Around midnight on a quiet Wednesday at Bibi, a candlelit East Village wine bar, two patrons, having finished their wine and a charcuterie plate, were discussing a real-life murder mystery. Their bartender approached the table, and they told him about it: northern lights, vast lake, mysterious disappearance. He pulled up a barstool, poured them some bonus wine, and told a hair-raising story of his own: penthouse night club, duffel bag, lady with an axe. Bibi, cozy as a campfire, may encourage the telling of lurid stories—it feels like an outpost of safety and comfort, a place to celebrate your own levelheadedness. Its proprietors, Michael Lagnese and Jonny Cohen, of the 8th Street Winecellar, opened Bibi this spring, with their longtime bartender Bonny McKenzie, who named the bar after her great-great-grandfather; a photograph of him in a lawn chair, drinking beer, hangs in the hallway. The bar has vases of pussy willows, likable music (Beck, the Black Keys), tasty bar food (candied nuts, Humboldt Fog), and well-chosen, reasonably priced wine. On another night, the same bartender, David Renaud, confidently recommended a Malbec to a Malbec-averse man. The man swirled it around, sniffed, and sipped. He was impressed. “Usually they’re young and blue-fruit tasting, but this feels like it’s got some age on it,” he said. At a wine bar, maturity is a virtue. ♦
