West Village

And yes, you will pay too much for your handmade gnocchi that chews doughy but melts like butter in your mouth or your sourdough bread spread thick with avocado and sprinkled with pink himalayan sea salt. And yes, the husky banker at the bar will lean too close to you, unaware of elbows and shoulders until he decides he wants something.

The West Village doesn’t care. It wants you to learn to savor, and to learn to wait, and to learn to push if needed.

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