The red and white wooden paneling inside made me forget I was in Chelsea. Sitting at the bar and sharing four appetizers with a friend made me forget that it was cold outside. The laid-back staff made me completely forget I was in New York City. It was a Friday night and all the tables were booked but the maitre d’ politely told me over the phone that I can easily sit at the bar before 7:30pm. For the next two hours, people slowly filled the place with a buzz. We weren’t at all rushed by our bartender even though a few other couples stood at the door waiting for their turn. Where was I? I was at The Red Cat.
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Danna has been kind enough to take some time off from work to take care of my mother. In the interim, I'm working and going to school and so after school tonight, I headed several blocks west to revisit The Red Cat.
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Friday evenings in Chelsea have altered so much over the past three decades that one empathizes with H. G. Wells’ time travelers. Each visit to Tenth Avenue jolts those chronologically impaired.
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On a Sunday night in October, a friend and I looked in on The Red Cat. The restaurant can thank Frank Bruni, because without his June review I would most likely have overlooked it. Things were only just warming up when we arrived at 6:00, but the restaurant was full by the time we left at 7:30 or so.
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If I ever go looking for my heart’s desire, I shouldn’t look any further than my own backyard. Because it if it isn’t there, I never lost it to begin with." - Dorothy Gale, The Wizard of Oz
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Three years ago, Danna and I got married. Simply stated, an excellent day. Fast forward three years and instead of dancing with relatives and family friends I haven't seen since and getting ready to hop on a plane to Moorea the following morning, we find ourselves at The Red Cat, looking forward to a nice meal to celebrate three successful and often times downright exciting years of marriage and getting ready to use the tickets I got Danna to La Boheme in the Spring.
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I'd forgotten what it's like to go out on a Friday night. Thursday night was always date night for Todd and me pre-baby, so much so that while I was riding in to meet Todd for dinner last night I wondered if I we would show up and not have a reservation because I'd made it for Thursday. Anyway, we had to wait about 10 minutes for a table at The Red Cat, with frequent assurances from the hostess that it would only be a couple of minutes. So nice. And that set the tone for the whole evening. I thought the waiter would be snooty, but he was nice, too.
FULL REVIEW
Not every restaurant will lead a diner, disappointed by her entrée, to blame herself for a poor choice. That kind of culinary hypnotism can only be pulled off by an establishment whose store of goodwill has been built up by cheerful, service-oriented service, a handful of never-fail dishes, and a convivial crowd beckoning you to share in their good time. Such a restaurant is The Red Cat, the first of Jimmy Bradley and Danny Abrams’ successful ventures, a West Chelsea fixture since the day it opened in 1999.
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