Brief, because there's not much to say. A trio of us decided to catch lunch there yesterday at 1:30. They had said earlier that they were booked, but we decided to try, anyway, and succeeded. I ordered duck confit. Ooops! Sorry! We're out! OK, as a darwinian pangolin, I know that I must adapt or die, so I opted for the braised rabbit ravioli with pancetta and sage. What I received was three ravioli, dressed with nicely crisped shards of pancetta and fried bits of fresh sage in a thin, butter sauce. The flavour was quite nice. A bit confusing, though, was the service for it. A clean plate was placed before me, and the ravioli were in a serving dish to my right, but with no utensil, so I had to serve myself with my knife and fork. Not that I minded, but I was left wondering what the point was. Given the portion, I wasn't about to leave any, so why not just plate the damn things in the kitchen? After all, it's an opportunity to be all artistic and showy. So, three ravioli and a glass of mediocre Chianti was $38 before tax and tip. The others had a lobster salad (as in a green salad), and a pulled pork sandwich, both of which were pronounced to be very good.
The service was flawless. It was efficient, brisk, accomodating, but not unfriendly or cold.
The decor was oddly 80s: brown leather banquettes, sort of corduroy-ish material on the chairs (sorry, obviously not a design guy here). Am I that old, that I recognise my youth being recycled? I shudder.