Getting trashed on sangria with your mom in the West Village has never been so fun.

Apparently this place has been around for a long time, as my parents used to "ride the motorcycle" and go there quite often back in the day. Bi-monthly dinners with my mother are fucking fantastic. That's a Spanish coffee I'm drinking, which means espresso, kahlua, and WHIPPED CREAM, which I had already devoured. I had three. Twelve degrees below and my mother walks out of the restaurant saying it's not really that cold out at all. Hmmm. She also said that she didn't get those glasses in black because she didn't want to look "too Harry Potter-ish". I think she looks plenty Harry Potter-ish.