A couple of years ago, I was eating dinner in a new restaurant on the Bowery. On the surface, Bacchanal was a pretty sophisticated operation. The chef, Scott Bryan, had once earned three stars from The New York Times; the bartender was pouring almond-fat-washed rum and other state-of-the-art booze; the sommelier wore a silk pocket square and a tie bar as he offered thoughts on a wine list that casually ambled up into four-figure territory.
Then I went to the restroom. A server pointed me t
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