“Sorry, we’re staring at your taco” he said apologetically. “No apologies needed, my taco is delicious.” I responded with a wink. I only wish it had been a flirtatious come-on by some tall, dark and handsome dude but, just my singleitis-suffering IndieGirl luck, it was a gay couple salivating over my double decker broccoli taco.
I went to the White Horse Tavern for dinner knowing full well it’s a watering hole and not a fine culinary destination. I’m not a belly-up-to-the-bar kinda gal but I was hoping this West Village landmark would be overflowing with brooding, scruffy and disheveled looking writer types. I thought a fling with a tormented artist might be fun.
I nestled into this dimly lit, cozy little nook that’s relatively new on the West Village scene. It definitely made a great 1st impression with its initial attraction being it’s low key sex appeal and totally organic menu. The English accent of my casually stylish waitress didn’t hurt either.
Roaming ravenously through the West Village before my much-needed therapy session, I stumbled across Good Restaurant. How could I possibly go wrong when I was craving exactly that; a good restaurant?
