I feel like I’m in Chicago,” someone said as we settled down to dinner at Sheridan Square, the competent, blandly appointed restaurant that opened not long ago on a heavily trafficked stretch of lower Seventh Avenue on the grim border region of the West Village. Actually, the setup at Sheridan Square (which includes a bar and dining room, plus several smog-blown sidewalk café tables) doesn’t look like that of any ambitious Chicago restaurant I’ve ever seen. It looks more like the inside of a first-tier Kansas City airport hotel. The walls of the dining room are covered in white beam board and random black-and-white photographs of beaches and surfboards and trees. The ceilings are hung with the kind of circular crimson lampshades that were all the rage in modish restaurants a decade ago. The generic furniture looks like it’s been thrown together by flunkies from Ethan Allen. There is a wood-burning oven flickering in the back of the room, but then that’s true of every new restaurant nowadays, from the Kansas City airport to the pearly shores of Malibu.
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