Don’t call Minka Kelly the girl next door. Of course, she looks it — hair all caramel, beachy waves, the strap of a white camisole falling off one tan, sculpted shoulder, distressed denim jeans — as she glides toward a corner table situated in the back patio of Tribeca’s Greenwich Hotel. And her mannerisms — a Southern-inflected “Hey, sweet girl!” as a greeting and a sly smile as she recommends the pappardelle at Locanda Verde for lunch — are charming.