From the 10 January issue of the New Yorker: "More often than not, bottles of liquor are kept behind the bar and at a distance from patrons. Not so at this newly opened outpost of after-dinner culture, where softly lit single-malt Scotches, amber Cognacs and Armagnacs, and glistening Calvados are lined up on shelves along each wall, just begging to be touched. And, like books in a library, hundreds of bottles are there to be sampled and perused at will. The intimate room has elegant round wood tables and soft leather chairs, the music is strictly twentieth-century jazz (the pianist Joel Forrester is at the upright on Monday nights), and there are high end bar snacks available. It's a space designed for lingering; the owner, Flavien Desbolin, a native Burgundian, says he'll often sniff a glass of Armagnac twenty times before taking the first sip." My curiosity has been piqued.