Last weekend I visited an old friend who has recently moved to the West Village of Manhattan. It’s more than a little shocking to realize someone you used to share a box of Barilla pasta with because it was the cheapest meal the grocery store had on offer (thanks, 69 cent Giant Eagle specials) now lives at one of the most enviable addresses in the country.
We spent the weekend walking around the city, up and down The Highline, sampling the best lattes I could find and, of course, eating very well. The scallops at Extra Virgin were absolutely fabulous (I was too busy celebrating the end of a very long week to take a photo) The cocktails at Entwine were amazing. And I have to say that Ports, serving Stumptown espresso, was still my favorite latte of the weekend. But Sunday brunch found us at Café Minerva on W 4th st.
The small but open cafe, with its open kitchen and large rectangular bar in the center of the small space, had just enough small-town welcome to counter the West Village pretense to make it extremely charming. We sat at the shallow bar in front of the window which was perfect for satisfying my people-watching craving and sipped coffee and dined on beautifully poached eggs while watching women in full length furs pushing their shit-tzus in doggie strollers and listened to classic rock. Turns out the 1% like to fancy themselves the everyman every once in awhile… if only in their choice of brunch music.