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 pr

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