'ino {sigh}

On a relatively sedate street in the West Village resides a tiny kitchen-less panino-e-vino cafe that reminds me that not every memorable meal comes from a three- or four-star kitchen or a cavernous room featuring an ice Buddha sculpture.

I go to 'ino for the truffled egg toast, with a just-so poached egg quivering atop the thick slice of toast, its heady perfumed scent seducing my palate long before the fork meets my mouth. I go for the assorted cured meats -- a platter of delectable paper-thin slices of bresaola, prosciutto, mortadella, and salami -- which allows me to pretend that I speak Italian, at least for that course. I go for the barely dressed salads composed of simple mixed greens or arugula and imaginative accompaniments such as Jerusalem artichokes or currants. And of course, I go for the $9 panini -- some nights I crave the prosciutto, bel paese and sweet onion, other nights it's something lighter like the taleggio, Macintosh apples and walnuts, and still other nights I opt for the special roast pork with butternut squash mustard. Finally, I can never resist the bruschetta with fresh fruit and marscapone to finish.

Every time I dine at 'ino, I ask myself why I don't go more often. Alas, the place is tiny, and like everything else good in New York, everyone knows about it. Thankfully, 'ino is open until 2 am every night of the week. When I leave New York, there will come the inevitable moment of regret-inducing nostalgia the first time I long for wonderful panini after midnight and realize that the West Village is no longer just a subway ride away.