The Ten Bells

Jack the Ripper’s tavern hunting grounds, from which this LES bar borrows its name, is strange inspiration given that (a) the Ripper was English and (b) London’s Ten Bells is a lagercentric pub. But edgy cred counts more than accuracy at this by-the-numbers vino depot from co-owner Fabrice Vautrin. Like his previous Gallic-flavored ventures Le Père Pinard and Les Enfants Terribles, Bells follows the downtown-design script with bare brick, pressed-tin ceilings and Edison lightbulbs turned low. It bathes the girlfriend cliques and chic couples that crowd around the cramped tables and marble ledges in a flattering glow. Once you’re wedged in, you’re not budging, which makes it maddening that lamp-lit chalkboards serve as menus—the specials are written in minuscule script that nearly requires the Rosetta stone to decipher. Unless you carry a magnifying glass, you’ll need the well-informed waiters to help you navigate the thoughtfully assembled collection of global organic wines—about 16 glasses, mostly for less than $10, and 50 bottles that hover around the $50 mark. Standouts include Morocco’s fruit-forward Syrocco syrah, a soft and earthy Saint-Chinian Les Travers de Marceau from France, and a floral thirst-quenching Austrian Grüner Veltliner. (Beer lovers are stuck with a slim selection of microbrews like Smuttynose Porter or Blue Point Summer Ale.) Low prices encourage the beautiful crowd to linger over a second glass, loosen up and talk into one another’s ears—more out of necessity than romantic overture, thanks to the cranked-to-11 ambient techno. In lieu of shouting, a better use of your mouth would be downing raw oysters ($1.25 5–7pm), tartares (try the fresh crab, avocado and tomato combo) and charcuterie (wild boar cacciatorini, lamb prosciutto) from the Pan-Mediterranean menu. Forgo the baked bites. The bland curry-lamb puff pastry was filled with half-raw meat, and rubbery eggplant-wrapped mozzarella came with toast that was tougherthan hardtack.Even serial killersdeserve better.