Owning a sumptuous West Village townhouse can smooth over all of a man's many flaws (shallowness, neediness, homelessness). Since no one's ponied up for your controlling interest in Google2.biz, squire your guests to Bobo.
Shorthand for the unfortunate distinction "bourgeois bohemian", this two-story restaurant's equipped with everything you need to play the role of gracious home invader. The downstairs dining room's pleasantly cluttered -- houndstooth-upholstered bar, antique piano, Singer sewing machine, etc -- putting your guests at ease, provided none are houndsbite victims. The upstairs dining room serves up Old Worldness like Suckling Pig Fricassee and Grilled Gamberoni, and is decked out with gilded mirrors and a working fireplace -- a setup that'll convey breezy refinement to your date, colleagues, or working-class parents desperate to believe that, despite all the strangers, your new digs aren't just some new restaurant. To prove that you really have the run of the place, escort your party to the 25-seat, ivy-trellised back patio, slightly more lush than your own "secret garden"...of scraggly chronic.
Bobo's taking limited reservations right now, but since they're not officially opening until next week it'll be hard to get a table before Monday -- you can try walking in, but that'll put you in the awkward position of explaining why you were thrown out of your own home.