A New York Recap

Kebabs, baked goods, and power lunches

Every time I’m in New York, people ask me what brings me to town, and almost every time the answer is the same: because it’s great, and a lot of important people in my life are there, and why wouldn’t I go if I could? I try to make it a couple times a year, whether or not there’s a specific reason. Hunter and I are lucky enough to have friends who generously lent us their guest room, which was occasion enough to go for a few days last week.

No matter how much I try to plan things out, leave open room in my schedule and/or send up the bat signal for a larger group hang, every New York trip ends up playing out as a mad dash to see, do, and eat as much as possible. For a city I don’t live in and haven’t for nearly a decade, I pay way too close attention to the New York food scene. It’s a habit that leaves me prepared, but also with an impossibly long to-try list. Upping the level of difficulty are additional constraints like a line-and-reservation culture that makes LA look sedate by comparison.

I waited 25 minutes for the privilege of eating this burrata, basil, and prosciutto sandwich on focaccia at Radio Bakery in Greenpoint. I was told this was on the chiller end of the Radio queue spectrum, but a new location in Prospect Heights has done little to deter the residents of North Brooklyn from stocking up on carbs. That this was my second time braving the crowds should tell you the oily-crispy-salty hit of the focaccia (my favorite bread!) and expertly sparing use of the meat (a light accent to cut through the bland softness of the cheese!) was worth it. So was the brown butter corn cake I got for dessert, which I failed to photograph but had a dense, mochi-esque texture.

Getting a good meal in New York is kind of like trying to get good Chinese food on Christmas, but all the time. You have to lock into the sweet spot of a place that’s known enough to have a good reputation — just not so much that everyone else will have the same idea and get in the way of your plans. Maybe one day I’ll get to try Tatiana, Torrisi, or Le Veau d’Or, but without throwing myself at the mercy of Resy Notify or the walk-in list, I’m not sure when that’ll be.

This may be why I tend to over-index on bakeries, with their lack of seating and brisk pace of service. (That, and my sweet tooth.) The above is a cross-section of a knish from Elbow Bread on the Lower East Side, a homage to — and often, massive upgrade of — Ashkenazi Jewish classics. I love knishes because I love potatoes, but I’ve never had one with such flaky pastry or balanced flavors, courtesy of sauerkraut and dill to leaven all that starch with sour freshness. On the same note, I’m so used to dry and crumbly rugelach I never even realized it could be made tender and chewy, or with high-quality chocolate.

When I do manage to land a tough table, it’s the way I’m pretty sure almost everyone who gets into these places at a decent hour does: by shamelessly working my connections. A friend worked her magic to get us in for a late lunch at Via Carota, and whatever guilt my recovering-teacher’s-pet lizard brain felt about working the system was dissipated by a bite of that iconic, triple-washed green salad.

Hunter once got me the Via Carota cookbook, a well-intentioned gift I (lovingly) exchanged after seeing how many recipes boiled down to “find the best ingredients you can find and don’t do too much to them.” It’s not very useful advice to someone who isn’t on a first-name basis with the vendors of the Union Square Greenmarket, but wildly impressive when put into action. The thing about such simple techniques is that they only work when executed to perfection. And even if I could source the quality of artichokes, fava beans, peas, and other spring vegetables in the stew above on my own, I wouldn’t be able to cook them as deftly: tender but without a hint of mush. Mushroom pasta and fritto misto rounded out the order with some heft. When traveling, however, I always appreciate a veggie-forward meal that’s heavy on the fiber.

Saturday night was the opposite of veggie-forward and the food highlight of our trip. Without a booking, bougie spots were a lost cause, so we defaulted to Hunter’s preferred strip-malls-and-outer-boroughs style of thrill seeking. This led us to Jackson Heights, the Queens neighborhood so awesome Fred Wiseman made a whole movie about it. It’s one of the most diverse ZIP codes on Earth, though the businesses around the 74th Street subway stop are dominated by the South Asian diaspora. After poking our heads into a few options, we went with Kababish on the theory that a restaurant with its own motto is a promising sign.

Hunter let the spirit move him and rattled off an order, which we waited for on some folding chairs a couple storefronts down that passed for the restaurant’s outdoor dining area. Within a few minutes, takeout containers started hitting the table (great for bribing our hosts with leftovers) and we got down to business.

Everything was excellent, including the handmade naan, the biryani, the extremely generous portion of raita — I am, if nothing else, a sauce person — and the haleem. But our two favorite dishes were a goat-and-spinach curry heavily seasoned with mustard oil and an absurdly tender bihari kabab, made by tenderizing beef with papaya paste until it falls apart with the nudge of a fork.

Something I appreciate about Los Angeles is that enclaves like Jackson Heights are often more accessible here, in a weird silver lining to sprawl and car culture. (I often point out that Koreatown, our densest and most diverse neighborhood, is right next to Hancock Park, our wealthiest and most old money. Coherent urban planning doesn’t get you that!) But staying off the G train meant we were in the thick of Queens in just over half an hour, minimal schlepping required. Brooklynites take note!

We did also squeeze into a couple scene-y spots. I’ve heard it said that LA is the better food city on quality-of-produce grounds alone, but New York is the better restaurant city. All that finance money sloshing around and lack of room to entertain in the home creates a demand for expertly curated spaces, which isn’t what I typically value in a dining out experience but I can at least appreciate.

Bangkok Supper Club in the West Village is one of those spaces. LA may be a historic hub for America’s Thai diaspora, but on the higher end, New York has us outnumbered. The interior decor, sound design and service at BSC certainly delivered — but I’ll be honest and say the food, including the spring veggies, grilled chicken and pork jowl you see above, was competent enough without being mind-blowing. (The flavors on the unpictured beef cheek massaman curry, for instance, felt oddly muted, though we easily polished off the whole thing. There was, however, one exception.

That is a scallop ceviche buried beneath a watermelon granita that faded into sweet-and-spicy aftertaste. It was addictive; it was surprising; it’s exactly the level of fussy I want from a splurge-y dinner. Even if I wish more of the meal was at the same caliber, it’s dish that redeems an entire order.

Our final dinner was at Golden HOF in Midtown, a slightly higher-minded take on Korean drinking food. Readers, I must be honest here: every restaurant exists in the context of all in which we live, and I fully grade this one on a curve because of its location. We didn’t see any theater this trip, but anyone who ever has knows the pre-show dinner options are dire. Are the Szechuan-spiced wings below the best fried chicken I’ve ever had? I wouldn’t say so. Are they exponentially better than any other dinner I’ve had in a 20-block radius? Absolutely. Before I saw Stereophonic last year, I pregamed by shoving two slices of pepperoni in my face while speed-walking up Broadway. It got the job done, but it’s nice to know there are more civilized options.

I am also a sucker for a dramatically staged crudité, an appetizer that made me think “I should really eat more crudité!” just in time for LA to hit 95 degrees. I’m currently writing this from the refuge of my AC-blasted living room and getting dangerously close to Substack’s email limit. Until next time!