My boss, Pam Parseghian, calls stupid people “bobo,” and that’s not the only reason I think it’s a silly word. It also means “bourgeois bohemian,” which to me translates as an overeducated self-important idiot who likes to pretend to slum but wouldn’t know real grime if he fell in it. And I should know, since as a middle class guy who writes, I am a bourgeois bohemian. There’s no getting around it.
And of course the West Village is the land of the over-privileged artist. The cradle of the gay rights movement, former crucible of many artists of all stripes, and now a neighborhood of the pampered rich.
Morningwood bassist Peter Yanowitz lives there, and he told me his neighbors hate him because he plays loud music. But why do people choose to live in the Village if they don’t want to bask in the glory of artists? Don’t you want your neighbors to be musicians? Isn’t that the whole point?
It’s like all those haters on the community board in the East Village who don’t want to give anyone a liquor license. Shouldn’t they just move to Great Neck?
And Bobo is also a restaurant in the West Village— the exclusive kind without a sign, so you just have to know where it is (181 W. 10th St., just West of Seventh Avenue, on the north side of the street, down the stairs). And publicist Katherine Bryant, my friend from back when she worked at Restaurant Business, wanted to have dinner with me there. So I went there with her last night.
I’m a food writer, so I don’t know about space, but it’s a cool space, or rather three, or really four, cool spaces — dark, stylish bar, cute ramshackle-apartment-like dining room, charming garden, and, um, stools by the walk-in.
I’ve never seen that design feature before: a glass-enclosed walk-in refrigerator jutting out into public space, with a bar and stools so people can eat while looking at it.
It’s certainly motivation to keep the fridge clean.
Actually, there might be a fifth dining area somewhere, hidden, where they put their ugly diners, because I didn’t see any of them last night.
I didn’t get a chance to meet the chef, Jared Stafford-Hill, who’s been there since January, because it was dinnertime and he was cooking, which you’ve gotta respect. But the restaurant’s owner, BR Guest veteran Carlos Suarez, was sitting at the bar, manning the turntable.
What we ate:
diver scallop crudo, with beets and wild asparagus
asparagus and morel risotto
white salmon with spicy fennel, pistachio and blood orange
lamb saddle with roasted asparagus and smoked paprika
a side of buttered garden peas
a sort of rhubarb crumble for dessert, along with citrus segments and lemon curd ice cream