If you’ve got the guts to name a restaurant after yourself, you’d better be a country-music sensation, a
Bennigan or Le Cirque’s Sirio Maccioni.
Regarding the latter, you’ve now got Sirio. It’s a low-slung hall of mod-’60s sexiness and serious Italian fare. It’s taking reservations right now and opening November 1 at the Pierre. And this is how you’ll make it sing...
Dinner for two. Or, if you’re feeling ambitious (and potent), three.
You’ve basically stepped into Mastroianni-era Italy here. Dim lighting, horizontal lines, banquettes with white leather piping, and mushroom risotto and lamb shank with artichokes. We presume that’s what he ate.
The power lunch.
When you walk in, you get that warm feeling that this isn’t a place where the word “no” is uttered a whole lot. Maybe it’s that low-ceilinged intimacy. Maybe it’s the fact that they’ve got a dessert made out of ravioli.
Become the bar.
Put on a suit. Take a seat. By yourself. Just do it. Bask in the glory. Polished wood and chrome. Domed reading lamps. Your martini looks irresistible in that light. Anyway—have some crudo. Maybe some oysters. At some point—maybe 10 minutes in, maybe an hour—a dangerous-looking individual in a dangerous-looking outfit with dangerous eyes is going to catwalk through that door and meet your gaze.
This is why you’re sitting at the bar.
Regarding the latter, you’ve now got Sirio. It’s a low-slung hall of mod-’60s sexiness and serious Italian fare. It’s taking reservations right now and opening November 1 at the Pierre. And this is how you’ll make it sing...
Dinner for two. Or, if you’re feeling ambitious (and potent), three.
You’ve basically stepped into Mastroianni-era Italy here. Dim lighting, horizontal lines, banquettes with white leather piping, and mushroom risotto and lamb shank with artichokes. We presume that’s what he ate.
The power lunch.
When you walk in, you get that warm feeling that this isn’t a place where the word “no” is uttered a whole lot. Maybe it’s that low-ceilinged intimacy. Maybe it’s the fact that they’ve got a dessert made out of ravioli.
Become the bar.
Put on a suit. Take a seat. By yourself. Just do it. Bask in the glory. Polished wood and chrome. Domed reading lamps. Your martini looks irresistible in that light. Anyway—have some crudo. Maybe some oysters. At some point—maybe 10 minutes in, maybe an hour—a dangerous-looking individual in a dangerous-looking outfit with dangerous eyes is going to catwalk through that door and meet your gaze.
This is why you’re sitting at the bar.
