Rose petals lined an iron stairwell down into the lounge, which was really a cross between a bomb-shelter and a middle eastern bazaar. We sat side-by-side on velvet cushions, facing three, French-kissing couples. I sipped Tempranillo and grazed on tuna bric, leaning back onto my elbows from time to time, relaxed by the dimly lit laughter.
Intimate, strange, savory.
A New York Tuesday kind of place.