Gives me plenty of time to look around, I guess. There’s a ton of stone, all over the joint. Like, really nice stone. A bar with a sign reading “Bar Harbor Bar, est 1968,” which is lies. The bar seemed to be populated, amazingly, by post-work Times Square locals. Between that and the waiting area, they had constructed a two-level fish tank, plus an elevator that kept whooshing people up that whole one flight of stairs to the upper dining room. Near the elevator, a tourist woman, her poor feet clearly exhausted from SO MUCH WALKING AROUND THE M&Ms STORE, had taken off her shoes but left on her socks, and was just standing there, buzzer in one hand, sneakers in the other, like even a small part of this was not completely gross. Her son was 7/8 of the way there himself, thanks to a little company called Teva.
Five minutes later, 1) my date arrives, and seems to at least be faking enthusiasm, which is about all I could ask for, and 2) my buzzer goes off, a full 40 minutes early. This has never, ever happened at a “real” New York restaurant. They just keep saying “10 more minutes, just have another really expensive Tecate at the bar.” I love this place.