Bringing back dead people is a feat rarely appreciated by the pitchfork-wielding public, probably because they fear they'll now be trapped in terrible conversations about how great it is "TOOOOO LIIIIIVE". Put down your torches, because some resurrections are awesome: Zinnia
At the old Scott Howard lot, Z constitutes the rebirth of vaunted chef Sean O'Brien's Myth: a similarly sized space serving diverse but approachable gourmet grub, and close enough to the old digs to confuse the very old. A wash of earthy greens and choco browns, the redux boasts a ludicrous array of butt-resting options, with 30 stools at the mahogany bar, a "chef's table" made from an antique southern door, loads of 2/4-tops, raised banquettes, and a polished cement communal table that rests on the usual, salvaged railroad ties. The familiar but tweaked menu starts out with minis like bacon/haricot verts/sherry sweetbreads and no-joke pastas like gnocchi in boar bolognese w/ seared mascarpone, before hitting stride with mains ranging from the daikon/butternut/shitake Alaskan cod to the grilled pork rib chop in rosemary cider and cranberry beans, which, when planted in soil, will grow into a towering tin can that stretches to a giant's house in the sky...where it's always Thanksgiving
Z does diverge from Myth in the crucial area: cocktails by an Orson alum featuring re-amped classics and florally inspired numbers numbers (per the resto's name) like the Square One/Elderflower/Lillet Blanc/prosecco "Secret Garden", and the Bulleit/bitters/egg white "Orange Blossom Special". Whichever you choose, it sure is great "TOOOOO DRIIIINK".