A glass of Bordeaux, a plate of bone marrow, and a bitchin' new book (The Iron Will of Shoeshine Cats, a kind of Jewish William Kennedy novel—but funnier—about gangsters and nerds in 1963 New York).
I realize it makes me sound like an 80-year-old man who's drowning in sweater vests and mothballs—but that's the stuff.
These pleasures can be found at Solo.
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