To the French, bobo is slang for a person or thing both bourgeois and bohemian (and not just to the French—it’s also in the title of a book by David Brooks, Bobos in Paradise), but to New Yorkers it stands for a little restaurant tucked away in the West Village. Last fall, an aging brownstone got gussied up to resemble a swanky French resto, with food to match. When I went, the Euro-influenced and thoroughly modern menu featured a cheese plate that was memorable and fish that was perfectly cooked. But what really won me over was the convivial service: The bartender understood my bourbon-loving ways and made me a delicious sparkling-wine-and-bourbon drink. The Chowhounds write Bobo off as an overpriced hipster hangout with bad service and not-so-great food, but we’ll just have to agree to disagree. I’m hoping to head back again once the weather warms up, as Bobo has an outdoor patio that’s fitting for a lazy summer afternoon.

181 W. 10th Street, New York, New York

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