You’re reading Best of New York, a monthly recap of the city’s very best restaurants, bars, arts, culture, shopping, etc. etc. It’s not necessarily the latest, greatest, newest, hottest (but those spots find their way in, too); it’s simply the places that made the city sing for us every month that we think you might like, too.
One of my favorite pieces of contemporary food writing comes from Frank Bruni. The former New York Times restaurant critic and current op-ed columnist devoted one of his columns a few years back to “the best restaurant if you’re over 50” and his slide into “culinary curmudgeon.” He now sought places that were familiar, comfortable, reliably delicious, if not the newest, hottest tables in town—with all their attendant hoopla and hassle—as he once did as a younger man. The column is also home to one of the best lines ever written about a martini: “I’m certain … of what that potion can do: blunt the day and polish the night.” This is basically what I’ve come to call, a martini for clarity.
While 50 is still far enough off on my personal horizon line, I couldn’t help but relate to Bruni’s sentiment and feel like a premature curmudgeon, myself. As a lifestyle journalist and travel writer for major city newspapers and other publications over the last 15 years, the job comes with plenty of perks, namely invitations to restaurant openings, parties and travel. It was especially exciting in the early days. But at some point, I remember thinking: aren’t most of these places just okay? Only a few were exceptional and even fewer inspired me to return. Slowly, I began to decline invitations in favor of entertaining myself with friends in places we knew we loved or wanted to go.
I’ve also been deeply underwhelmed by more than a few restaurants that have garnered glowing accolades in the publications I read and generally respect. Like Bruni, though, that doesn’t mean I’m immune to the siren song of a fabulous new restaurant or a gracious invitation, but what I’m really searching for is a great, comfortable place I can call my own. It’s also why in these Best of New York dispatches, I only write about places I sincerely feel sing. I can’t point to any one thing that makes or breaks a restaurant experience; it’s an overall feeling that you’re having a good time and being well taken care of. Essentially, it boils down to hospitality. Good company goes a long way, too.
In New York, the Hotel Chelsea has emerged as one of the places I like to return to over and over again for all manner of occasions—and always impromptu. (Reservation culture is oppressive.) For me, the Chelsea strikes the perfect balance of buzzy-opulent with no hassle. Whether it’s prime time on a Saturday night, a random weekday evening, Sunday mid-afternoon, late night on a busy holiday, I’ve always managed to slink in and find a spot at the bar or an available table in one of their gorgeous rooms surrounded by a crowd that I want to be a part of.
It helps that the hotel is home to three distinct drinking and dining establishments, each of which happens to make excellent blunt and sharp martinis (which have, consequently, garnered the hotel plenty of buzzy press). I like the sherry and lobster oil martinis at the louche Spanish lounge El Quijote (at top), and a few tapas if I’m feeling peckish. The regal Lobby Bar makes my favorite bar salad with paillard-style chicken. The entire cocktail menu is expert and gorgeous, but I usually order the 1884 martini, made with gin, cedro lemon, vetiver and Spanish olive oil.
Other drinks are named for the bohemian characters who once lived in or frequented the hotel in its 1960s heyday, which, of course, adds to the appeal. There are tales of Andy Warhol, Patti Smith, Janis Joplin, Lou Reed, William S. Burroughs, but my personal favorite involves fellow Southern California native, party girl and writer Eve Babitz when she spent a fish out of water year in New York City in 1966. She’d visit a fashion photographer friend who lived at the hotel, who was friends with Salvador Dalí, and whose “looks were all tawny and nice.” He used to make her kiss him while he was eating a banana on 22nd and 7th, but they were not lovers. After dinner at an Indian restaurant in the East Village one night, instead of going to Andy Warhol’s party or a party at the Dakota or a screening of the photographer’s favorite movie, they just went back to the Chelsea and smoked hash and watched TV for the rest of the weekend. Another weekend, when Eve was “mortally depressed,” the photographer got a check for $1,000 and they spent it all on Champagne cocktails because it was the “only sensible thing to do.”
Anyway, this month was the first time I visited the hotel’s French bistro-styled Café Chelsea and it officially solidified my love for the place. I showed up with two girlfriends on a Saturday night at eight without a reservation and we found a spot at the zinc bar the moment we arrived. The dining room is lush and warm and I’d gladly tuck into one of its big booths on another occasion, but on this night, the bar was just right, the bartenders were friendly and they made excellent gin and pastis cocktails. All of our little appetizers were divine: goat cheese croquettes, yellowfin tuna crudo, endive salad. The only weak link was my entrée (don’t order the halibut).
By the end of the meal, we were so crazed with our good time that we ordered two desserts, the dark chocolate souffle and the Ferrero Rocher ice cream, which was basically chocolate ice cream. Too much chocolate. Whatever, it was fine. We almost ordered $40 glasses of Champagne (it felt like the only sensible thing to do), but then we thought better of it, and instead, requested three complimentary digestifs—a move that works if employed when it feels right. The handsome barman presented us with a mezcal and amaro concoction. They were blunt, sharp and perfect.
Kamala 4 President & Penn Station Pizza Parties
The presidential election is Tuesday November 5 and you don’t need me to tell you to vote, right? At this stage in the race, I’ve devoted over 20 hours to Kamala Harris’s campaign with outreach to voters in New York, Pennsylvania, Georgia, Wisconsin, Michigan and abroad. The only reality I’m willing to entertain is one where we elect the first female president of the United States.
After a phone banking shift near Madison Square Garden one evening, I was pleasantly surprised to spy an outpost of Roberta’s pizza in a rooftop space above a pedestrian plaza. It was a beacon of conviviality in what is still an unhinged stretch of Manhattan in spite of the shiny new retail development, which includes fast-casual Los Tacos No. 1 taqueria, upscale Anita Gelato and a branch of Andrew Carmellini’s Bar Primi—all good news for anyone disgorged from the bowels of Penn Station disoriented and in need of a little reprieve.
Upstairs, Roberta’s lofty, faux industrial space is pleasant, if a little sterile, although a tent sheltering communal tables on a big outdoor patio is reminiscent of the Bushwick original. I bellied up to the bar inside where two big screens were playing sports and the Addams Family movie from the ‘90s (when was Christina Ricci ever so young?). The classic Bee Sting, a Neapolitan-style pie with soppressata, honey and chili oil, and a glass of Gamay hit the spot. The sweet bartender even wrapped up my leftovers in tinfoil and called it my “purse slice.”
Damn Yankees
I have a lot of deep feelings about the New York Yankees. Most of them revolve around Derek Jeter and Alex Rodriguez and the shadow of the 2009 World Series-winning team. I first met Jeter in 2006 when I was in line behind him at a Starbucks on the Upper East Side. I had been to the game the night before and decided to introduce myself and compliment him on his first inning homer. “I was there, too,” was his response. He was nice and cordial and way more handsome in person than on TV. From that moment on, I decided to join every other Yankees fan of that great era and make him my favorite player.
A few years later, I was at the lobby bar at the W South Beach when I noticed Derek at a table across the room with a group of guys. I went up to say hello, leading with my line that we’d met at a Starbucks in New York. Lol. Eventually, though, our two parties merged and that evening, I had drinks with Derek Jeter and his friends until like 1 a.m. I practically floated home. It was also at the W that I met A-Rod one night partying at Wall with Jason Giambi. I was there with Lindsay Vonn and her sister. I don’t know how to explain any of that except that these are just the kinds of things that used to happen at the W South Beach all the time. Since then, I’ve spotted A-Rod all over Miami. He used to pick up dinner at Ice Box in Sunset Harbour back when I was a regular there (and the restaurant still existed). I could go on and on.
These encounters and the fact that I was at Game 6 when the Yankees won the World Series in 2009 is part of why the team looms so large in my imagination. I think about Jeter and A-Rod all the time. I wonder about their friendship, their rivalry, A-Rod’s redemption narrative, why Jeter holds grudges, why I’m the only person I know who has watched his seven-part ESPN documentary and was completely riveted. I wonder how they really feel about the other’s post-retirement career. Was A-Rod jealous when Jeter bought the Miami Marlins? Is Jeter jealous now that his Marlins ownership went south and A-Rod owns the Timberwolves? What did A-Rod think when Derek was inducted into the Hall of Fame? Is he annoyed now that he and Big Papi have to share a commentary desk with Jeter when they were doing just fine without him? Does A-Rod still feel like he’s standing in the shadow of The Captain? Or is it all water under the bridge by now?
So when it became clear that the Yankees were heading back to the World Series for the first time in 15 years, I knew I had to be there. I watched Games 1 to 3 at home and out with a friend and was almost so disheartened by their uninspired performance and three straight losses that I was going to let them play Game 4 at Yankee Stadium without me. But it was Alex Verdugo, the last batter in their lineup, and his 9th inning two-run homer, after they’d been down 0-4 the entire game, that revealed a glimmer of what the Yankees are capable of and reminded me that anything can happen in baseball. We bought must-win Game 4 tickets on the car ride home when prices dipped to their lowest. And what a game it was! It was a thrill to be in the Bronx and watch Anthony Volpe hit a Grand Slam and the Yankees win 11-4. And while it seemed all but certain we were headed back to LA in Game 5 with Yankees up 5-0, they melted down in spectacular fashion in the 5th inning and it was over.
I might have been disappointed for a day, but I can’t stay mad for long (Aaron Judge is too cute). It was a hell of a series and, somehow, I feel like a bigger Yankees fan now than ever. Let’s not forget which team has won 27 titles. I’ll be back next season, still thinking about A-Rod and Jeter, and rooting for the home team!
This & That
Burritos x 2
Taqueria 86 (located on W. 94th St.) is named for Mexico’s 1986 FIFA World Cup and has become my go-to for fast, delicious, authentic Mexican takeout. I’ve turned to it twice this month (okay, two nights in a row) for their grilled burrito (skirt steak the first night, chicken tinga the second). The burrito is just the right size and made with Mexican rice, black beans, queso fresco, crema, pico de gallo, guac and lettuce. They also make great tacos on chewy Nixtamal corn tortillas, flautas, quesadillas, tortas, etc. and their dining room is pleasant enough for dining in.
Cute soap
I swung into Cloak & Dagger, a cute little boutique on a cute little East Village street, drawn in by the cute women’s apparel in the window and walked out with an incredibly fragrant Tu Et Al Blue Moon bar of soap made in the Catskills with Spanish cypress, petitgrain, lavender and fennel as a gift for a friend.
Salami & rugelach
A Hungarian bakery originally established in 1916 on the Upper East Side, Orwashers (with a second location on the UWS) makes a delicious freshly baked focaccia salami sandwich with mozzarella, heirloom tomato and baby arugula. While you’re there, grab some rugelach (chocolate, apricot, raspberry).
