Sunday brunch is overrated. A late afternoon glass of wine at an outdoor table is sometimes preferable, especially on a crisp, finally-below-65-degree day when sweaters can be unearthed from the depths of closets to be worn with some sense of functionality. The Little Next Door isn’t a scene at 5pm and you’re not tempted by some $3 mimosa special that prompts you to spend the rest of your day obliterated on cheap champagne. What’s more, the crowd is chic, a solid minority speak French, and several waiters seem as though they were transplanted directly from the Marais. If there were a masculine scent to capture the milieu, it might be Prada’s Infusion d’Homme. Subtle allure, never sickly sweet or overloaded with testosterone. Think of it as the anti-Axe cologne. Thanks to a new friend for the thoroughly unexpected gift.
Little Next Door, 8142 W 3rd Street
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