Minibar Royale

You’re nibbling on a goat cheese salad as socialites air-kiss across your table and the stony faced maitre d’ with a mullet takes an order for another round of Minibar Royale Iced Teas (it’s the drinks that will really send your bill into orbit). Welcome to hipster-ville, where media execs and fashion designers nosh on solid but unexciting bistro food between shrieks of mutual recognition. Pretentious and over-priced or buzzing and fresh? It’s your call. One thing is sure, Minibar has struck a nerve. Heck, we’d open a restaurant if we knew what its secret ingredient was—perhaps it’s simply down to the hiso owners. The décor is cool, with hints of New York, Paris and Greyhound (except the white bricks have been replaced with white tiles), but it’s not outstanding. And neither is the food. Even though French bistro staple the croque monsieur (with Virginia ham and gruyere) is close enough to Angelina’s (and at least it’s not being served in a mall), it feels more like Au Bon Pain towards the last bite. The tuna pasta with black olives is OK but hits only two notes: balsamic vinegar and a hint of onion. Topped with delicious, fresh mushrooms, the “wild” mushroom soup is a tad bland and watery despite a healthy dose of garlic. You get the picture: dishes ring chic and exotic, but the delivery goes for safety and comfort, not ground breaking thrills. It’s Hotel Costes, which put mashed potatoes back on trendy Parisian’s plates, meets Magnolia Bakery (the stodgy banana pudding is close enough to New York City’s). Either go for brunch (the eggs Benedict with salmon are a good call) or on a Friday night, when everyone worth waving at is teetering on the edge of their iron-cast bistro chairs downing cocktails from their impressive (if expensive) drinks list. Seriously, darling, can you really afford not to be seen here? Corkage B400.