By George

We realize you’re probably still processing the fluffy, white sky discharge from this morning.

But we’re going to interrupt that for breaking news from the you-eating-an-entire-pig world…

Tonight, you dine at Rôtisserie Georgette, a grand Midtown ode to the French art of cooking things on spits, now open.

If you like Daniel Boulud (and, uh, you should), one reason is probably his not-at-all-terrible cooking skills. Another: Georgette, the woman who handled his publicity for almost 20 years. She also happens to be the woman behind this aggressively comfortable French living room of a rendezvous spot. (It was the natural move.)

Enter and take a breath. That’s the smell of roasting chickens (which will be stuffed with foie gras) and baby pigs for eight and whole fish. Look around you—the gray marble bar, the Louis XIV–era painting overlooking the place. The… open-kitchen rotisserie where all those smells are coming from. It’s all well and good, but ignore it for now and beeline for…

The date-night mother lode: a canopied corner booth. There you’ll strain to listen to whatever your companion is saying while processing the flavors of slow-cooked poultry and a brandy-amaro-mezcal cocktail called the Velvet Gentleman.

For which you may have a trademark suit on your hands.