The nattily dressed man at table 12 takes a nip of brutally cold vodka and runs an eye down the menu. “Look at this,” says his friend, doing the same and beaming. “It’s a homecoming.”
Off in the corner, through a drifting nimbus of garlic butter, restaurant director Jesus Adorno welcomes long-lost regulars (“I see some familiar faces”) before resuming his unhurried patrols. Meanwhile, opposite the bar, a woman at a prime table clasps founding restaurateur Jeremy King’s hands like a congregant seeking benediction.
