A brief walk down Fulton Street last night lends anecdotal support to Monica Eng’s story today on the city’s slumping restaurant industry.

Scene: Eight-thirty, Thursday, a brisk autumn evening.

Fulton Lounge: Dead.

Follia: Two tables.

Otom: Three tables.

Moto: Who the hell knows. The windows are opaque, I guess to protect you from the laser. But there sure wasn’t any traffic outside. 

The Publican of course was mobbed. But it’s been open for, what, seven days? We waited 45 minutes for seats. I hafta go back and write about it, so I’ll save the details for later. But I will say that, as we sucked down Belgian beers in the corner of the bar and tried to stay out of the way, I was hooked by the minimalist, pale wood, seemingly hand-tooled tap pulls. They are really lovely. I kept wanting to reach up and stroke them. 

I resisted.