On a rainy Monday night in midtown a few weeks ago, I found myself faced with classic New York dilemma. I was running late to meet Andy for his birthday dinner downtown and needed to make a decision: Should I try to catch a cab always a risky proposition on a rainy night or just get on the subway, which involved a transfer always a time-eater? To add to my decidedly First World anxiety, we were going to Buvette , a jewel box of a restaurant on Grove Street in the West Village, run by Jody Williams, who has become something of a cult hero to food insiders and bon vivants everywhere.
I took the subway to Christopher Street, sprinting a block in the rain, by then coming down sideways. When I finally bulldozed into the gastrotheque, feeling very much like a wet dog, I made my way back to Andy seated at a small table tucked into a corner. Look at this place. He loved Buvette β which is why we picked it for his birthday. I looked around at the intimate, brick-exposed space, at the regulars reading books and drinking cocktails at the marble-topped bar, at the chandelier made from old cooking equipment hanging like a piece of modern art in the back room.
For all the trendy chatter about this place, it felt neighborly and warm, as if it had been here forever. Within minutes, I was sipping my own Manhattan, overtaken by the warmth, the cold rainy streets fading away like a jet trail.
Like the corner we were tucked into, everything about the place is small: The table, the menu, the plates, the portions, the covered ramekins holding little cassoulets, confits, rabbit stews, and coq au vins.
We started with two toasts: Fava and Ricotta and Anchovies with Butter, then moved on to beets with horseradish creme fraiche coming soon to a dinner table near me and rabbit moutarde before finishing with a chocolate mousse, so densely chocolate that the two forks planted like flagpoles in the dessert stood upright until we removed them and mauled what sat before us.
