This Friday, I took yet another step towards Becoming a Real New Yorker: I enjoyed dinner for two in a quaint, packed little restaurant that smells deliciously exclusive from the street. I know all about that street part. I don’t dine out often, so much of the time I spend walking around my neighborhood involves glaring jealously at the people in the piping hot, cute, and TINY restaurants before ducking into Burritoville for some mediocre takeout.

But, oh! Ms. Meghan Barrett decided to make a whirlwind trip into the city to see that Gates thing in Central Park (don’t ask me anything about them, as I don’t really “get” them but also don’t really care), and her presence seemed a fabulous excuse to try our hands at Village-Dining Snobbery (VDS) for a few hours.

VDS is a tricky little bastard. Get hooked and you’ll crave it every night, but disregard it completely and you’re missing out on a huge part of Village lifestyle. You see, you’re supposed to envy the diners you see in the window. They need you there to be walking by so they can feel superior, and they will gladly do the same for you at times that are convenient for them. Neither the outsider nor insider is allowed to blatantly stare, but passersby are strongly encouraged to evoke a slight sense of jealously.

A small “Too bad I’m outside” or “That place looks really cool” head tilt works best. A darting “I wish I was in there eating that trendy food with those really stylish people sitting right by the window trying to see if I notice them” glance can also work, although some variation on the former action is more subtle, and the diners in the second example don’t really deserve your attention. It’s a subtle balance - this system of Village-Dining Snobbery - but, with everyone’s help, it manages to maintain equilibrium.

Friday, it was my turn to switch teams, shake up that balance. After an extensive research session at work, the snobttoria of choice became Da Andrea on Hudson St.

This is not an expensive place. It’s not even a beautiful place. The staff seems perpetually annoyed, but I’m guessing that’s because they keep trying to silently will the restaurant to expand beyond a width of 2.5 body lenghts. But the perks are obvious: great-tasting food, hot location, and originality. Kind of.

We entered the restaurant to find that the two-square-foot “waiting area” was already jam-packed with two whole people. So we had to duck behind the curtain separating the door/street (and all the dirty outsiders) and the glamorous interior that housed The Chosen. My sister labeled this curtain “really annoying.”

I stared nervously. Meghan’s eyes grew wide with hunger and an impatient longing to become Chosen. She was disappointed in me. I wasn’t Manhattan Savvy enough for her. She didn’t drive a painful 90 minutes just to stand in some shitty blue-curtained enclave. Come ON! Deep breath, Annie. Embrace your inherent VDS. You can do this.

After seven excruciating minutes of bumping into the interior standers and being crunched by the door as people came and went, we finally muscled our way into plain sight. Then it happened. A glistening two-top beckoned from a distance. (Okay, from five feet away. I could have pulled the chair out with my Amazonian boot.) I’m not sure if it was because we were so tall and lovely or because the people “ahead” of us actually didn’t want to sit down, but the heavily accented big swinging dick of a host plucked us from the doorway of perpetual burden and waltzed us down the aisle. Did I say big swinging dick? I meant knight in shining armor… for we had been Chosen.

I should have been overcome with joy/self-righteousness/achievement of VDS but instead I just felt dirty. I glanced out the window at the freezing pedestrians who were possibly headed to Burritoville or (gasp!) something even worse and wondered if the transition from outside with dignity to inside with false entitlement had been worth it. Then the menus arrived, we ordered wine, and I flicked my tallest finger to the cold, harsh streets. F-you, streets! I had been Chosen. I’d never go back.

Wishful thinking. I went back the next day. I ate BSP and Ben’s Pizza for my two meals and bought cans of corn “niblets” on sale at Gristedes. They taste even better if you pour on more salt.

Even so, my foray into false entitlement proved quite fruitful. Even when those three huge scoops of peach, strawberry, and chocolate homemade gelato merged rather uncomforably in my wincing stomach and I wanted to cry, I could still gaze around and feel genuinely better than everyone else. It really was quite lovely. DR strongly endorses VDS and encourages you to give it a try if you’re in the area. And if you’re lucky, some nerd with a digital camera will be there with you to catch you in all your VDS glory.