Cecchi's Review - West Village - New York - The Infatuation
"No one’s ordered a Harvey Wallbanger since Prince was charting with the Batman soundtrack. But, if you want, you can get one at Cecchi’s. You’ll see the essential ingredient, Galliano, sitting behind the mahogany bar in an impractically tall bottle that’ll remain untouched for the next decade or so. Cecchi’s isn’t trendy, in the sense that it isn’t chasing recent trends. If you plopped the West Village restaurant into 1980s Midtown, it would raise, at most, an eyebrow or two. With its finicky service, Art Deco murals, and food that’s arguably just a formality, it feels like a post-theater hang from an era when dining out was mainly a social function, and it’s a nice place to feel glamorous while you drink a martini. Under rows of glowing light fixtures that provide the perfect ambiance for vodka-soaked memories, lint-rolled clientele lounge in leather booths and pick at fries in a way that feels performative. Up front, folks on chrome stools chat with a bartender who, if you’re lucky, will remember your name, like a little league coach who thinks you have potential. There’s no on the menu, but most people drink one. That’s the main activity at Cecchi’s. Eating is a semi-distant second. The food here is competent and utilitarian, and in the tradition of other apostrophed clubhouses like Sardi’s and Elaine’s, the menu seems to have been made with partial disregard for what a menu should look like. Alongside chicken à la king—last observed at the Yale Club circa 1979—it features onion rings, mushroom toast, and flaky pigs in a blanket stuffed with Italian sausage. Ribs and coleslaw also make an appearance, and it’s kind of charming how mediocre they are. Don’t get cute. Stick to the basics, like the juicy steak frites. Atmosphere will always take precedence over food at Cecchi’s, and you could say the same about a thousand other restaurants. But here, the experience doesn’t feel hollow. You’ll see Cecchi himself (first name Michael) working the room alongside several enthusiastic hosts who watch the front door as if they’re expecting Liza Minelli to arrive any minute. There aren’t any gimmicks, just stiff white tablecloths, properly stirred drinks, and old-school hospitality that isn’t as trendy as it used to be. " - Bryan Kim
