled in the small space. Mellow
to the point of sedation, this would actually be a great place to
bring a date at the end of the night for the old "yawn" move. She'd
be Sominex in your hands. [MF]
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