Opened by Steve Shlopak, a partner in Chumley’s, Blue Mill feels great—much like it did as Grange Hall—with an American deco vibe, vintage booths inlaid with beveled glass, whirring ceiling fans, cherry red leather swivel bar stools, and a giant old clock from Paris’ Gare du Nord over the bar. Speaking of the bar, I recommend a visit for one of the best margaritas in town, made with lime juice that is fresh-squeezed per drink in an old-fashioned juice press. My friend Steven and I sat at the bar and listened to Billy Holiday, and talked about life, love, and the drama and madness of it all (and whether the two cute guys at the booth behind us were gay or straight), while the minutes pushed the hands of time forward on that magnificent old clock overhead. When our drinks were drained (this happened too quickly), we sat down for dinner.

The menu is under the care of chef Pitita Lago, who has been cooking quietly around town, last as chef at the late Brasserie American of the Upper West Side, and then as a private caterer. She is turning out old time favorites like Lobster Thermidor and Beef Wellington, and hearty plates like Cowboy Steak with Sweet Potato Puree and Herb Butter (this massive steak, about the size of one of those annoying yippy lapdogs, was juicy and intensely flavored with a nice crisp char), and a silky pan-roasted cod with a meaty, smoky kick its robust plate mate—a ragout of cranberry beans, clams and chorizo. We also liked the crab cakes—fashioned simply from crabmeat and pan fried into golden circles—sort of flat and wide in shape, rather than squat and tall—with a frisky mustard aioli. For dessert, we ordered a moist and fluffy slice of a pink (yes, pink) coconut-coated layer cake to share. It tasted like one of those god-awful but absolutely impossible to resist Hostess Snowballs I remember eating when I was a kid. I used to by them at the Deli near the F Train on Queens Blvd. that I took every day to high school. (The same Deli where I bought my first—and last pack—of cigarettes.) I loved those Snowballs. The sugary coating wrapped around my teeth like frosted gloves and the coconut stuck to my cheeks like bits of confetti. Sitting in the booth at Blue Mill, by the soft glow of the shaded table lamp, I licked every crumb of that pink cake from the plate. I didn’t share. Shame on me.

I really enjoyed Blue Mill, for many of the same reasons I loved Grange Hall. It feels trapped in another era, a time of proper cocktails, jazz standards, and, for me, Hostess Snowballs. A very different time. And it’s nice to go back.

Andrea Strong