Last week, the blogger formerly known as was meandering down Seventh Avenue, noting balefully that Bombayites never have to walk anywhere. I had impressed upon him the importance of seeing West Village restaurants, but as we walked I slowly realized that little in New York would beat Bombay for local color. The wood-burning brick oven at the pizzeria? Every corner dhaba has a tandoor in Bombay. A colorful Brazilian Japanese bar? Walk through Juhu Beach on a Sunday afternoon.

I took him and his wife to Blue Ribbon Bakery, a cozy, brick-lined wine and cheese places where part of the hook is paying extra for what’s handmade. Water arrived in a charming bottle with a homey canning-jar top; at Vini e Olli, oil is poured from miniature open jugs. With India goggles on, the bottle looked suspicious. Better send it back for an Aquafina with an unbroken seal.

After dinner, the plan was to take the friends to Galapagos, which looks like a Ghaziabad cement factory with a front room full of a pool of fetid water. For the rough-hewn dungeon walls, once again, you pay a premium for ambiance. The blogger noted that India had jumped from pre- to post-, with no industrial in the middle. I explained that the charms of the handmade were already passé. To be truly chic, you had to be post-PoMo.

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