Loco por Tapas, and a Walk on the West Side
Not being familiar with Spanish cuisine, I'd say the food was terrific, though I've read diner critiques that lambasted some of the dishes with words like "inauthentic."
As for my friend and I, we thoroughly enjoyed ourselves. There was white asparagus with creme fraiche and caviar, fried chickpeas, sea snails (cooked with garlic, "Chinatown style") and tuna cakes — golfball-sized servings of seasoned, cooked tuna, fried to a reddish brown. Crispy on the outside, delicious in the middle.
We ended the evening with flan de naranja, the only choice of three that we could interpret on the dessert menu. (Of course, Tia Pol is now on the Where to Eat Map.)
Afterward, we went for a stroll, first walking toward, then through the tragically hip Meatpacking District (these days more tragic than hip — the fastest action has moved to the Lower East Side).
My friend directed me on a slight detour to get what she deemed the best cupcakes in New York: those at Billy's — better than the more famous treats at Magnolia Bakery in the West Village because they aren't as painfully sweet. This was true, though the half-inch of baby-blue buttercream frosting on mine made up for it.
Cupcakes in hand, we passed by the Maritime Hotel outdoor lounge, which reminded me of a few hotel bar patios back home (yes, I got a little wistful.) Even my friend remarked, "this place has definitely got an L.A. vibe." I'm told the Maritime was a former orphanage. Maybe someday someone will write a book detailing the history of the buildings now housing New York's coolest hotspots.
Meanwhile, we kept walking ... walking past the Chelsea Market, home of the Food Network ... a throbbing nightclub guarded by a beefy bouncer ... several leggy prostitutes teetering in impossible stilettos looking for dates ... and a sort of wacky grocery store. By this time we were in the Village proper and my friend suggested a drink.
Having never spent time in this part of town, I followed my gut, turned and led my friend to a boite on a corner, where about 10 people gathered around what reminded me of a French zinc bar were noisily cajoling each other into one more story, one more flirt, one more drink.
As we approached, it was clear these people were friends of the bartender who looked like he was Mediterranean, spoke like he was Eastern European and poured like he was Russian.
I stuck to a single glass of white wine.
Nevertheless, when the man who gave up his chair for me tuned to a loungy arrangement of "Quando Quando Quando" on the bartender's iPod, we were all singing.
Come to New York sometime, and you too can take in the little surprises you'll find on a stroll, and just around a corner.
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