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Little Branch

Tue., May 30, 2006

Ah, the mojito: first trendy drink of the 21st century, yet so refreshing I must forgive it its trespasses and have several per sitting. I set off for one today after work, now that summer is official here in the city, with its tidings of vengeful mugginess and steaming garbage odors.

I went to Little Branch, on Seventh Avenue at Leroy Street, which I’d selected earlier as a location convenient to pre- or post-Film Forum drinks. The bar, which opened a year ago, makes a triad of entrepreneur Sasha Petraske’s cocktail kingdom, joining Milk & Honey and The East Side Company. Sasha’s gotten less wankish with each of his speakeasy hideaways: reservations are required at Milk & Honey, with its unlisted phone number and waiting list. The bustling East Side Company features a DJ booth. Little Branch is open to all without reserve. It has a piano, a pressed tin bar at which one may stand, and a dozen or so tiny, intimate booths.

The front door, adjacent an unassuming West Village intersection, is marked only by a small metal plaque. Go down a flight of stairs and you’re there, in the windowless dark under a low corrugated steel ceiling, light from white candles placed on the tables. Scratchy pop hits from Prohibition play in the background. Textures abound: ridged paper napkins, wire-glass tabletops edged in metal, tall wooden seats at the two-person booths upholstered in leather.

And a $12 per drink cost seals the overly trendy deal. I will allow this inflation on occasion. Premium prices are understood on small luxuries in North America’s most expensive city. What irks me more is uninspired restaurateurs profiteering by means of small entrees on large plates, or those deceptively shallow soup bowls. This extends to drinks that appear to contain more ice than liquid, so I was suspicious when my mojito arrived as such, in a glass frosty from the Sno-Cone clump of pea-sized ice pellets rising above the rim.

But the ice style resulted in little melt and an expertly cooled beverage, so the true test was the drink itself. The perfect mojito shouldn’t taste too rum-punchy, nor should it be too sweet. The mouthfeel should be slightly “thick,” from the sugar, yet effervescent, by way of the club soda, a balance Little Branch has achieved. The sugar, the glow of rum, the green snap of the mint, all superchilled by the ice, combined to form near perfect refreshment. I sat there for some time afterwards contentedly crunching my ice. I could have gone for another, but I would have been wiser to have chosen one of the tantalizing specialty drinks containing, say, candied ginger or fresh squeezed fruit juices. Or I could have quizzed the suspendered bartenders’ reportedly encyclopedic knowledge of drinks both popular and archaic. I shall return.

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