In a quiet basement on Grove Street, the place that taught New York’s cocktail faithful saint-like patience has risen once again. Rather than ascending to an unmarked door in a Japanese restaurant, there is now a short descent, a modest door, a small waiting room. Other than that, not much has changed: the bartenders are still focused, the drinks are still imaginative, the rules governing seating are still in place; the mural depicting baffled-looking cherubs still presides over the bar, reminding drinkers that patience is now and has always been an essential facet of cocktail liturgy.
The decor is restrained, with lighting doing much of the work. Dark wood, an intimate run of seats, the aforementioned cherubs hovering like half-in-the-bag regulars. Most of the space belongs to the bar proper, a pulpit that keeps the room focused on process. You can hear the whisk of a tin, the crack of ice, the faint sizzle of a blowtorch. Music stays low and jazzy, classy. And the absence of standing room helps preserve the room’s low register.
House rules are back. Walk-ins only. Parties of four or fewer. No standing, no split parties. The boundaries, while strict, give the bartenders room to practice the exacting style of Japanese cocktailing that made the original famous. And the staff enforces said boundaries with politeness, calm, and confidence, but don’t even try to negotiate them. If you dread lines, know that this one can and will build at peak hours and that the small vestibule waiting room does not do much for anyone desperate to escape bad weather. A tertiary result of this pressurized feeling can creep into the bar when a cluster of would-be guests waits within eyeshot. Poor souls.
Angel’s Share still operates primarily in the intellectual realm; its concept is girded by execution, that is, these are drinks that ask as much contemplation as they offer sensory enjoyment. The absolute precision that goes into each practically demands that you meet it halfway. Each cocktail arrives with its own (often elaborate) setup and glass, its own statement and texture, its own arc. Smoke, foam, powders, fat washing, tea infusions–it’s wild stuff. The bartenders work with equal parts surgical steadiness and a magician’s flair. Old heads will clock the return of Smoke Gets in Your Eyes, an old-fashioned-ish glass of bourbon sharpened with sherry and Benedictine, served under a dome of heady woodsmoke. New concoctions are adventurous, too. The Take You There, for example, is butter-fat washed whiskey, pineapple, apple-spiced agave, coconut water, lemon, aquafaba (chickpea liquid) and curry powder. Complex, the richness and bold flavors are held in tension with acid, and the whole thing is given an aromatic pop from curry. It’s both odd and makes complete sense.
Food is an accessory rather than a co-star. Japanese snacks. Salty, cool, or lightly fried; cheese, sashimi, fried squid and chicken–these are offerings that accent an experience, not a dinner. Service is friendly, attentive, and gracious. Servers don’t call attention to themselves or put it on, which is a relief and seems to be the point.
Angel’s Share’s original location materialized in a very different New York–only the savvy knew of its existence, let alone where to look for it. Now, there is no such thing as secret knowledge, and savvy is another term for being chronically online. While this shift doesn’t affect the experience of a place as finely-tuned as Angel’s Share in itself, it does affect the process of getting there. To retain the same rules as its previous iteration feels, in some ways, like stubbornness rather than high standards. While we wish that in its second coming, the place would buck the troubling trend of waiting in line by allowing reservations, we can’t fault it for wanting to keep faith with its original incarnation. Very few places still insist on this level of quiet control, where the drinks speak almost entirely for themselves, ostentation is relegated to the glass, and everyone must await their invocation.