Last weekend after dinner with friends, Rob and I discovered a little wine bar called Pasita in the West Village. We went in for a drink and met the owner, a guy named Joel from Venezuela, who opened the bar with his wife. It was fun--the kind of place where the bartender pours you a random sample of a wine he thinks you'll like (apparently not noticing that you probably don't need any more wine, considering the before-dinner drinks, the during-dinner drinks, and the glass you just pounded a lot faster than you meant to.) So on Tuesday, when I was thinking about a place to meet my friend Matt, Pasita seemed like a nice choice. And on Thursday, when a friend/coworker Keith was in town, Pasita again was the obvious way to go. The bartender gave me a smile of recognition and then a slightly confused look when I walked in the third time, with the third guy. He either thinks I'm a call girl or a wino with nowhere else to go. I'm not sure which is worse. The only negative about Pasita is that you end up smelling like garlic and herbed meat and your boyfriend (if he wasn't there with you) won't go near you when you get home. Plus the thing about them thinking you're a call girl.