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There’s no name at the entrance of the underground townhouse space (the owners are veterans of those seminal neo-speakeasy joints Freemans and the Waverly Inn), which leads down into a warren of rooms, some of them the size of walk-in closets. The narrow bar in the front is painted in shades of pink, like an Edwardian bordello, and if you get there in the late hours of the evening, you might find yourself (like I did) flattened against the wall by packs of braying Englishmen. The darkened little dining rooms have names like the Library and the Salon, and when you’re finally seated in one of them, it’s difficult to know whether you’ve arrived in the restaurant’s inner sanctum or some dimly lit, antically decorated version of Siberia.

Not that it matters, in the end. Scene restaurants aren’t built around their kitchens, as a rule. But it’s also a rule that if the food borders on the grisly, the scene probably won’t endure. Our appetizers included fishy hamachi crudi buried in jalapeño, a greasy helping of that nightmarish Quebecois specialty poutine (soggy fries and gravy, plus shreds of reheated duck confit), and three rock-hard crab croquettes rattling around in a little bowl. There are several ginned-up “classics” among the entrées (duck à l’orange with no hint of l’orange, an elfin-size steak Diane), plus a few unfortunate “seasonal” dishes, like scallops bizarrely garnished with pickled carrots and vanilla-parsnip purée. The burger (with melted Gruyère) isn’t horrible, and neither is the brioche pudding. But the best way to survive your ordeal at Hotel Griffou is to do what the weary boulevardier at my table did after pushing his dinner aside. Put your hand in the air, and call for another drink. — Adam Platt

If you have a taste for absinthe, try the Iceberg, made with lime and Chartreuse.

Griffou burger, brioche pudding.

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New York Magazine Reviews

• Adam Platt's Full Review (10/19/09)