Pravda (CLOSED)

The staircase opens into a cavernous subterranean brasserie that recalls a Cold War–era movie set (see the cement ceiling and stainless-steel toilet seats)—Keith McNally style. Chic couples and the Soho working class sit in curved red banquettes and leather armchairs, sipping colorful martinis and sampling Soviet snacks like spinach-and-cheese piroshki and smoked sturgeon scattered with dill and a dollop of crème fraîche. Caviar is, of course, found in various guises, including a Wolfgang Puck–like application atop smoked-salmon pizza. The “White Russian profiteroles,” made with Kahlúa ice cream, are hard to say nyet to.