buvette is the cheeriest cafe, bustling with waiters in striped shirts carrying baskets of breads and fruits, the clink of champagne flutes, and the rustle of newspapers. it's tucked on grove street, but may as well be in paris. you could've fooled me. we were happy to commence our sunday there, over fluffy waffles and steamed eggs with prosciutto, thick black espresso and fizzy lemonade with bitters. we walked in the warm sunshine to see what was on at the whitney, and made way homeward for sunday supper. we threw the windows open and sipped lime sparkling water and husband catnapped in the sunniest spot in the house.