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There's no way to not
feel just a wee bit hip when sitting in one of these faux French brasserie
joints. I'm honestly not even sure what qualifies a place as a brasserie,
but over my years of imbibing in Manhattan, I've come to associate
them with worn mirrors, white subway tile, zinc bars, red banquettes
and crowded accommodations. Granted, I'm a guy who spent every Sunday
in The
Bear Bar watching football, drinking Bud and devouring wings to
the musical stylings of Winger and AC/DC for my first three years
in this city, so take anything I say about style with a grain of salt.
This is another Keith McNally creation (Balthazar,
Pastis,
Pravda),
so the decor and menu are no big shock, but even though the sheen
(but not the crowds) have worn off of his empire, I always find myself
impressed by the level of nonchalant effort that went into these places
to make them seem nonchalant. Lucky Strike is on a much smaller scale
than these other places, and because of that feels a little more intimate
and neighborhood-y. The place is pretty tiny, in fact, and the bar
is intimate and friendly. Of course, anywhere at four in the morning
is pretty much intimate. We could have ordered from their simple continental
menu if we were so inclined, but that late at night all we could think
about was crashing at the little copper bar for a nice Stella or three.
The bartender was mellow, as was the atmosphere, and the remaining
patrons seemed like they would most likely be going home around the
corner to finish the last chapter of their novel or catch up on how
the color correction was going on their short film or Target commercial.
This is definitely one I will add to my revisit list, and this time
maybe I'll even grab a turkey burger and a glass of vino while I'm
at it. [MF]
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