The Waverly Inn and Garden

Justin Hartung

Citysearch

Getting Inn
"Are there just two of you?" the wafer-thin host asks. Speechless, I nod. Just like the many hopefuls who follow, I don't know a friend who knows a friend who has Graydon Carter's cell number, but I keep my cool, unlike the high-roller and his much-younger wife who unsubtly attempt to slip the host a bribe for a better table (denied). What they fail to grasp is that the tables by the door are actually the best: They're right next to a toasty fireplace, and though ogling Harvey Weinstein, Gwyneth Paltrow or even the pretty wildlife (B-listers) of the back garden is out, catching fleeting glimpses of everyone that walks in the joint couldn't be easier. Including Bono, here for Fashion Week.

Inn Digestion
"Country salad"? That sounds like something Jimmy Fallon would eat while on a snowboarding trip in Vermont, right? Turns out to be a soggy mess, the frisse overdressed and the lardons tough. Then comes the infamous truffle mac and cheese, which isn't half bad--easily worth a fifth of the $55 price--and organic chicken boasts skin as crispy as a fashionista's glare. Over a truly spotlight-ready chevre cheesecake, the trophy wife mistakes my accompanying Monbazilliac for Muscadet, and launches into a lecture on dessert wine. I don't correct her, and that's when I realize that this place has somehow worked its magic. Once in, everyone feels special, and the last thing that gets let through the door is a pesky bit of reality.