Hopping over a pile of soiled snow, I arrived on a frigid February night at a wine bar in midtown, a purple neon signal studying “EVA AI cafe.” Inside, a number of individuals have been seated at tables and cubicles, watching telephones. Servers milled about, putting mini potato croquettes and nonalcoholic spritzers on every desk. Like many New York Metropolis bars, nearly all of the patrons have been on a date.
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