It will soon be Valentine’s Day and, while I deny bitterness her dram and cynicism her laurels, I dread it. What is the holiday but a high striker in a cheap carnival of sentiment? No matter how bearded the artisanal chocolatier, what is he to Cupid or Cupid to him? Diamonds, teddy bears and roses are not tokens of affection but of carbon, polyester and cold Latinos standing in front of delis. There is, however, at least one way to celebrate Valentine’s Day of which I heartily approve. That’s eating at Le Philosophe, a new bistro on Bond Street.
There are many romantic places at which to dine on Valentine’s Day. Like bad Jews on Yom Kippur, every restaurant, from the white-tableclothed to the greasy spoon, is duty-bound to dress up once a year. The tropes of romance are dusted off and trotted out. There are enough hearts in New York this week to make Milton Glaser moan, enough candles for a mass exorcism and enough prix fixe to outrage the Sherman Act. Read More