The Townhouse

Think of an all-gay 1950s country-club dining room: A narrow space with stone-colored walls, skinny beige chairs and full-length mirrors. The reflections make for prime eyeballing, but most of the deep-pocketed, silver-haired dan-dies in crisp Oxfords seem to already know each other. The menu is prim and predictable. The shrimp cocktail was a little wilted. Entrées like pan-seared filet mignon in a spicy green-peppercorn sauce had some flavor, but a roasted lamb shank was rubbery. If the Townhouse’s secret is its shockingly reasonable express-lunch deal, its claim to fame is its bar (down the street), where the gentlemen gather around the piano for drinks and show tunes, and perhaps some risqué stories.