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The hat-tip to the High Line meandering along the other side of Tenth Avenue carries its own metaphorical weight: As a disused freight-carrying framework reveals itself as a pedestrian oasis, so does an unprepossessing Chelsea corner open into an eaterâ€™s Eden. The dining room at Trestle on Tenth â€” diminutive bar, comfortably scattered tables, low-key service â€” eschews ostentation in favor of a philosophy weâ€™ll take the liberty of calling dinersâ€™ ergonomics. The menu betrays chef Ralf Kuettelâ€™s classical European training but with an eye toward local seasonality and a commitment to care and feeding. His wine list is blessedly concise and vividly imaginative â€” a true standout. Kuettelâ€™s Swiss, but â€śFondue Sundaysâ€ť notwithstanding, itâ€™d be a disservice to label his food as such. To what nation should an appetizer of duck necks, hacked into three-inch lengths, dredged in a heady rosemary breading, and crisped to the meat-melting point, claim allegiance? We wonâ€™t even guess, but weâ€™d apply for citizenship in a heartbeat.