Brucie: I wrote you 365 letters. I wrote you every day for a year.

: You wrote me?

Brucie: Yes…it wasn't over. It still isn’t over.

I know. I’ve been gone for too long.

Please excuse the overused Notebook quote. Notebook Noah and Noah Kahan were really on to something about the late-August angst that makes a woman stare wistfully out a rain-streaked window.

And what a late August it has been.

I may be paralyzed with writer’s block, soaked to my socks from New York’s late-summer monsoons, and simmering in some sort of unfiltered hormonal rage reserved for that time of the month and women whose boyfriends chew too loudly, but here I am.

Hat in hand. Spirit bruised. Notes app barren.

I’m just a girl. Standing in front of her Substack followers. Asking them to continue reading.

Maybe it’s because we are standing on the precipice of the Season of Change. Maybe it’s because the first whisper of fall sends me into an annual spiral of reinvention wherein I suddenly believe I need several expensive knitwear items and an entirely new Spotify.

Or maybe it’s PMS.

Either way, I have a lot of feelings to share.

On a side note, what cruel god permitted PMS for the fake period that haunts us IUD-users? A phantom menstrual cycle? What is rage without blood? I would like to speak to management.

I digress.

During my self-imposed PTO, I noticed an unusual anxiety creeping in about maintaining my also self-imposed publishing schedule. A fascinating development considering I am both the employee and management of this organization, which is, by all accounts, a non-profit. In theory, I could simply give myself the day off.

Instead, with each passing day sans Substack, I began to panic.

What if I lose my nibblers?

What if you forget me?

What if the algorithm, which is, at best, cautiously willing to acknowledge my existence, decides I am dead and buries my work beneath the morning avalanche of political dispatches, personal essays. and newsletters titled something like The Soft Life is Dead and I’m Actually Glad?

Naturally, this sent me careening down a psychological path deeply familiar to the recovering academic:

What am I doing this for?

Do I really care if my work is read?

If I lock in, optimize my posting schedule, cross-post my notes, study my open rates, sacrifice a small animal to the algorithm, and turn myself into a one-woman Condé Nast, will Nibble actually take off?

Or worse, will I optimize this thing within an inch of its life until I’ve strangled every ounce of joy out of the reason I started it?

Does anyone truly want 4-5 daily notes and a long-form weekly article?

Doesn’t that sound suspiciously like the our ill-fated 24/7 news cycle? An institution universally understood to have been wonderful for the human psyche?

You can see how I became prisoner to my own mind.

A hostage situation entirely of my own making.

Of course, there is nothing I’d love more than for you to read my work. As previously mentioned, I’m a recovering academic, and we all take the same drug: External validation disguised as intellectual curiosity.

You spend enough years writing things that approximately 6 people will ever read— 3 of whom are contractually obligated to do so— and suddenly an email saying “Nice work” hits like an opiate.

So yes, I want you here.

But I am becoming increasingly suspicious of the idea that maintaining your attention requires me to produce content at the approximate pace of a Victorian factory child.

Full transparency: I am not interesting enough to fill an article with awe-inspiring content every Wednesday/Thursday before 7 pm EST.

No one is.

And even if I were, I am financially incapable of eating enough note-worthy meals seven nights a week to sustain that level of journalism. Nibble has a budget. Nibble has a museum salary. Nibble looked at her bank account 5 min ago and I quite literally have $1.10 in my checking account.

Yes, I have studied my publishing data. Extensively. In a manner that suggests the PhD never actually left my body. What do the addicts say? Recovery is a lifestyle?

And indeed, the numbers indicate that you all appear willing and able to nibble and note virtually any day after Monday, before Friday, and after East Coast working hours.

Groundbreaking.

My years of advanced research training have finally paid off: people like reading fun things when they are no longer pretending to answer emails.

So where does that leave us?

Somewhere slightly less scheduled, I think.

I am parsing out how to continue publishing authentically on a semi-regular basis without turning Nibbled into another job I have invented for myself and them immediately began resenting. I want to send you things because I have something funny, useful, delicious, deranged, or occasionally even profound to say. Not because a content calendar is standing over my bed whispering It’s Thursday, you dribbling dreary-eyed Bitch.

I want to feel confident in the things you all so graciously take time out of your day to read. I want Nibble to remain a place for restaurant intel, unsolicited observations, travel dispatches, date night drafts, and whatever else has lodged itself in my frontal lobe long enough to demand public release.

Maybe that means you hear from me every week. Maybe sometimes it’s ten days. Maybe I disappear briefly because I am busy doing the extremely important work required to determine whether a $24 plate of beans is, in fact, worth $24.

But I’d rather show up slightly late with something worth saying than arrive dutifully on schedule with 1,500 words I manufactured because the internet told me consistency is king.

After all, absence makes the heart grow fonder.

Or the algorithm kills you.

I guess we’ll find out together.

In case you thought I was dead, here’s what’s been happening while you were planning my funeral:

I’ve been beach hopping from Jersey to Florida, and I might have actually developed a tan:

Against all odds and several years of SPF 50, I have achieved a color that could generously be described as not translucent.

The journey began on the Jersey Shore, which admittedly, my bf and I secretly wanted to hate. I had preconceived notions. I had biases. I’ve watched television.

Unfortunately, I must report that the Jersey Shore is, in fact, too fun and too close to the city to be legal.

This is devastating news because I simply do not need another summer destination competing for my limited PTO and unlimited desire to flee Manhattan every Friday after Memorial Day.

Snooki, I owe you an apology. I wasn’t familiar with your game.

Nearly Nibbled:

From New Jersey, I continued my East coast beach tour south to our annual bestie beach bash in Alys, where I very nearly became the nibble.

Picture it: a serene afternoon on the Gulf white sand. Turquoise water. The faint smell of Vacation sunscreen and serenity as every Alabama child had returned to school.

Suddenly, a prepubescent, sun-scorched lifeguard came scampering down the shore demanding that everyone GET OUT OF THE WATER.

Apparently, somewhere offshore, there were approximately 30 sharks.

3-0.

I wasn’t aware they travelled in packs. I was under the impression they were notorious loners. Solitary killers. Independent contractors.

30 sharks is an organized militia.

What were they discussing? What had they convened? Was this there annual bestie beach bash? A conference? Was there a keynote speaker?

As a general rule. I try not to be somewhere that causes a 14-year old with an abundance of zinc to start screaming evacuation orders.

I am now somehow more scared of Florida, which I previously thought impossible.

HS MSG Night 1:

In significantly less life-threatening news, the Ticketmaster gods looked favorably upon me, and through some combination of Wi-Fi strength and sheer willpower I secured seats for Night 1 of Harry Style’s NYC residency.

Some people go to church.

I went to Madison Square Garden.

Maybe Taylor was on to something with the wedding.

I am pleased to report that he is just as mouth-watering as I remembered him.

Perhaps more so.

I went into the evening a woman in a committed relationship, boyfriend en tote, and emerged still a woman in a committed relationship, but one newly reminded that celebrity exemptions are an important component of any healthy partnership.

Seb understands.

Or he will now.

Which feels like an appropriate time to share some slices of wisdom I wish someone had handed me twenty-eight candles ago.

Specifically, what everyone thinks and no one will say about Big™ Birthday.

Big™ Birthday, a subsidiary of Big Pharma and a former colleague of Big Brother, insists that every birthday require an Event.

Not just dinner.

Not just drinks.

An Event™.

One that includes a ludicrously large guest list comprised of your closest friends, coworkers, former coworkers, Pilates acquaintances, one girl you met in a bathroom at Jean’s, and somehow your cousin’s roommate.

This Event™ must take place at a venue that is simultaneously chic, slutty, affordable, impossible to reserve, intimate enough for introductions, yet somehow capable of accommodating 15-20 people from the hours of 7 pm to midnight.

In other words: an unsolvable problem and mythical location within the streets of the city.

Naturally, you must assemble an outfit that is impossibly “you”, while also coordinating with the Pinterest board you’ve spent six weeks assembling.

Because obviously your big day cannot be immortalized within everyone’s camera roll wearing crayola yellow while blowing out candles on your sage green “Tini Bit Older” cake.

Your digital footprint would be irreparably marred.

As someone who subscribes to a small rolodex of food newsletters and neighborhood forums, I can confirm that almost no one knows where to celebrate their birthday.

“Restaurant on the Upper East Side for 15 people that lets you bring your own cake?”

“Any SoHo bars for my boyfriend’s surprise party?”

“Looking for somewhere to celebrate my 24th that doesn’t require a private room.”

I regret to inform you that even ChatGPT cannot solve the economics of Big™ Birthday.

Sadly, your options remain the following:

• Spend $2,000–3,000 on a private room for a birthday you will barely remember and spend the following morning piecing it all together from increasingly concerning group chat lore.

• Gather in a park with a blanket, a bag of beer, and blind faith that the weather, pigeons, rats, and public restrooms will all cooperate.

• Invite your 5–8 nearest and dearest into your 500-square-foot apartment and deal with the seating chart, red wine stains, and landlord scorn later.

• Send a Partiful invite to your entire contact list with instructions to “meet at the bar” while manifesting that everyone gets in and no one leaves a tab in your name.

• Pressure your boyfriend to plan a “surprise” party and hope he remembers which of the 7 Sarah’s should get an invite.

• Book yourself a solo trip to somewhere tropical and pretend this is about “choosing yourself,” rather than wondering whether everyone else has figured life out before you.

• Cry if you want to.

All of which, btw, are perfectly acceptable options

To be clear. I am not anti-birthday.

I am not anti-theme.

No one has ever accused me of opposing maximalism.

I respond to every Partiful invitation within the perfectly polite one-to-three-hour window.

On the contrary.

I am an only child.

I come from a long line of birthday enthusiasts. Maximalism encouraged.

I’ve had the cakes.

The concerts.

The chic reservations.

And, of course, the occasional existential crisis that sneaks in sometime between dessert and the Uber home when you realize time does not slow down for anyone.

Not even only children.

I’m simply suggesting that when the question is How do I want to celebrate? We have an opportunity to ask a much more interesting one:

What do I actually enjoy?

So, in a pathetically mediocre attempt at self-reflection, here is what’s on my wishlist for 29.

I do not want to wrestle the Resy gods for a restaurant I’ve never been to simply because someone on TikTok declared it the place to celebrate.

Rather, I want one of my tried and trues.

I want my continued loyalty to eventually earn me something better than a reservation: recognition.

Preferably by the waitstaff and not a former Hinge date.

I want to have one drink, or several, with friends at an hour that doesn’t require a calendar invite, a scheduling poll, or a blocked Outlook.

I want to leave slightly tipsy, deeply happy, and in desperate need of a late-night bodega run.

I want to wear a cute little outfit with cute little heels that doesn’t send me into a forty-five-minute identity crisis in front of my mirror.

I want a blowout.

I want to blow out one candle.

Preferably balanced atop a bowl of vanilla ice cream.

I want to be kissed.

I want to call my parents.

I want to see my dog.

I want to wake up the next morning and have an egregiously excessive breakfast. Three bevvys minimum.

Coffee.

More coffee.

Juice.

Water.

(Yes, that’s four. It’s my birthday.)

Mostly, I want to walk into twenty-nine knowing I am loved.

Knowing I have more than enough love to give away.

And knowing that, from what I’ve learned over 28 candles, love and luck rarely travel separately.

These are my half-baked birthday wishes.

If I’m fewer than three martinis deep by the time the candle arrives, I’ll try to remember every last one of them.

With endless affection for celebration and a healthy suspicion of Big™ Birthday,

yours,

B

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These tried-and-true island institutions are nearly impossible to reserve, guaranteed to leave your credit card smoking, and instantly recognizable from their aggressively oversaturated Instagram presence.

But isn’t that rather the point?

If you were looking for something understated, authentic, and delightfully undiscovered...I’m sure a quick ferry to the Cape will satiate your palate. Nantucket has never been accused of subtlety.

Before the locals begin drafting my exile papers, a few disclosures:

No, I did not grow up “an islander.”

Yes, I am perpetually terrified of accidentally sounding like one.

Yes, we had reservation assistance. (Thank you, Nantucket Magic. May your Wi-Fi always be fast and your OpenTable account forever blessed.)

No, there are not any lobster rolls under $27. For budgeting purposes, please consult this year’s official Lobster Roll Economic Index below.

Now that we’ve cleared the air, here’s my not-so-humble, highly curated guide to eating and drinking your way across America’s most expensive sandbar.

Millie’s

As casual as Nantucket allows while still delivering an ocean view that makes you momentarily forget your mortgage, Millie’s checks every box.

Excellent Tex-Mex? Check.

Dangerously competent margaritas? Check.

Enough seating to accommodate you, your friends, your cousin’s situationship, and whichever bartender you adopted from Ventuno at 1:17 a.m.? Somehow, yes.

If you can snag a table upstairs, the sunset deserves its own standing ovation. If you can’t, don’t panic. The beach is approximately thirty-seven flip-flop steps away.

Pro tip: swing through the market on your way out for ice cream, Cisco brews, or a pack of American Spirits. Nothing says “coastal wellness” quite like following fish tacos with nicotine.

Straight Wharf Fish

New—or, more accurately, new to me (once again: not an islander!)— Straight Wharf Fish is hidden behind the soon-to-be dearly departed Gazebo (RIP to a real one) on the ferry-side patio.

I shamelessly ate here three times during a seven-day trip. Frankly, I would’ve made it four if society didn’t insist on “variety.”

The seafood is about as fresh as physically possible. You can literally watch the fishing boats pulling in while eating oysters that were probably making life decisions earlier that morning.

Not to be confused with its considerably fancier sibling, Straight Wharf Restaurant, this self-proclaimed “clam shack” is only a shack if your definition includes pristine seafood, waterfront seating, and enough oysters to bankrupt a small kingdom.

Walk-ins only—which as always, earns bonus points from me. Order the oysters, the ceviche, and absolutely anything that’s been fried in beef fat. Your arteries are on vacation too.

Brotherhood of Thieves

If you know, you know.

If, like us, you somehow made it through five Nantucket summers without stepping inside Brotherhood, congratulations—you’ve apparently been doing the island wrong.

Our true-islander friends reacted with genuine concern. I believe revoking our rental agreement was floated as a legitimate solution.

The crispy rice is mandatory. The cheesesteak egg rolls, however, deserve federal protection.

I couldn’t begin to explain what genre of cuisine this menu is attempting to be. American? Asian? Sports bar? Fever dream?

Whatever it is, they’ve absolutely nailed it.

We ordered with the confidence of people who had forgotten pants with buttons exist. Unfortunately, this meant we physically could not manage the cookie skillet.

I was immediately, and rightfully, publicly shamed.

Do as I say, not as I do.

Nautilus

After eating at Nautilus in Boston, my mother—ever attentive to my wants, needs, and tendency toward culinary obsession—spent the next four months orchestrating what can only be described as a reservation heist worthy of Ocean’s Eleven.

As a self-identifying glutton who lives in one of the best food cities in the world, I regret to inform you that I am notoriously difficult to impress. It’s an insufferable quality, and one I hope to unpack in therapy someday.

Nautilus humbled me.

Tasked with ordering for the table—a responsibility I treat with the seriousness of open-heart surgery—I assembled an army of shared plates.

The scallion pancake? Excellent.

Shishitos? Gone in thirty seconds.

Calamari? Criminally good.

Dan dan noodles? No notes.

But the unanimous MVPs were the grilled pork riblets and the blue crab fried rice. If either ever disappears from the menu, I expect a period of national mourning.

My only regret was chickening out on the Peking duck.

Given that securing this reservation is roughly equivalent to being accepted into the Illuminati, I fear I may never get another opportunity.

This failure will haunt me longer than several of my exes.

Chanticleer

Tucked away in Siasconset, just a short stroll from the Bluff Walk, Chanticleer looks less like a restaurant and more like somewhere your grandmother read about in a fairy tale before marrying well.

Classic French cuisine is served in one of the prettiest gardens on the island, accompanied by a wine list so absurdly good that Wine Spectator has awarded it the Grand Award every year since 1987.

Wear linen.

Wear pearls.

Order a spritz.

Devour the tuna melt with absolutely zero dignity.

Then discreetly slip the menu into your tote bag so it can one day be framed in the kitchen of the farmhouse you’ll convince yourself you’re buying after two glasses of Sancerre.

In this case, do as I say and, admittedly, exactly as I do.

Bar Yoshi

For reasons known only to my mother and the mysterious reservation wizard she keeps on retainer, Bar Yoshi has become our designated pre-game destination before every sunset boat cruise.

Perhaps she believes tequila is the cure for motion sickness.

Perhaps she has simply accepted that combining Dramamine with margaritas is part of my personal brand.

Both theories have merit.

While waiting for the scallion pancake, glance to your right and admire the mega-yachts belonging to people whose annual dock fees exceed my graduate school tuition.

No, you will not be boarding one of those boats.

But the longer you linger over dumplings, crispy rice, and spicy salmon rolls, the greater your odds of accidentally befriending someone who might.

Manifestation is free.

Unlike everything else on Nantucket.

Proof of life

To everyone who survived another Fourth on the island: congratulations.

To everyone’s bank accounts: my deepest condolences.

If the lobster roll index continues to rise, I’ll be reporting from the Cape come next summer.

Love ya! Mean it!

xx, B

Last week we tackled Cornelia Street, attempting to answer one of New York’s greatest mysteries: how can one block contain enough “World’s Best” establishments to trigger an identity crisis? This week we’re crossing Bleecker. Don’t worry—no overnight bag required.

Meet Carmine Street.

If Bleecker is the loud friend who insists she “knows a spot” every fifteen minutes, Carmine is her quieter, devastatingly chic cousin. She doesn’t need your validation. She moisturizes. She owns linen. She’s the kind of girl you confidently introduce to your mother...and then discover has three exes in Ibiza.

Nestled beside Father Demo Square and watched over by the sprawling Our Lady of Pompeii, Carmine initially gives Catholic school energy. Espresso after Mass. Grandmothers with impeccable coats. The smell of fresh focaccia floating through the air.

Do not be deceived.

By day, she’s all cappuccinos and bookstores. By midnight? She’s ordering another bottle and texting “you up?” with startling confidence.

Who doesn’t love a reformed Catholic?

Demo

Appropriately named after Father Demo himself, Demo is Carmine Street in restaurant form.

By day, she’s a pantry shop where you’ll accidentally spend $18 on olive oil because the bottle looked emotionally available. By night, she transforms into a candlelit wine bar where the playlist is so good it makes you question every Spotify Wrapped you’ve ever posted.

The wine list is carefully curated, the small plates lean distinctly European, and the staff all possess the exact aesthetic I trust with my Pinot: tattoo sleeves, vintage T-shirts, and a vinyl collection worth more than my retirement account.

If someone behind the bar looks like they could simultaneously recommend a natural Slovenian orange wine and DJ an underground warehouse party, congratulations. You’re exactly where you should be.

Nami Nori

Next up, we have Nami Nori. Endowed with a Bib Gourmand, Nami Nori is a causal Japanese restaurant that excels at hand rolls served inside a minimalist dining room that looks like someone Pinterest searched “calm” (not an insult).

It exudes feng shui.

As with all hand-roll establishments, surrender your ego. Order the chef's selection. You are not the sushi whisperer.

If you're chasing the most inventive sushi of your life, keep walking. If you're chasing consistently excellent hand rolls, good sake, and the smug satisfaction of making a Bib Gourmand reservation, pull up a chair.

Nightingale

Practically sharing a wall with Nami Nori is Nightingale. A plush Art-Deco cocktail lounge with wine flights and snacks to pair, this spot practically guarantees a goodnight kiss, or at minimum, a “home safe?” text sent at 2:07 am with correct punctuation.

Sullaluna

A staple in my NYC guest itinerary, this dreamy Italian wine bar x bookshop is perfect for a spritz, a story, or a stop before your late night adventures.

I suggested Sullaluna as the spot for the first date with my now boyfriend, and we proceeded to spend approximately 4 hours here and probably kept Aperol’s quarterly earnings afloat.

Was it my irresistible charm or the spritzes? History refuses to say.

Stop by for an aperitif on their patio and find out for yourself.

Berimbau

This bite-sized Brazilian steakhouse shares the same side of the street as Sullaluna and Nightingale.

Several dates after our first, I booked Berimbau for their $79 two-person steak special.

Please look upon this marvelous slab of protein.

There was so much food I developed meat sweats previously thought impossible by modern medicine. Thank god this was not a first-date situation, but for more meat-minded individuals it certainly could be.

The interior is bold and beautiful. The sides were incredible. The steak. A masterpiece. And all for under $100? I’m sure his bank statement wept tears of joy.

Berimbau boasts a selection of caipirinha— a classic Brazilian cocktail which I cannot distinguish from a margarita. I fully recognize they're different drinks. I simply refuse to learn enough to explain why. I’m sure there is a conversation about colonialism somewhere to be had, but now all I can say is Caipirinha has my full stamp of approval.

Top Thai 55

A little further up the road you’ll find Top Thai 55. Part of a string of Top Thais across Greenwich Village, this is the kind of place you expect to find tables of 20-year olds simply looking for a good time, and I can assure you, a good time will be had.

The music is always a pitch too loud. There is a shelf of fake food displaying their selection of dishes. The TVs loop advertisements for cocktails the size of toddler bathtubs. At least one birthday is happening at any given moment, accompanied by an enthusiastic chorus from the staff and a hat nobody asked for.

When I can't be bothered to put on real pants but desperately need a frozen cocktail that arrives smoking, sparkling, or otherwise violating several OSHA recommendations, Top Thai is where you'll find me.

Cornelia may be the overachiever. Bleecker may get all the headlines. But Carmine is the one I find myself wandering back to again and again. She doesn't beg for your attention. She simply assumes you'll figure it out eventually. And, as usual, she's right.

Come for a blessing, stay for cocktails worthy of a confession. Bring your first dates by, or perhaps try to swipe the number of whatever Brooklyn-based bartender is ending their shift.

Until next time nibs!

xx, B

Oh, do I have news for you.

To begin with, Jupiter has strutted flamboyantly into Leo for the first time in over a decade, which means I am about to become a massive public safety concern for everyone involved. While I firmly believe we are, in fact, composed of star dust and therefore subject to celestial influence at the very least, allow me to present the evidence from my first two weeks under this cosmic regime.

Last week, I was in London to toast my lover/former roommate/muse/celebrity crush on her surprise engagement to the love of her life.

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Many, many moons ago—in the year of our Lord 2016 (the last time Jupiter was in Leo, by the way)—Kate and I sat cross-legged on our dorm room floor while she got ready for her first date with her future husband. We’d cracked open the cheapest, most offensive bottle of sparkling wine legally available for purchase, and I vividly remember her pulling on a pair of rainbow fur gloves before heading off to a restaurant that, in retrospect, probably should have been condemned.

Thankfully, time, maturity, and regular paychecks have dramatically improved our dinner-date standards.

I’ll spare you the emotional montage for now and get straight to the important business of nibbles and tipples, but first, a brief detour.

On our final night in London, we had the most perfect prix fixe dinner at The Pelican before proceeding to get hysterically drunk. There was Sancerre. There were martinis. There was champagne. There were several other liquors that should have remained firmly behind the bar.

There was dancing on tables. There were heels abandoned across West London. There was the unhindered joy that only comes from the unconditional love of everyone present.

I can only assume a higher power called my Uber home. I am told I attempted to FaceTime nearly everyone in my contact list. I’m sure I was simply trying to spread the good news of Kate’s forthcoming nuptials. If you possess evidence to the contrary, I would appreciate your discretion.

After flying home on what had to be the oldest Boeing aircraft still in active service, I collapsed into bed with 2% battery, a cocktail of Dramamine, Advil, and electrolytes, and little else to offer the world.

Whatever incantations I muttered before losing consciousness apparently made it all the way to the heavens, because I awoke to New York absolutely detonating outside my window.

By the grace of God, Jupiter, or whichever celestial bureaucrat currently manages my file, I returned just in time for the Knicks in five.

If you were in the city, I don’t need to explain the euphoria. If you live elsewhere, I’m sorry. As the NBA Championship conclusively demonstrated, it really is New York or Nowhere.

In fact, things became so celebratory that I was physically prevented from entering my office today. When a coworker asked a police officer how to access our building, he reportedly replied, “You can’t. Go home.”

And who am I to argue with law enforcement?

So I write to you from an unexpected work-from-home day on the eve of a long weekend, reflecting on one unavoidable conclusion: Jupiter has arrived, my friends, and she is working overtime.

Now, while I would love to spend the remainder of this dispatch discussing Leos’ newfound status as the universe’s favorite children, we have much more pressing matters to attend to.

Beneath all the engagement celebrations, celestial intervention, and alcohol-induced memory loss was one of the most delicious weeks I’ve had in recent memory. Between long pub lunches, perfect pastries, martinis that bordered on religious experiences, and enough butter to concern a cardiologist, I managed to conduct the kind of rigorous culinary fieldwork you’ve come to expect from this publication.

Without further ado…

London nibbles:

Red Room

Mountain

The Grenadier

Acre

The Pelican

What I’ve been listening to:

Olivia Rodrigo, Expectations

I'm not kissing any boy that is passive
Their indecision is painfully unattractivе
Past mistakes are just new information
These days, I've got expectations

Preach Miss Rodrigo. Couldn't have said it better myself.

Malcom Todd, Obessica

Genuinely an eargasm. Malcom Todd is my new music crush.

6’s to 9’s Day Wave Remix

A new take on an old classic. This song could have awoken me from my cocktail coma.

Sweet Moments:

Surprise bb!

Perhaps Olivia Rodrigo is right. These days, I’ve got expectations.

Specifically: surprise engagements, celebratory martinis, pub roasts, transatlantic adventures, Knicks victories, and at least one completely unnecessary late-night decision that makes for an excellent story afterward.

Anything less feels frankly unreasonable.

Until next week, my sweet little nibblers. May Jupiter bless your group chat, your bank account, and your dinner reservations.

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This was not a decision I arrived at lightly.

After a wonderful dinner, I found myself in need of a sweet treat and began the familiar pilgrimage across the West Village in search of a line short enough to secure a cone before the Second Coming.

Naturally, that eliminated Birdies and MYKA.

That left me with one option: Culture.

Culture, as it’s aptly named, is famous for frozen yogurt made by combining yogurt cultures with milk. A technically accurate description, and one that should have served as a warning. It was genuinely foul. The kind of dessert that makes you question whether joy is, in fact, a social construct.

To be clear, I’m not here to lambast a business that is delivering exactly what it promises. The yogurt cultured. I simply did not care for the results.

What I am here to discuss is the age-old plague of New York line culture, which prevented me from procuring a regularly processed frozen treat, additives included.

I am hardly the first person to observe that the line culture in this city has reached biblical proportions, and I certainly won’t be the last. But the reality of two-hour waits for soft serve, sandwiches, and the occasional aggressively mediocre pastry points to something larger than a recession or the cyclical return of 2010s froyo culture.

As one writer recently argued, we’re witnessing the commodification of taste.

In light of the release of the New York Times Top 50 list and the James Beard nominations, another critic raised a similar question: what does it actually mean to critique a restaurant?

Once a reputable list is released, relatively few people treat it as an invitation to develop their own opinions. Most simply react. A restaurant lands on a ranking, appears in a TikTok, or gets folded into an Instagram reel montage, and suddenly the line wraps around the block before half the people waiting could tell you why they’re there.

The restaurant becomes the destination. The line becomes the attraction. Taste becomes outsourced.

And perhaps that’s what bothers me most.

Whether it’s a list, a TikTok, or an Instagram reel catapulting an establishment into the algorithmic stratosphere, it’s worth asking ourselves what actually deserves our attention.

French gastronome Jean Anthelme Brillat-Savarin famously wrote, “Tell me what you eat, and I will tell you what you are.”

Now, I won’t get into all the socioeconomic and cultural implications packed into that statement. Food is, and always will be, political.

But it does raise a few interesting questions.

Who are you?

What do you enjoy?

What, exactly, does it mean to have taste?

“Taste,” he continued, “allows us to distinguish flavor from all that is insipid.”

I fear our increasingly insidious line culture is pulling us away from that process. We are not merely sheep, despite occasionally behaving like a particularly enthusiastic flock. And in sprinting toward whatever currently has a wait time longer than the Old Testament, we risk abandoning the far more interesting project of developing our own preferences.

At the risk of sounding philosophical over a bowl of melted frozen yogurt, I’ve spent some time thinking about what taste looks like to me.

The definition evolves. Hopefully it always will.

But for now, these are some things that for me, taste like... taste.

• handwritten specials on a chalkboard

• table crumbers: the curved, metal, pen-shaped tool used to swipe crumbs off a tablecloth

• taper candles collapsing into pools of wax in silver dishes

• dirty gin martinis, critically, shaken with a non-floral gin

• a bottle of aged red, decanted no less than an hour before service

• seats assigned via personalized name cards

• hand written thank you notes mailed after a particularly meaningful moment

• dive bars (inherently antithetical to the commodification of taste)

• unlimited freshly-brewed coffee served in ceramic diner mugs

• family-style dining with long dinner tables and big bowls

• befriending your server to scour your after-dinner drink

• aperitifs on the porch in 70 degree weather

• carefully curated tablescapes

• chef’s choice omakase experiences

• celebratory prix-fixe menus

• cash-only establishments (a financial inconvenience and a moral virtue)

• sushi-grade tuna with thinly sliced onions

• bolognese made with boar, as God intended

• risqué restaurant art

• dim lighting (preferably red)

• over the top desserts

Perhaps that’s the real luxury in a city obsessed with lines: having the confidence to walk past them.

To trust your own palate. To order the thing you actually want. To love dive bars more than destination dining, to become a regular somewhere unfashionable, to form opinions that won’t necessarily earn you a repost.

Taste isn’t developed by waiting two hours for someone else’s recommendation. It’s built slowly, over countless meals, bad desserts, excellent bottles of wine, and the occasional frozen yogurt so offensive it sends you into a Substack rant.

At the very least, that’s what I learned standing over a West Village trash can holding a perfectly good cone of rainbow sprinkles.

Until next time!

xx, B

I ventured to the Hamptons not once, but twice over the past two weekends. Once for pleasure, once for employment. I’ll let you determine which excursion resulted in sun poisoning.

Through a bizarre series of events, I was solicited to nanny this weekend. I have never watched anyone for longer than 24 consecutive hours, nor do I particularly enjoy surrendering my weekends to cosplay as Nanny McPhee. But these upcoming flights are not going to pay for themselves.

Over the course of four days, I cooked, cleaned, chauffeured, mediated disputes, provided emotional support, and entertained two 10-year-old twins and one emotionally intelligent 13-year-old poodle inside what can only be described as a minor country estate. I now possess a profound respect for the nannying community and require approximately 2–3 business days for my nervous system to return to factory settings.

I do not cook. I do not clean. Yet through blood, sweat, and psychological warfare, I have successfully secured the funds necessary to continue flying commercial.

May updates for the group chat:

I’ve written extensively about how much I adore . It genuinely is the sweetest community, and I was so honored to attend their collaboration dinner with FreshDirect. The Italian dinner summer soiree was, as usual, peak whimsy and perfection.

As someone who is rarely in the kitchen (despite having been forcibly stationed there all weekend), I was previously unaware how fresh Fresh Direct actually is. Every tomato and floral arrangement looked like it had been plucked directly from an Italian grandmother’s backyard moments before serving. Also, they’re NYC-based. We love a hometown hero.

I’m always inspired by the people I meet at Crumbs events. Nearly everyone writes or works in food in some capacity, and there’s something really fulfilling about sharing a meal with people who romanticize groceries to the same pathological degree you do.

I certainly don’t have the following some of these creators have cultivated (although we are onboarding new nibblers daily), which is why I was genuinely surprised to receive an invitation in the first place. But that’s proof of ’s intentionality. The entire Crumbs ethos is rooted in nourishing community rather than clout extraction, which feels increasingly rare online.

(Maddie, if you’re reading this, your thank-you note has already been drafted in my head and will soon exist physically.)

Popped over to Montauk before the official Memorial Day descent into linen-induced hysteria. I’m grateful we squeezed in one quiet Hamptons weekend before the Summer Fridays migration and collective societal collapse.

We stayed at Montauk Yacht Club, which was genuinely stunning and only about five minutes from downtown and the beach. Unfortunately, I made the catastrophic assumption that because I required a sweater while sitting outside, I would not need SPF 50. I continue to misunderstand how the East Coast operates.

In a world of endless Teams notifications, Election Day reminders, and promotional emails from brands you do not remember granting access to your personal information, there is truly nothing more thrilling than receiving good old-fashioned snail mail.

During my camp era, I maintained an extensive network of pen pals with whom I corresponded religiously. I still have every letter tucked away in my apartment like archival evidence of a simpler civilization. One such pen pal turned childhood best friend, Kennedy () , recently suggested we revive the tradition after writing about the long-lost art of letter writing — something we were once certified professionals in.

Armed with my aggressively curated stationery collection, I can confirm that handwritten letters possess a sort of je ne sais quoi that iMessage simply cannot replicate. Nothing says “I cherish you deeply” quite like spending $8.99 on a sheet of unnecessarily thick paper.

Recent sites and bites:

I knew this place had to be exceptional when Caitrin sent me an unsolicited Resy invitation approximately two hours after dining at Confidant. No context. No scheduling inquiry. No “are you free?” required. She understands that I will always make myself available for a chef’s table experience. To be loved is to be known.

The lineup:

1. scallop crudo

2. dry-aged steak with potatoes and beef fat salsa verde

3. trout mousse on sourdough with smoked trout roe

Located in Williamsburg, Leo is known for their naturally fermented breads and pizza, but the real sleeper hit is the rotating soft serve situation. On a previous visit, we had PB&J. This time: blackberry and chocolate.

Also, their natural wine selection is excellent, if you’re into that sort of thing — which I assume you are if you willingly crossed the East River for dinner.

What I’m jamming to:

Cowboy Nudes, Geese

The first official addition to my 2026 Summer Soundtrack.

I’ve got eyes for anything moving / Fell in love with a tumbleweed...

This song sounds like making eye contact with a stranger at a dive bar and permanently altering the trajectory of your evening.

Cruel World, Holly Humberstone

With temperatures climbing past 80 and rent increase notices arriving as we speak, yes Holly, it is indeed a cruel world. But this perfect pop song at least makes the sweat stains feel slightly less foul.

End of August, Noah Kahan

We are once again entitled to emotional back pay courtesy of Noah Kahan. While this is one of the more upbeat tracks on the album, do not let the production fool you. The opening intro of cicadas alone can bring a tear to my eye.

If you, like me, currently live in a city far removed from your rural roots, I recommend listening with a box of Kleenex and perhaps avoiding eye contact with anyone on public transportation.

So that’s the state of the union: moderately employed, mildly crispy, psychologically defeated by two ten-year-olds, and still somehow optimistic enough to make restaurant reservations two weeks into the future. A testament to the human spirit, really.

I’ll be spending the next several business days re-regulating my nervous system, drinking electrolytes like it’s my full-time job, and attempting to recover from both UV exposure and prolonged interaction with children. Wishing you a week filled with good meals, tolerable humidity levels, and at least one moment worthy of a $5 postage stamp.

xx, B

Tall ceilings. One flight up. Natural light. Under four minutes from approximately 90% of Manhattan subway lines.

And perhaps most importantly: one of the best restaurant and bar scenes this side of the island.

God does have favorites. I’ve never been one of them, but at least for this lease term I seem to be in his good graces.

Cornelia is infamous for many reasons, chief among them its namesake Taylor Swift track in which she dramatically vows never to walk the street again. If Ms. Swift wasn’t already fused into every fiber of my consciousness, hearing that singular lyric blast from the phones of wandering tourists every eleven minutes has certainly finished the job.

It’s a shame Tay-Tay swore off the block because lately several establishments lining Cornelia have received global acclaim from the food and beverage gods themselves.

Out of curiosity and convenience (and because I live here and thus consider myself geographically entitled), I frequent these places rather regularly. Which led me to believe you may want to hear about them too. It may be comically only-child of me to assume your interest in my daily rituals, but I assure you: forces far greater than me have also been roaming this particular stretch of pavement.

Namely, critics from World’s 50 Best.

Yes. For reasons unknown, this tiny little street that cannot possibly exceed a quarter mile somehow hosts not one, but TWO establishments featured on this year’s list of the best in the world.

However. That barely scratches the surface.

It is nearly impossible to walk more than five feet down Cornelia without accidentally stumbling into somewhere worthy of at least one martini and a Cruel Summer soundtrack.

The same can be said for countless streets across the city. Thus, an idea was born. Welcome to a street-by-street dissection of the places you absolutely must pop into.

So. Take my hand. Walk with me.

Allow me to guide you through my own backyard. (Alley.)

Whether you came to photograph a townhouse Taylor Swift no longer lives in, or you’re killing time on the waitlist at The Spaniard, at least stay for a drink. Maybe two.

I promise it’ll be worth your while.

Faicco’s Italian Specialities

Let us begin at the corner of Cornelia and Bleecker.

One of these sandwiches could comfortably feed a family of five. Or, alternatively, me for approximately three lunches and one devastating hangover recovery.

I don’t have to tell you these sandwiches are incredible because you possess functioning eyesight. Look at that thing. It’s practically architectural.

Faicco’s is an aggressively stereotypical Italian deli. And frankly, aggressively stereotypical is the only way I want my Italian delis to operate. There is always a man seated by the door whom I can only assume is either the owner, the godfather, or both. He winks at me every single time I walk in. I would hand him my social security number if he asked.

Also exceptional if you’re looking for a grab-and-go dinner situation. Cutlets galore. Sausages the size of small wolfhounds.

Arcane Estate Coffee

To your right, we have Arcane Coffee, recently named #12 on the World’s 100 Best Coffee Shops list.

Praised for its precision-based brews crafted from beans sourced from a tiny family farm in Panama, Arcane offers an array of meticulously curated micro-pours. Prepare to receive a flight of espresso or matcha from a man with a wolf cut who is absolutely judging you.

Sweaty, dazed, and carrying approximately forty-seven Trader Joe’s bags, I stumbled in here the morning of my move and requested the sweet relief of an iced vanilla latte. To which I was informed: “We don’t do syrups.”

You would’ve thought I’d ordered a double shot of Fireball at 8 a.m. from the look of concern I received.

I’m sure my palate is simply too pedestrian to appreciate the tasting notes of volcanic ash, wet stone, and ancient spiritual suffering emanating from their cortados, but a small part of me must ask: if you cannot make a vanilla latte, are you really top dog?

Sip & Guzzle

Moving right along, you’ll find a bar I believe deserves every flower ever grown.

Ranked #1 Best Bar in North America and #39 globally by World’s 50 Best, Sip & Guzzle offers a two-part cocktail experience. Upstairs, you’ll find Guzzle: a loud, narrow homage to American drinking culture where the martinis are cold and the personal space is nonexistent.

Downstairs sits Sip, an infinitely moodier and more intimate lounge centered around Japanese cocktail craftsmanship.

I highly recommend the Strawberry Pot. The drinks here are less cocktails and more high-proof delectable art installations. Pair them with elevated bar snacks like Chicken Chips & Salsa, Mochi French Fries, or the Volcano Roll and suddenly you’ve accidentally spent $97 on snacks and sips you can’t pronounce.

Pro tip: put your name down around 4 or 5 p.m., then wander over to Mixteca for a margarita while you wait for your golden ticket downstairs.

Palma

Across the street from Sip you’ll find Palma, a restaurant so charming it almost makes you believe in romance again.

Overflowing with florals and candlelight, the space feels like the kind of place Nancy Meyers would send two impossibly attractive divorcees to reconnect over pasta. During warmer months, their patio becomes one of the loveliest spots downtown for an after-work Aperol.

Every single time I dine here, I tell myself I’m going to branch out. Every single time, I order the bolognese.

Growth is not linear.

Le Gigot

I’m not saying Le Gigot made the 2025 Michelin Guide because I personally refuse to shut up about it. I’m simply saying there is compelling evidence.

I rave about this tiny perfect French bistro with such frequency that I’m shocked they haven’t started issuing me stock dividends.

It is, quite simply, one of my perfect meals in New York. The place I drag every visiting friend, parent, coworker, or vaguely conscious acquaintance.

Le Gigot has achieved the impossible balance: perfection without unbearable publicity. Which means you can still get a walk-in table like God intended.

Please. I am begging you. If you ignore every other establishment on this list, book a table here.

Notable Mentions

Tacombi
You really can’t argue with a good street taco and a pitcher of margaritas. The vibes are strong. The tequila is stronger. The line is long, but manageable if you arrive before 7 and possess both determination and upper body strength.

Donna
A Spanish cocktail bar owned by restaurant staff. Hats off to equitable management and mood lighting. The space feels vaguely like a disco, as in there is a disco ball, fluorescent lighting, and suspiciously attractive people pretending not to look at each other.

Tacos 1986
An LA staple that has officially planted its flag in the West Village. The tacos are admittedly superior to Tacombi’s, but unfortunately they lack a liquor license. Do not panic. The restaurant opens directly into Mixteca, where tequila flows freely and a speakeasy called Kees lurks downstairs for those wishing to continue making questionable but memorable decisions.

Anyway. Moral of the story: if you need me, I’ll be somewhere on Cornelia Street financially ruining myself one cocktail at a time.

And while Taylor Swift may never walk it again, I unfortunately live here. Which means you can expect many more deeply important investigative reports from the front lines of downtown Manhattan.

God gives his toughest battles to his strongest soldiers. Mine just happen to involve martinis and pasta.

Of course you do.

I know some of you were briefly concerned that nibble & noted had pivoted into hard-hitting emotional journalism after last week’s dispatch from the frontlines of romance. Fear not. We are officially returning to our regularly scheduled programming: bringing you the best nibbles and tipples money can buy.

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