The chef and co-owner of the new West Village scene restaurant the Lion is John DeLucie, who made his reputation at the Waverly Inn, the place where the nouveau-speakeasy restaurant model first entered the collective food consciousness. That formula has since been expanded (at the Monkey Bar, among other places) and more or less perfected (by Keith McNally at Minetta Tavern), and at this point its components are clear. The entrance to your establishment must be unmarked or have a stoic doorman posted outside (at the Lion, it’s both). There should be no reservations, or you should have to grovel to obtain them (“We only have tables at 5:30 and 10:30, sir” is the mantra I heard whenever I tried to book a table at the Lion). And never, ever, underestimate the importance of a dungeonlike lounge area–slash–Siberia. This limbo, where a rabble of assorted frumps and arrivistes congregate, sets the tone for the evening, and helps give your main (and, one hopes, celebrity-stocked) dining room its crucial sense of occasion and, of course, heat.
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