The place was on a street I didn't know well, a quieter block in the West Village where the buildings were lower and the trees were older and the whole atmosphere had the particular quality of a city neighborhood that had managed, through some combination of luck and stubbornness, to remain itself. The restaurant — if it was a restaurant, it was a modest one — had no sign outside that I could see, just a dark green door with a small light above it and a window through which warm light spilled onto the sidewalk.
Inside it was exactly what he'd said. Small. Quiet. Perhaps fifteen tables, most of them occupied but not crowded, the noise level calibrated to conversation rather than performance. The walls were dark wood and the lighting was warm and low and there was music — real music, a sing
