The Pandemic-Proof Atmosphere of the Odeon Outside | The New Yorker
"I went to the Odeon partly out of curiosity and partly to offer support after months of avoiding table service; the restaurant, which turned forty in October, felt at once comforting and oddly diminished under pandemic rules. Inside I had my forehead scanned by a thermometer, tables had been removed from the normally crowded dining room leaving the wistful air of a beloved apartment on moving day, and servers kept their masks on while diners were reminded to mask up when interacting with staff; outside, plexiglass partitions, wooden barriers topped with Astroturf, and split seating on both West Broadway and the quieter Thomas Street produced a makeshift patio with its own Siberia and even a couple unlucky enough to sit by a converted service door. The menu skews French-bistro—frisée spangled with lardons, croutons, and blue cheese; a peppery strip steak—and includes curious outliers like Buffalo-chicken dumplings and a “purple sticky rice bowl” topped with kale and avocado; I drank a dirty Martini, extra olives, contemplated an oddly childlike “orecchiette, plain, with butter or olive oil,” and watched a leashed dog lift its head as an aromatic hamburger and a bouquet of golden French fries (wrapped in crisp butcher paper in a metal cup) were served; when the fries briefly disappeared from the menu it provoked genuine local consternation. The social hierarchy—stylish middle-aged women in Breton stripes, younger diners buying the restaurant’s signature baseball caps, a thirtysomething birthday group pilfering eerily fresh calla lilies from a trash can—was as comforting as the squarely decent food, even as I lamented the government’s failure to adequately support the hospitality industry and wished for a more secure path to safer, fuller dining." - Hannah Goldfield
