No place better displays the quirky charm of West Village architecture than Café Cluny. Connected by a narrow passageway, the dining rooms are at slightly different elevations, the stamped-tin ceiling rises and falls like a wave, and the place is suffused with parchment-colored evening light. On every wall taxonomic specimens are displayed: an array of electric-blue butterflies here, a series of odd fish there, with fern fronds splayed serenely in between. It's as if your great-great-aunt—the one who worked for National Geographic and went on assignment to Borneo and the Arctic—had just left the room.
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