You’re aware of the concept of food guilt.
Aware that it exists. Aware that some people out there feel bad after they eat something unspeakably decadent.
These people are not your people.
These people have no business joining you at Sel et Gras, a petite wedge of French sumptuousness in small doses from a Del Posto and Eataly chef, now open in the West Village.
Just to save you the research, it means “salt and fat” (the gastronomic equivalents of libertinism). This is prime first-date territory in... the heart of prime first-date territory. A quirky, triangular ode to revolutionary graffiti, Napoleonic statuary and Gainsbourg-Hardy-era French pop spread thickly with strawberry-covered foie gras and stuffed into a pig foot. (You can almost hear the maniacal French laughter now.)
You’ll take in the entire place with one look: a small marble bar, a handful of stool-equipped two-tops and open French windows looking out into the sunset.
And since it just wouldn’t be totally en français otherwise, the exposed brick is entirely lined with wine racks running the perimeter of the wall. So naturally, the move is to start with a nice pinot whilst deciding between small plates of tuna Niçoise or steak tartare.
You always consult wine before making such decisions.
Aware that it exists. Aware that some people out there feel bad after they eat something unspeakably decadent.
These people are not your people.
These people have no business joining you at Sel et Gras, a petite wedge of French sumptuousness in small doses from a Del Posto and Eataly chef, now open in the West Village.
Just to save you the research, it means “salt and fat” (the gastronomic equivalents of libertinism). This is prime first-date territory in... the heart of prime first-date territory. A quirky, triangular ode to revolutionary graffiti, Napoleonic statuary and Gainsbourg-Hardy-era French pop spread thickly with strawberry-covered foie gras and stuffed into a pig foot. (You can almost hear the maniacal French laughter now.)
You’ll take in the entire place with one look: a small marble bar, a handful of stool-equipped two-tops and open French windows looking out into the sunset.
And since it just wouldn’t be totally en français otherwise, the exposed brick is entirely lined with wine racks running the perimeter of the wall. So naturally, the move is to start with a nice pinot whilst deciding between small plates of tuna Niçoise or steak tartare.
You always consult wine before making such decisions.
