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The Spain Restaurant on 13th is slipping.  It has always been, well, a caricature of itself, but I met Becca there tonight for a gin and tonic, then a pitcher of what they call “Sangria,” which is a bottle of red wine, about a pint of Tropicana orange juice, and then several tablespoons of granulated sugar–but you see where you can want to get there, right?–but there is no joy in the service now, and, well, the tablecloths are not as clean as they used to be.  I’ve had many roaring fabulous birthdays there in the last 19 years–its one of the greatest cheapest places for having 19 people for dinner.  Or was?

 



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