If I see another decorative pickle jar, I might go insane,” I muttered (then dutifully tweeted) to no one in particular, while cooling my heels before dinner at the buzzy new West Village bistro Joseph Leonard. Like countless buzzy downtown restaurants these days, the snug, candlelit room was filled with all sorts of carefully procured down-home knickknacks. There were Mason jars placed on the distressed farm-style tables and along the pewter-topped bar (and filled with actual pickles), and old hardcovers stacked along the walls. Faded photo portraits were hung here and there on the white brick (“They’re the investors’ grandparents,” the bartender confided), as were assorted antique mirrors fuzzed with age. The checkered napkins looked as if they’d been cut from old tablecloths (they hadn’t), and the mismatched flatware seemed rummaged from assorted flea markets up and down the eastern seaboard (it had).
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