The joint was down a dark, narrow street.  It was the kind of offbeat establishment you used to see a lot more of in Tribeca, a neighborhood  known for its empty streets, edgy artists and loose cobblestones, until the moneyed crowd moved in. We could tell we’d come to the right place by the neon light spilling onto the sidewalk. Inside, a dame in a red sweater was leaning in to kiss the owner.

“Let there be neon!” she crooned, pressing her cheek to his. Read More