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Who knew the little
rainbow sticker on the window meant free neck rubs for all male guests!?
I would have come here ages ago. Doling out the masseur services was
the very excited Australian maitre d', who seemed genuinely pleased
that we chose to dine in his little restaurant (and showed it with
his hands). Without even a hug or reach around--or even a post-coital
cigarette--I was left a little flat, but luckily I had a nice buzz
going and was hungry enough to eat anything that had once moved and/or
grazed (with the exception of our friend from Down Under, of course).
Now, subterranean dining can take on one of two moods. It can be dark
and dank, or homey and cozy. The terrific service and friendly waitstaff
certainly helped The Place to move into the later category, but the
space itself--though a little cramped--made me feel like I had discovered
some out-of-the-way gem in Paris that only the flouncy locals know
about. I couldn't quite think of the noun to describe the place, and
then Ms. Hipster pulled out "grotto." A very apt and swanky
description indeed. I know it's weird to say that twenty-dollar entrees
are affordable, but in a city where a Big Mac is like seven dollars,
that doesn't seem too bad. The wine list is also decent (in my grape
juice swilling opinion) and tops out at around sixty bucks a bottle.
The food was fresh and flavorful, and meaty and fishy in all the right
places. The evening may not have concluded with a happy ending, but
my stomach, head and heart couldn't have been more pleased. [MF]
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