“Now that’s web-cam worthy,” says a man in a blue Oxford sipping a glass of red wine at the bar. “I could watch these people all day.”
He points to a skinny window, which overlooks Nolita’s boutique-y milieu. Grinning tourists surround the bar’s full-tushied red fiberglass floral chairs. The seats’ guts glow like fireflies.
“Take a picture! Take a picture!” says a ponytailed blonde, wiggling into one chair, while her paramour takes its match. They pose like king and queen while flashes explode. They leave and, a few minutes later, the scene repeats like a tape loop.
“Now,” the blue Oxford says, “if only they would come inside for a glass of wine.”
I agree. And I disagree. If every picture-happy tourist ignored the sidewalk seating and strolled indoors, they would rip the gentle fabric of Vin Noir—an affectation-free wine bar where knowing your Merlots from your Pinot Grigios is not required.
The slender space, carved from an apartment building’s foyer, is as wide as a handful of chopsticks. About eight stools await at the candle-topped mahogany bar, while several magazine-size tables are bedecked with flowers. The space is modern, minimalist and utilitarian. A cherry-red fridge freezer doubles as storage space for DVDs of film noir—that gangsters and molls and deceitful, double-crossing genre.
Flicks unfurl, silently, on an unobtrusive flat screen TV. Ears are tickled by an iTunes collage of ’60s pop and indie rock like Band of Horses. Vin Noir is more relaxed-clubhouse cool than date-friendly. No matter the evening’s intentions, the high-heeled and shiny-shoed clientele are treated with friendly, informative service courtesy of owner-sommelier Todd Flathman, a jean-and-tee Ohioan—my people.
“Need some help?” he asks one evening, as I struggle with a weighty drink menu. There are several dozen per-glass options, running from French vintages to ports, savory sangria to imported beer.
I’m schooled in Noir’s Belgian beers, like Chimay Bleue and Saison Dupont (both $10), as well as the single tap dispensing spicy Schneider-Weisse wheat brew ($6). However, my wine knowledge only extends to Trader Joe’s three-buck Chuck.
“If you like red,” he says as patiently as a doctor giving a diagnosis, “try this.” He pours me a glass of syrah; it’s a warm, rich red and decently priced at $8. My evening’s companion orders a crisp, cool Riesling ($9) that quickly sands away her day’s rough edges. Refreshingly, no glass of wine costs more than $12, and they’re served in stemless vessels designed for thick-fingered klutzes like myself.
With wine in hand, my companion and I delve into the easy-flowing conversation, for which Vin Noir is designed. The setting is not ideal for marriage proposals or seducing people out of their pants. This is a living room for locals hungry for convivial evenings, a place to loosen your loafers and—“Take it easy!” shouts a man sipping his third vessel of Schneider-Weisse.
Every bargoer glances his way. “I was just reading the subtitles,” he says, gesturing to the TV. A woman is vigorously massaging a man in a bathtub, his head sudsy and shampooed.
He smiles sheepishly, while gulping beer. The TV resumes its silent drama. Drinkers return to drinks and, as the evening effortlessly vanishes, heed the man’s accidentally perfect command.
Vin Noir
228 Mott St. (betw. Prince & Spring Sts.)
212-925-6647
