The topic felt apt for the season of life I was in. After a year at home with my family attending school virtually, I moved into a studio apartment on the edge of campus for my last year. I felt as if I had undergone a massive transformation during the thick of the pandemic, and like a butterfly emerging from a chrysalis, I arrived back in LA unrecognizable in comparison to my former caterpillar self.

Though the campus was by and large the same, I found it difficult to slip back into former routines and friendships—the person I was a year prior had become a complete stranger. So instead, aided by the excuse of the newsletter, I spent more and more time alone, unwilling to sacrifice enjoying all the things there were to do in LA because I hadn’t quite figured out how to reintegrate myself into the social scene.

And spending time alone turned out to be quite healing. I don’t remember doing anything too unusual—mostly meals out and visits to various tourist attractions—and yet living alone and armed with my own car for the first time in my life, every solo activity felt like a statement on newfound freedom and self-acceptance. (My one regret: I had wanted to go to Disneyland alone as the finale to the whole experiment, but then backed out when I realized how much a single ticket cost.)

Years later, I’m grateful for the time I spent getting to know myself that year, because once I did know myself, and felt comfortable being with myself, I truly haven’t been lonely since.

When I was in LA, and in the early days of being in New York, one of my favorite solo activities was dining out. I’ve spent countless meals at bars in both cities, a book in one hand and a utensil in another; one of the best ways to spend a free evening, in my opinion. In the years since, however, I’ve fallen out of the habit. I moved in with my boyfriend and transitioned into a life where evening and weekend time feels precious, and every meal out an opportunity to catch up with a friend.

So as a result, I’ve fallen out of the habit of dining solo.

But I haven’t been feeling in my body lately, like half of myself is constantly trying to catch up to the other, and life moves fast and suddenly it’s August and I’m 26 and I thought I was supposed to have it all figured out by now. The cure, temporarily at the very least, turned out to be a meal out alone at Rolo’s, because a martini and a lasagna has healing properties that defy modern medicine.

A few Fridays ago, I walked into Rolo’s and (to my great surprise) was able to immediately claim the last seat at the bar. I’ve had many wonderful meals at Rolo’s previously. Their burger melts in your mouth in the most luxurious way, and their menu updates at a frequency that encourages repeat visits, but my favorite thing about Rolo’s is how the ambiance makes one feel absolutely at ease, like a meal at the home of your most culinarily talented friend.

Alone at the bar, making a conscious effort to not use my phone because I’m sure that’s one culprit of what’s been making me feel so terrible lately, I made my way through a three-course meal, feeling like a very classy lady indeed. And yes, I started with the martini spanish, a martini with the fun addition of sherry that gave the drink a subtle sweet nuttiness.

Something that I find is discussed much less about Rolo’s is that they make the most stunning seasonal salads, and the one I had this evening was no exception: slices of heirloom tomatoes delicately laid on top of puréed curry lentils, topped with basil and crispy shallots. The curry flavor was strong, but had the interesting overall effect of accentuating the tomatoes, rather than overshadowing. Though it wasn’t in my interest to finish it all—I probably should have been pacing myself—I did so anyway.

The two sheet lasagna verde bolognese is legendary for good reason, with the peaks and valleys of this blanket of a pasta delightful to navigate. During this portion of my meal, I had plenty of time to reflect on the nuances of each bite, and the charred parts added an important contrast to the meaty, cheesy ones.

And at this point, I was extremely full, but I didn’t get into food writing because of my self-restraint. I ended on a few bites of honey pistachio ice cream, which had big chunks of pistachio I could crunch through with each spoonful. The whole meal was so wonderfully indulgent, and by the end, I felt grounded again—the extra pounds of carb and dairy and whatever else probably helped.

The irony of my having built this newsletter around the importance of the company we keep during our meals and then espousing the importance of dining alone is not lost on me. But then again, if there’s one thing that’s guaranteed in life, it’s that we’ll always have ourselves for company.

Bite It!

Reservations for Rolo’s open 28 days in advance at 10am on Resy, but they do save tables and seats at the bar for walk-ins.

… There are, of course, some caveats to that. I’m not a complete psycho! But I do feel like there’s a case to be made about lines serving an important role in the dining ecosystem of this city. So, let’s get into it.

The everpresent lines of people waiting for god knows what in New York City have always been a subject of conversation and controversy… and SNL sketches. Most recently, it’s been in the context of frozen yogurt: and yes, I did go to Myka, known for its absolutely obnoxious lines, and yes, it was worth it.

Though lines can be for absolutely anything in this city, as is thematically appropriate for this newsletter, I will be speaking on only lines for food. Waiting in line for other reasons has a completely different energy and is incredibly embarrassing, in my humble opinion. I do it anyway, but if you see me in the SoHo Stüssy line, that wasn’t me.

Under the influence of the FYP, it’s inevitable that like the brainwashed masses we are, we’ll all always be trying to eat at the same restaurant at the same time. And so, there are two possible outcomes: lines or reservations… and the latter is the enemy. To be clear, I understand why they’re highly beneficial to restaurants. But, I do think we’ve taken this whole “reservation thing” too far, to the detriment of our culture at large.

I’ve gone on this tirade too many times to count, but allow me to do it again briefly. Reservations at their core aren’t inherently evil. They’re actually often welcome, if you love planning ahead like me. But, we’ve taken it too far. At this point, it’s nothing new: almost all the most popular restaurants in this city require reservations, which at best is forcing ordinary diners to navigate whatever the reservation platform du jour is, and at worst is spawning an entire secondary market that treats a coveted reservation like a Supreme drop… bots and all.

And while the reservation game can get quite addictive, each successful reservation a dopamine hit, it ultimately takes away from what makes dining out so absolutely magical. In our increasingly digital age, dining out remains the last bastion of true connection between humans and unhindered connection between us and the world around us. (Last I checked, no one has figured out how to digitize food yet.) It’s undeniably intimate to share a meal with someone else, and humans have been doing it for as long as we’ve been around. Having to navigate digital hell just to get to the table is chipping away at the joy of a meal out. Can’t we just have this one thing?

And if you keep unpeeling the onion, more layers reveal themselves. We’ve been relentlessly optimizing our lives for years now, and we seem to have just recently realized that it’s not making us any happier. In fact… could it be doing the opposite? Reservations are one such example of an optimization gone awry: the idea of walking into a restaurant and knowing that you will be seated right away sounds quite pleasant, but the convenience of online reservations are at the cost of needing to plan absurdly far ahead, the stress of setting alarms and fast fingers, and often, having the right connections or being willing to pay for access. (In the end, capitalism always wins.)

Many are identifying with this newfound disgust with our culture of tech-driven optimization, so now we’re friction-maxxing, a term that I want you to know I am using unwillingly here. And while I hate the term, I believe in the spirit of it wholeheartedly… and that includes waiting in line.

Under the unavoidable influence of social media, certain places will become trendy and highly desirable. The state of reservations I just described is one possible outcome. But, can I present lines as the superior, utopic alternative? While online reservations add unnecessary complication and inequality to the dining experience, waiting in line simply favors whoever is willing to show up at a particular time. (No, I don’t want to talk about people who are hired to stand in line.)

But, that’s not even what makes waiting in line so… beautiful. I love when waiting in line is part of the “hang,” because often the length of a meal (or a frozen yogurt) isn’t enough time to catch up with a friend, and a wait beforehand is an excuse to extend the time you have together. In a city where I’m constantly rushing from place to place, there’s a thrill in intentionally being inefficient, wasting your time a little in the form of a line. And fundamentally, requiring people to physically wait in a line rewards determination… and I like that.

And often, the secret to getting into that coveted, impossible-to-book restaurant is a little bit of determination.

If you are in line, stay in line!

So, I hope you’re all staying cool out there. And if you’re not… I’m unfortunately obligated to report that frozen yogurt from Myka is indeed the cure, if you’re able to survive the line. (My friend Talia and I went at 7 p.m. on a Friday, and the line was the shortest I’ve ever seen it.) I love a truly tart frozen yogurt, and my cup of their signature Greek frozen yogurt topped with praline crunch and honey was everything—compared to the other froyo places I’ve been in the city, Myka is truly the best of the best for the yogurt heads.

If eating froyo on a bench in the West Village is a quintessential summer food moment, Kidilum, a South Indian restaurant so tucked away in Flatiron that Viraj and I walked completely past it at first, is in a way, the direct opposite. Like some sort of speakeasy—or lair—Kidilum is a little bit hidden, but an unassuming door (after checking in with the host) leads to a large, dark dining room pulsing with energy. Inside the walls of Kidilum… time itself seems to cease to exist.

Kidilum is one of the latest upscale Indian restaurants to enter a crowded scene, opening earlier this year and following in the heels of probably the most popular South Indian restaurant in the city, Semma, among others. But although Kidilum serves high-quality cooking that’s undeniably “fine dining” (more on that in a second), there’s a certain unseriousness that defined my meal there—for one, Kidilum loosely translates to “beyond awesome,” and that’s just fun!

When Viraj and I were initially seated, there was a lot to take in. It was excellent people-watching (we seemed to be seated next to someone creating content for TikTok… but I can’t judge, can I…), but more than that, we could just make out the large open kitchen, and the fascinating parade of dishes coming out of it. And by dishes, here, I mean actual dishware: though nothing we ordered came in a vessel that was too unusual, they have something that is served on a glowing… rock?

I started my meal with the Kidilium Martini, because I’m nothing if not consistent. This martini, however, had raw mango brine, which made the drink not that martini-y—I could barely taste the gin—but rather sour and acidic and a little bit salty.

The struggle with going out to eat as a group of two, which is how I’m usually dining out, is that you’re limited in the number of dishes you can order to share. Viraj and I started with the chakka, crispy disks of jackfruit in a cashew sauce that had a spice that was yes, spicy, but also had layers upon layers of spice that crescendoed into a savoriness that can only be described as “that’s really fucking good.” We also ordered the pollichathu, prawns wrapped in banana leaf with onion and tomato.

The stellar jackfruit appetizer was just the start, however. Kidilum really shines in its mains, and there’s so much good stuff on the menu that I was already planning out my order for our next visit while we were there. But, for our first visit, Viraj and I ordered the ularthiyathu, a dry baby goat roast, and nanducurry, a crab curry with roasted coconut: sweet and creamy but with an extra, almost unknowable, layer of depth from the char. I’m rarely speechless, and it’s maybe because I lack the familiarity with this type of cuisine, but I truly think that these two dishes defy words. They both taste like every spice I’ve ever had mixed with all the ones I’ve never had, and yet perfectly balanced… and absolutely distinct.

With the two mains, I tried idiyappam for the first time, a bread-like object made of steamed rice flour noodles pressed into a disk, and had an extremely flakey malabari paratha—a buttery flatbread that I’m obsessed with. The thyr sadam, yogurt rice with pomegranate, acted as a palate cleanser when it all got to be too much.

There’s a lot happening at Kidilum, but at its core, the food is spectacular. At many other establishments, a little bit of kitsch might disguise the restaurant’s lack of prowess in the kitchen. At Kidilum, I might go so far as to say it’s the opposite: the novelty… well, everything… isn’t exactly my vibe.

But… I could bathe in that crab curry.

Bite It!

Book Kidilum on Resy here. They get booked up pretty quickly, but I was able to get an early (5:30 p.m.) reservation by checking periodically; They release reservations two weeks in advance at 11 a.m.

To call my recent behavior a “big taco kick” would be the undersell of the century. I’ve been on an absolute tear through the city of New York in search of the best tacos out there. Mexican food is my favorite cuisine there is, plain and simple, and I’ve even gone so far as to document my thoughts about NYC’s taco scene in a hastily vibe-coded website.

This mission of mine has delightfully coincided with an astounding dining phenomenon across the five boroughs. A couple of years ago, really high-quality taco spots began cropping up across the city. What was once a veritable blind spot in an otherwise bustling food scene has been completely reversed, with incredible tacos on offer anywhere and everywhere.

Leading the pack for this taco renaissance is a name many New York residents will be familiar with: Taqueria Ramirez. This powerhouse in Mexican meats stormed onto the scene in my own neighborhood of Greenpoint, rapidly cementing themselves as an appointment dining destination and the gold standard for tacos in the city that never sleeps. It’s an easy to defend take shared by myself, Mayor Mamdani, and countless other New Yorkers.

So consider my joy to find, at the beginning of summer, a vibrant mural going up on the side of the old NURA space. Muted intrigue quickly gave way to full-blown excitement when I learned it was the group behind Taqueria Ramirez responsible for the space’s refurbishing. They were opening a sit-down restaurant, one that would boast everything from chilaquiles to quesadillas and of course, those exact same iconic tacos. It was all wrapped up in the shiny finish of a gorgeous, soccer-enthused space titled Socceria.

As a lover of Ramirez, sports bars, and awesome restaurants three minutes from my house, I immediately set to work finding any possible way to get through those doors.

My chance arrived quickly. I signed up for their email list and was blessed 48 hours later with a perfectly-timed drop of Resy timeslots. At a speed I usually reserve for snapping up hot IMAX tickets, I nabbed a Sunday brunch slot for 3. My proudest reservation moment in New York, one that I would soon be rewarded for in spades.

I’ll caveat this review in a couple of ways. One, they are in soft opening, and I would not be surprised to see the menu and the experience continue to grow and change before the broader masses make it in. Two, this is a bar with a heavy emphasis on the soccer-viewing experience, with a massive projector screen dominating the back of the airy space. I expect a different energy for actual World Cup games than the vibe I encountered while a Denmark v. Ukraine friendly was on. Even with that in mind, the whole space was exceedingly lively in spite of the low-stakes game on display.

But you know what doesn’t need to be caveated in the slightest? The food. In the same way I walked into “Dune: Part Two” pre-meditating a masterpiece, my expectations were through the roof for this place. And the experience of seeing those expectations not just met but exceeded is a rare and remarkable thing. Let’s break it down:

Chilaquiles

We showed up at a brunch-designated timeslot of 12:30. This closed us off to much-hyped menu items like their Ramirez burger, but opened us up to a myriad of egg-centric dishes in exchange. To share, we got the chilaquiles rojo, which our entire group designated a sublime, clear highlight for the day. Each chip was soaked thoroughly in a divine red sauce that I’d willfully eat like a soup with a spoon, impressively maintaining their crunch for the meal’s entire runtime. The fried egg mostly stuck around to dispense its beautifully runny yolk over the affair, but I was nonetheless impressed with its well-crisped edges.

Sope Campechano

Simply a beautiful experience from start to finish. The campechano option afforded me not one but two standout meat options adorning the thick, well-dressed and chewy blue corn tortilla base. The carne asada was bursting with juicy flavor and was surprisingly, yet pleasantly tender, almost closer to smoked BBQ texture rather than seared steak bites. The green chorizo was lovely, everything you want breakfast-y chorizo to be, if a bit subtler than expected amidst the absolute symphony of sauces and textures battling for my attention. The sope was an excellent entry point and exemplification of what Ramirez does best, giving me a brilliant vehicle through which to indulge in the two iconic Ramirez salsas that fans will recognize from the taqueria.

Quesadilla

The first bite I took of the quesadilla will haunt me for the rest of my days. Following the theme of the day, the meat inside was an absolute clinic in texture and flavor. The meat was chewy and toothsome in a way I’d normally only associate with salted caramel and taffy, but the porky punch and depth of flavor basically made the experience akin to eating meat candy. Some readers may dispute that this sounds appetizing, and to them I say this; expand your mind.

Cocktails

I indulged in a bloody mary that was disappointingly the lowlight of the meal. It wasn’t doing anything in particular that other bloodys haven’t already done for me, and I was distracted by its skinny highball form factor that denied my efforts to further mix and actually attempt to drink the concoction. While it’s not a choice I’ll order again, my sips of Viraj’s paloma left me jealous in the present and eager for the future. My intention is to work my way through the entirety of their intriguing cocktail menu

I will be returning to Socceria whenever I can. I have a whole lotta menu left to get through, and there’s a whole lotta soccer happening this summer. I implore you to go here as soon as you are able, and I don’t think it’s a stretch to say this will be NYC’s hit new restaurant of the summer and beyond.

Watch more movies… and eat more tacos!

Everything turned out fine, however. We had our fill of key lime pie (from Steve’s Authentic Key Lime Pie) and then shortly after feasted at Hometown Bar-B-Que. All in all, it was a successful day, and later that same weekend, we satisfied our burger cravings at Rolo’s instead. I didn’t really think about Red Hook Tavern again.

And then a few weeks ago, my friend Aiden texted me, suggesting that we try to walk into yet another restaurant. Our last attempt, which was a rousing success, was for Tatiana in 2024, and still riding on that high, Aiden bravely volunteered to be the one to wait in line on behalf of the rest of us.

Red Hook Tavern felt like a thematically appropriate pick for the Friday before Memorial Day weekend… the proximity to the water, perhaps… and the day before, we texted back and forth, consulting Reddit to determine how to give ourselves the best chance at getting in. The restaurant starts taking names for their walk-in list when they open for dinner at 5 p.m., so we thought getting in line at 4 p.m. felt reasonable. (And by that, I mean, Aiden would get in line at 4 p.m.)

On Friday, Aiden got in line at around 3:30 p.m., and his eagerness (anxiousness?) paid off—he was first in line by 30 seconds. By the time the rest of us showed up at around 4:40 p.m., the line had stretched far down the block, so far that we couldn’t quite make out where it ended. From then on, it was a smooth process: we gave our name to the host a little before 5 p.m., and then at exactly 5 p.m., we were shown to a table at the back of the small restaurant, cozy and authentic to its “tavern” identity with a worn wooden booth on one side that Aiden and I squeezed into.

Like everyone else in line, I suspect, we were there for the burger. But, Red Hook Tavern’s menu offered delights throughout. For one, their cocktail menu was mesmerizing, with each drink more interesting and exciting than the previous. Between the four of us, we sampled quite a bit of the cocktail menu. After a long internal debate about if I wanted to order something other than the martini, I got it. (Nothing if not predictable…) The Dukes Martini had the unique addition of salted cucumber, which overpowered the drink in a welcome way—cucumber water, if it were a martini.

You can’t go wrong with their cocktail menu, and definitely be prepared to try more than one. Across the board, the drinks have depth: the Saffron Snowball is sweetness offset by lemongrass and lime, while the Sumac Sour is more salty than truly sour… and it all works so well. Oh and, as someone who doesn’t like old fashioneds, the Isle Old Fashioned is unexpectedly light and subtle.

We built our meal around getting burgers, but wanted to take advantage of being at the restaurant. Who knew if we’d ever make it back in! So, we ordered an ambitious selection of appetizers to start. The head-on prawns ended up being my favorite dish of the night, served in a pool of garlic and butter that we greedily soaked up with the accompanying toasted bread. I don’t usually like wedge salads—I think there’s something undignifying about sawing away at a slice of lettuce—but their take was excellent, served with a thick slice of bacon and thoroughly dressed with blue cheese, bread crumbs and buttermilk herb dressing. (Oh and, no wedge!) We also got mortadella. I don’t like mortadella.

Then, it was time for the pièce de résistance: the Dry-Aged Red Hook Tavern Burger. And since you’ve read this far already, I’ll reward you with my opinion up front: the version that I had last Friday night was not good. In fact, it might have actually been bad. The burger—the patty especially—was intimidatingly large, and though the meat was drippy when I first bit into it, it was concerningly dry. (I asked for it to be cooked medium-rare, which is what was recommended.)

I’ll admit that when given the choice, I’ll choose the “normal” burger over a dry-aged one: I find that the type of concentrated flavor we chase in a steak doesn’t usually work in a burger patty. And, the cook needs to be flawless to offset the natural dryness that the dry age process causes. With such a thick patty and not much accompanying it—just cheese and raw onion—the success of this burger relies almost entirely on the meat. Either Red Hook Tavern was having a bad day, or we’re all experiencing some kind of mass delusion.

But oddly, apart from the burger itself, every other item I ate (or drank) at Red Hook Tavern was to the standard of excellence worthy of a line out the door. For example, I’m skeptical of cottage fries, since they often come out too mushy for my taste, but the fries served with the burger were great, generously dusted with black pepper and well fried, each disk consistently crispy on the outside.

We got rainbow cookies for dessert, a little bow at the end of a rollercoaster of a meal, and then went to Brooklyn Crab for frozen margaritas. It was cold and at one point we were the only people at the massive outdoor bar, but it’s all just practice for the summer…

Bite It!

If you (or a friend) have time to wait in line, it’s probably the best way to get into Red Hook Tavern. Otherwise, book it on OpenTable here.

Love is on my brain for many reasons: a friend’s wedding at the end of the month is one, and I’m looking at the thousands of dollars of jeans that I’ve amassed instead of investing in formal wear, panicking about what to wear. I’m also just feeling a bit soft right now, a bit emotional. As is natural in the spring, April was a month of growth. But, it was also filled with beautiful moments, like attending a graduation ceremony, or when I teared up while watching Justin Bieber sing along to a video of his younger self at Coachella. (I was there! No, I won’t stop talking about it!)

I’ve been finding myself falling in love with little things all around me, because a life without appreciation for all the weird quirks of living—the friendships and the little pleasures and the one time I laughed so hard I couldn’t stop the tears from pouring out of my eyes—is no life at all. And undeniably, restaurants are a fantastic thing to fall in love with, because with the attention and nourishment they provide, they kind of… love you back?

So, as you can imagine, I take it quite personally when a restaurant that is so intertwined with the love story of me and Viraj in New York closes. Libertine opened in 2023, the year Viraj and I moved in together. Shortly after settling into our new apartment, still marveling at the fact that we had one place to call home together, we ate at Libertine for the first time.

I’ve said before that French food isn’t my favorite, and yet I find myself at French restaurants all the time because of Viraj. (Compromise… another element of love.) But, apart from the food, there’s a certain charm that draws me to Libertine. The true commitment to the “bistro” theming captures the analog joy of dining out, where the menu is written out on a chalkboard that your server will sometimes carry to you, and the light filters in through the window in this picture-perfect way, especially if you’re at my favorite table, the booth in the corner. Magic.

During our first visit, Viraj and I were enthralled by the duck deux façons, a dish that has (thankfully) remained on the menu as others have rotated in and out. Chalk dust to chalk dust… or something like that. This duck comes in two parts: sliced breast with skin that cracks like glass and a pepper sauce, and a confit casserole of duck meat hidden beneath dollops of buttery potatoes aligot. And it might be the best French duck preparation I’ve had in this city.

Almost exactly one year later, prior to starting his full-time job, I took two days off to be a tourist in my own city. Viraj and I each planned a day, and his ended with a meal at Libertine, where we talked about our excitement for the future over a meal of bread and butter and steak tartare and… oh yes, duck. The dish tasted the exact same—if there’s one thing Libertine has mastered, it’s a perfect execution of this duck served two ways—and once again, eating it symbolized the start of a new phase in our lives.

And then we didn’t go back to Libertine for a long time, even though we talked about the restaurant a bunch, because taking something for granted is so easy that it takes a tremendous amount of effort to do the opposite. Also, there is no shortage of restaurants to go to in this city.

I’ve never made a reservation faster than when I learned that Libertine was closing, and it was only in the moment of finding out the news that I realized how much the restaurant meant to me. Since that day we ate at Libertine in September 2024, maybe nothing much in our lives has changed; there was no milestone to commemorate, and therefore no reason to go. But that doesn’t ever stop me.

Walking into Libertine last Saturday evening, everything was, reassuringly, exactly how I had remembered it. I tried to commit everything to memory, knowing that it was going to be my last time in this exact space, dining at this exact restaurant. (The team is keeping the space, by the way, just transforming it into something new.)

We started with bread and butter, and their butter tastes more like butter than any other butter, if that makes any sense. We had scallops with (more) butter, Café de Paris butter, to be precise. We had fried puffs of mashed potatoes that we spread a mixture of caviar, chives and crème fraîche on, and an onion tart that (to my delight) was a cross-section of onion nestled inside a puff pastry that shattered when we cut into it.

And, of course, we had the duck.

Eating this same dish we had eaten twice before, we found ourselves talking once more about the future; a future that was shaping up to be even more than what I could have hoped for, one duck dish ago… or two.

Libertine, we had a good run. And what a reminder that nothing ever lasts… and I should go to my favorite restaurants more often while I still can.

Bite It!

Book Libertine on Resy here. You have until May 23!

And because perfectionism is one of my greatest flaws, I’ve found it hard to work on my cooking skills, knowing that whatever I whip up would not be up to my own standards. But, over the past few years, I’ve started to enjoy coming home after a long day in the office to the ritual of cooking a meal. (Having a kitchen all to myself, sans roommates, helps; I prefer to keep my cooking failures to myself.) There’s something grounding about how real it all is: the touching and smelling and tasting that happens throughout the cooking process completely unlike the cold hostility of a laptop screen.

I’m happy to report that I’m getting better—practice makes perfect, or however the saying goes. I’ve started experimenting more, going on whatever journey my fridge takes me. Last week, I made mapo tofu, consulting the first result when I searched up a recipe and then deciding immediately to not follow it, letting whatever ancestral instincts I have left grab the wheel… or spatula. The end result was probably not mapo tofu at all, but an adjacent creation that was nourishing and comforting and made all the more special because I had made it just for myself.

The secret, by the way, to homemade mapo tofu is a jar of doubanjiang: a punchy, store-bought sauce can heal any imprecisions from an amateur cook.

Perhaps I’ve overcome my perfectionist tendencies when cooking at home, but my standards are incredibly high when I dine out. Calling a restaurant perfect is impossibly high praise, and a recent evening I spent at the chef’s kitchen counter at Chambers was perfect.

I made a reservation at Chambers on a whim—embarassingly (maybe), I think I saw a post about it on Instagram, and noted that it was near my apartment. Viraj seemed impressed when I reported that we would be eating at Chambers, but I didn’t realize just how on-another-level our meal was going to be until the first sip of my cocktail.

I usually book the counter option, if available, for me and Viraj. I find that watching the kitchen staff at work is a mesmerizing alternative for when the conversation runs out, and Viraj has a tendency to monitor restaurant kitchens like another man might covertly peek at the score of a basketball game, so might as well give him a front-row seat. The chef’s counter at Chambers isn’t for the faint of heart though, it was the most immersed in a restaurant kitchen I’ve ever been, so I’d only recommend it if you want to almost literally be in the kitchen for your meal. (We had a great time.)

One thing that separates us amateur chefs from the professionals is their ability to coax out the delicate flavors of their ingredients, rather than adorn them with other seasonings and sauces to make them palatable. And, the theme of my meal at Chambers was a true reverence for ingredients, and expertise in how to elevate their natural flavor.

I don’t think Viraj and I have ever been so overwhelmed trying to place an order. We would have ordered the whole menu if we could, and maybe we should have, stomachs and wallets be damned! Viraj and I got matching cocktails—the “continental baths”—to start: gin and yuzu sake so light, refreshing, and reminiscent of the yuzu-flavored sparkling water we always have at home. The free (!!) bread was warm, fluffy, and healthily covered in sesame seeds, but the meal really began with our first starter, raw Spanish mackerel on a bed of horseradish cream and paired with black radishes.

I feel pretty hesitant about beets normally, but trusted Chambers enough to order them. The dish became one of my favorite bites of the meal, the beets paired with ‘nduja, pine nuts, and Camembert cheese, the beets not being the focus of the dish, but rather the connective tissue between each distinct flavor. The true highlight, if I had to pick one, was the beef tartare, which was a special for the night. It was an untraditional beef tartare in its simplicity—high-quality beef, labneh, olive oil, and sweet potato chips—but out-of-the-world delicious.

We focused most of our meal on starters, their small plates looking too good to pass up, but the one main we did order was the lamb saddle… and holy shit. It’s a lamb dish for serious lovers of lamb, the signature gamey flavor is front and center, undisguised by a yogurt sauce that often comes with the protein. It’s just… lamb of the highest quality, cooked with great care and draped delicately with lamb jus to allow you to truly taste the flavor of the meat. A side of indulgent creaminess comes from the gratinated endives the dish is served with—my first time eating cooked endives, I think.

And after a comprehensive overview of the wines they had by the glass, Viraj and I settled for different reds to pair with our main. Chambers is most known for their wine program, and the $40 glass of wine I got was special and rare in some way that was lost on me, but it was wonderful. And wonderful with the lamb.

We ended the meal with more classic flavors: a black sesame chiffon cake with layers of toasted rice ice cream and malted milk. Wine amateur that I am, I tried it with the remaining sip of my wine… don’t do that.

Wine snob or not, go to Chambers to taste classic ingredients in its purest form. But definitely go if you’re more knowledgeable about wine than me, and report back.

Bite It!

Book Chambers on OpenTable here.

On Saturday night, Viraj and I went to the Met Opera to see Madama Butterfly. As long as I can remember, I’ve always loved opera—it’s my father’s influence, who would play his favorite operas at home from his vast collection of CDs and records. Going to the opera in San Francisco was a ritual that we shared and I loved, especially when I was getting a few more wears out of my latest winter formal dress. (If it’s not about the food, then it’s almost always about the clothes with me…)

Recently, I saw Carmen at the Met alone. Curled up in my dress and heels in the Grand Tier, I was suddenly overcome by emotion when I realized that I was now one of those adults I used to see at the opera, grown-ups who actually belonged in a space like this, instead of teenaged me, wobbling along in heels stolen from my mother.

With my father, our trips to the opera started at Max’s Opera Cafe, eating something obnoxious like a large slice of chocolate cake in our finest opera garb. And sure, the fact that Tatiana is located steps away from the Met Opera House in Lincoln Center suggests that perhaps we should be dining at one of the best restaurants in New York City to complement the exceedingly fancy activity that is going to opera. But, I’ve also always been inexplicably drawn to the Americana of a diner, and something about going dressed to the nines just makes sense.

One year ago to the day, my friend Nath and I met at Old John’s Diner prior to seeing La Bohème and giggling the entire time at the ridiculousness of it all, trying not to get crumbs and grease and sauce on our fancy, fancy outfits. And though I had been to Old John’s Diner before—it’s a great place to go pre- or post-movie at the Lincoln Square AMC—the ritual was established at that specific moment.

Getting to dinner on Saturday was a complete comedy of errors. Buzzing with enthusiasm, we got ready too fast, and then made up for that by spending too much time sitting on our phones afterward. We took the subway in an attempt to avoid traffic, only to end up on an express train that was inexplicably stopping at every local stop except for the one we needed, and then transferred to a local train that skipped our stop unannounced. I was consumed by nerves, and on the way, Viraj and I schemed how we would optimize our ordering to have the most efficient meal.

I cut it very close for reservations frequently (ugh, I’m working on it!), but this was the worst it’s ever been… and the universe (public transit) had really conspired against us this time. I was nervous and calling nearby restaurants to try to find a back-up, but fortunately (for us) we caught Old John’s during a particularly busy time, and in the chaos, Viraj was able to secure us a table.

I had been thinking all week about a good martini—I had a subpar one earlier in the week—and the only drink better, in my mind, is a vesper. As an enjoyer of vespers, I concede that there’s a jet-fuel-like quality to them that makes it hard to tell at times if any one version is better than others. But, my vesper was wonderful, and Viraj’s gimlet came with a beautiful, frothy layer of foam. Maybe Old John’s knows a thing or two about cocktails.

We ordered as soon as we sat down, and I panicked and went off of instinct, our meticulous planning out the window. I think I’ve only ever eaten a patty melt at Old John’s, and that’s because there’s no better item to order. I had intended to branch out this time, but old habits die hard. With a thick beef patty rivaled only by the fluffy challah that has the most delicate exterior crispness from the grill, you’ve never had a patty melt like this one before.

Viraj ordered the cavatelli duck ragu—which has a beautiful wine sauce and grand marnier demi-glace that generously coats each pasta without being overwhelming. But, I was too distracted by my sandwich to pay much attention. Last week at work, I was talking to my coworkers about foods that require forward momentum to eat. Burritos are a great example of this phenomenon: it’s hard to stop half-way, they just kind of… fall apart if you pause for too long. It’s true of many sandwich-like objects as well, like patty melts.

Well, once I had finally come out of my beef-and-onion-and-cheddar-induced haze, I couldn’t help but notice Viraj eyeing the other half. A negotiation followed, and I walked away with half of his pasta, which he had barely made a dent in. I ate my patty melt so fast that Joey Chestnut would be proud. And as I delicately ate the pasta, ladylike, it was my turn to watch in wonder as Viraj ate the other half of the patty melt: gulped… scarfed… attacked… would all be appropriate words, actually.

“Do you think I chewed? I don’t remember chewing at all,” Viraj said, and I dissolved into a fit of vesper-induced giggles.

I also need to mention that Old John’s has an amazing fresh mint chocolate chip ice cream, which does indeed taste just like chewing on a mint leaf. It’s great on their warm brownie, which comes in the cast iron skillet it’s baked in.

… But go get the patty melt. Just don’t let the greed get to your head (stomach?), and please remember to chew.

Bite It!

Book Old John’s on Resy here. It’s not a place where you necessarily need a reservation, but I’d recommend one if you’re trying to catch a show after. Brunch is walk-ins only!

And then at some point, something in my brain changed. As we emerged from our collective pandemic-induced haze, a desire to go to restaurants consumed me in a way that it had never before. Perhaps I wanted to make up for lost time, but I was also in my last year of college, finally free from the shackles of dining hall food… and also still free from the true responsibilities of adulthood. Dining out, specifically at good, interesting restaurants, became more important than ever, especially because the social currency that came from posting a picture from a coveted restaurant felt like it was at an all-time high. The harder the reservation, the more I wanted to go.

After college I moved to New York, and surrounded by some of the best restaurants in the country… maybe the world… this desire to eat at only the best places snowballed. I’m never beating the elitism allegations, probably for good reason. Deep down in my heart, I do want to go to restaurants for the clout, to collect dining experiences at desirable restaurants like others collect rare Pokémon cards, and often, restaurants are popular because they are genuinely great.

But what makes restaurants fundamentally special experiences isn’t how many Michelin stars it has, or the specific way it’s figured out how to spherify black truffles, or whatever other weird cooking techniques it’s pioneering. Restaurants are important because they allow us to gather with others around food, and at any level, being cooked for and served is a great source of pleasure and comfort. There’s a reason why so many cultures use food—and by extension, dining out—as celebration.

Human connection is why I’ve always been drawn to food, but I’ve been getting distracted by glitz and glamour. Going to restaurants recently has felt like such a production: a delicate choreography of research and reservation platforms and alarms to make said reservations. And don’t get me wrong, I’ve loved every second of every meal I’ve had lately. The effort wasn’t in vain. But, somewhere along the way, the true joy of dining was muddied.

In an attempt to reclaim it, over the weekend, Viraj and I went out to lunch at Cafe Himalaya, a Tibetan restaurant that’s always been in the periphery of my New York City life. It’s small and unassuming and accepts walk-ins only, but a meal there feels like the biggest hug.

Recently, I think I’ve nailed my ideal order: luksha shamdey, lamb curry with potato, and chili chicken, spicy fried chicken with onions and bell peppers, paired with rice and hot Darjeeling tea or cold mango lassi, depending on the weather. If I could point to any one dish as the source of a great sense of comfort, it would be the luksha shamdey, the gravy deeply rich and savory and the lamb and potatoes falling apart with equal ease. I’m a happy girl with just that… for every meal honestly. The chili chicken is Viraj’s influence, but its spice and crunch acts as a sharp contrast to the warm smoothness of lamb curry, and the combination of the two dishes has become one of my favorites.

Over this ritual on slow Saturday afternoon, Viraj and I enjoyed the intimacy of a spontaneous meal, spending time with each other in a way that felt more momentous than a meal at home, but without the formality of going out to a “nice” place, the only type of meal out we’ve been having lately. We talked about how we don’t go out to eat like this enough—spontaneously, where being together and sharing food is the point, rather than tasting a specific dish or having a specific restaurant experience—and traded our hopes and dreams for the future.

So often, sharing food is just an excuse to spend time with someone, and restaurants are the conduit. Cafe Himalaya serves its role so lovingly.

Bite It!

Cafe Himalaya only accepts walk-ins, though I’ve never experienced a long wait.

For example—and this is probably a bit embarrassing to admit—Viraj and I were having a fairly quiet Sunday the other week, so we decided impulsively to go to Frenchette. To be clear, any time spent with their shallot tarte Tatin is a good time, but to have it whenever our heart desires? We probably have it too good.

Over this past weekend, we had a belated Valentine’s Day dinner at Delmonico’s, what’s become our yearly tradition. I think we’ve finally perfected our order there, which is to always get their crab cake, which comes wrapped in a crispy casing of potato strings, and sometimes skip the steak: lamb chops with caramelized yogurt might actually be the best protein they serve. During our meal, we struck up a conversation with the couple seated next to us, sharing insider Delmonico’s tips that made me think: Do we come here too often?

This is all to say that I’ve been really, really enjoying living in a city surrounded by some of the best food in the world… and at the same time, I’ve become a bit immune to it. And so when a restaurant like Bridges comes around, even with its endless rave reviews from every food publication in New York, I’m cautiously optimistic. Sure, all these critics are impressed. But will I be impressed? The restaurant scene is incredibly competitive in this city, and it’s even more competitive inside my head.

Bridges is a serious restaurant for serious people, and I’m the target audience. There’s been an epidemic of unserious food in this city lately, and while I stand by my prediction from the end of last year that we’re trending towards a full embrace of (mediocre) chain restaurants, that doesn’t mean that it has to be true for me personally. I’ll be at the adults table, minding my own business.

Though Bridges demonstrates unapologetic mastery of French and Basque cooking, it’s still very much a product of our time in the best way. Sure, the tables are covered in white tablecloths, it has none of the stuffiness of a traditional white tablecloth restaurant. The food feels inspired by traditional cooking techniques, but with unexpected detours into Asian cuisines… and others. It’s playful within a sophisticated sandbox, making a meal at Bridges feel fancy and once-in-a-lifetime and yet somehow, like the bistro around the corner that you just happened to dip into on a Friday night.

I started my meal with a pepper vesper (duh!), and two seafood dishes. The scallops were bright with thin slices of limequat on top, but the real fun began with an order each of the Live Maine sea urchin, served within its spiky shell and topped with an airy, lemony foam and potato. Eating something as luxurious as uni while strategizing how to hold a sea urchin without stabbing the delicate skin under your nails is the type of whimsy that makes Bridges one-of-a-kind, and the nuance of cold uni and warm creaminess is true food sophistication.

Everyone says to get the Comté tart at Bridges, and they’re probably right. It’s layers and layers of umami with a quiche-like tart topped with chanterelles and black truffle—between the cheese of tart and the truffle of the… truffle, it should be too much. But, the dish is saved by the perfection in the execution: a perfectly smooth custard filling and a buttery, crumbly shell that feels just so delicate.

For our mains, though the meal really just flowed from one dish to the next, we had lobster atop rice and salted nori, with bisque folded into the rice, and boudin blanc and boudin noir with cabbage and a velvet-smooth white wine sauce. The lobster was a prime example of how Bridges pulls influences from all places into its recognizable, French and Basque style, with salted nori adding a layer of intrigue to the traditional lobster bisque flavor.

The absolute highlight of the meal, however, was the baked-to-order hazelnut tart, which you have to order at the beginning of your meal. It’s the type of tart that feels like it’s almost all crust—the best part of any tart, in my opinion—and the pleasantly sweet and grainy crumble of the tart is offset by an almost sour chamomile cream and quince jam. And yes, it’s so warm and comforting that you forget you’re in a Michelin-starred restaurant… until the check comes.

But, Bridges is worth every penny. With a small menu that says they know who they are, they’re the rare restaurant that takes swings and never misses. The menu might be completely different when you go… or when I eventually go back. But, expect food designed for a refined palate with just a hint of a wink to remind us that food was never that serious to begin with.

Bite It!

Book Bridges on Resy here; reservations drop three weeks in advance at noon. They seem to encourage walk-ins, but I’ve yet to try that!

Well, it’s February now, and I’m distressed by how quickly another month has gone by. I had friends over for dinner the other night, and we talked about the idea that one can slow down time through intentionally having new experiences, rather than falling into the same routine day after day. I don’t think I fell into the trap of doing too little during the unforgiving weeks of winter after the holidays—I went to California and back, during which I enjoyed a solo drive up into the mountains where time felt the slowest it’s ever felt—but somehow, here we are. Time passed quickly regardless.

We’re firmly into 2026, but I’m trying to seize the energy of reinvention wherever I can find it. Perhaps Lunar New Year later this month is another arbitrary temporal event to welcome a fresh start…

Similar to how we, as people, constantly reshape ourselves in an effort to strive towards some kind of perfection, restaurants too do the same thing. And yet (so far), I’ve only ever reviewed each restaurant once. I do it out of consideration for you all—I assume you don’t want to read my thoughts on the same place over and over again—but it seems a little unfair, no?

Well, I don’t ever set out to re-review restaurants, and it seems a bit ridiculous for the restaurant I do write multiple reviews about to be… a fancy fried chicken restaurant… but Coqodaq quietly launched a brunch menu sometime last year and it’s absolutely stunning.

Viraj has been bugging me about a Coqodaq reservation ever since I went without him two years ago, so I’ve been (very) casually monitoring reservations. I thought Coqodaq was better than expected when I went for dinner, but perhaps not the type of restaurant that would be still difficult to dine at two years later. Maybe I underestimate our collective appetite for a good gimmick…

Over the holidays, I spent hours browsing and making assorted reservations. Not necessarily to go to all of them, but to just ponder the possibility. During this time, I made a reservation for brunch at Coqodaq for four on the first Sunday of the new year.

It turned out that it was extremely difficult to find people who were free for brunch on that day in particular—as I was fighting off jet lag, most others were just getting back to the city. I briefly considered posting on my Instagram to recruit people to fill out the other two seats at our table, and then almost canceled my reservation. But, in the nick of time, my friends Allison and Samuel joined us.

The most important thing to know about Coqodaq’s brunch is that it transcends their reputation as a restaurant for fried chicken, and that’s really why I felt like it was deserving of a new review. Think of their brunch menu instead as a vaguely chicken-themed meal—you can have their signature fried chicken that’s the star of their dinner menu, which comes in the same fun bucket, but their entrees also cover the savory (fried chicken and waffles), the sweet (buttermilk pancakes), the healthy-ish (kale Waldorf salad), and the… cold (acai bowl). (If anyone’s ever ordered the acai bowl, please report back to me.)

There are many brunch foods that I like, both sweet and savory, but what’s challenging about brunch is that you usually only get one dish, when what I would really like is a few bites of every brunch food all at once. Brilliantly, Coqodaq’s brunch is served just like that: their prix fixe, dubbed “The Bruket List,” is a hefty amount of food at a fairly reasonable price ($58 per person) and includes a bunch of fun bites ahead of your entree selection. The “Coqo D’oeuvres” were absolutely the best part of the meal, and in my opinion, it’s imperative to experience them together, rather than à la carte.

Our meal started with an overwhelming parade of french toast soldiers, hash brown and salmon “rillettes,” shrimp salad lettuce cups, deviled eggs, kimbap, chicken consommé, and chicken croquettes, perfectly portioned so that we would get a taste of each. It’s so unbelievably fun to have an assortment of foods to try—at least I think so—and the execution of these brunch classics (and others) is excellent, all with a Korean influence. As we heaped salmon and roe onto crispy disks of hash brown, and then wiped sticks of delicately fried milk bread through a house-made Tahitian vanilla crème anglaise, I thought to myself… this is what it means to dine like royalty.

I went rogue and got the kale Waldorf salad, with the plan to eat everyone else’s fried chicken. It’s not surprising that their fried chicken is good—and their fried chicken with waffles, even better—but, this was a very good salad! The Hainanese-style chicken carried the dish, but overall, like every other item, it was a flawless execution, with the kale cut into thin ribbons and seasoned evenly throughout. I also stole some bites of Samuel’s fried chicken and waffles, and if you really want to go all in on the theming of a fried chicken brunch, it’s the obvious choice. With fried chicken so good you need a perfect waffle to compliment it… and yeah, of course they nail that.

Also, I got The Matcha Colada to drink: matcha, coconut milk, maple, lion´s mane. Duh! And yes, unfortunately, it was excellent but I can never have it again unless I go back for brunch.

The takeaway here is simple: Coqodaq’s brunch is spectacular—a whole lot of fun packed into one meal. Unless you’re a fried chicken purist, I’d recommend it over dinner. Trust me!

Bite It!

Book Coqodaq on Resy here. Reservations open 14 days in advance at 10 a.m., but if you don’t have a specific time you want, any time on the day reservations open should be fine to get a table.

I’m not exactly tired (well, I guess I literally am), but more so overwhelmed by the prospect of an entire year stretching ahead of me. I think I may take New Year’s resolutions too seriously—it’s the Type A personality in me—and now that the year has started it feels like I have a million things to accomplish. But if there’s one thing I know from my years and years of living it’s that time moves fast and slow all at once… and more often than not the remote control is in your hands. So for the next few weeks, I’m keeping my thumbs off of the fast-forward button, taking some deep breaths and spending some time thinking about how grateful I am for the life I’ve already built.

More often than not, what brings me the most joy are the little things. An example: Viraj and I have been lucky enough to dine together across the world, but I still get so irrationally excited whenever we make plans to go out to eat in New York. Maybe it’s because going out together feels like a given when we’re on a trip, but there’s a certain magic in choosing to go to a restaurant together when staying at home is the easier option. There’s a certain transformational experience that occurs when we step out of our apartment in our carefully curated outfits: suddenly the air outside feels a bit warmer and the entire city feels like it’s twinkling…

Back in December, Viraj and I had an especially fun night at Cervo’s. I’ve recently gotten back into the grind of booking reservations and then sorting out the details later—my Resy and OpenTable accounts are a scary place—and Cervo’s was part of a flurry of restaurants I booked after last year’s Michelin Guide was released. I had walked by a million times (Kiki’s is where I’m usually headed), but had never seriously considered going until recently. With all that Dimes Square is known for… did I really want to be there? (Sorry.)

Cervo’s is probably more fun in the summer, where you can dine outside and people-watch. But, on a cold and dark winter evening, ducking into Cervo’s moody interior had just as much charm. Seated at the bar in front of the rainbow glow of what felt like a hundred liquor bottles, cradling our own drinks, I felt a warmth within me that could have only come from the intimacy of dining in a crowded room filled with strangers. And Cervo’s captures that warmth exactly, with an interior that’s small in all the right ways and none of the wrong ones.

I love nothing more than a bit of vermouth on the rocks, which sometimes gets a weird look, depending on where I am. (Probably inadvisable to order this with an unknown vermouth selection, anyway.) But, this evening at Cervo’s I discovered that what’s even better is a 50/50 martini, which I need to be having more of: the vibrant citrus of the vermouth making this drink barely a martini, but rather a distant cousin.

Cervo’s is known for their seafood, which we indulged in heavily. My one gripe with having seafood in the winter is when it’s served cold, but we started the meal with spicy mussels escabeche, mussels that were smoky and acidic all at once served without anything else, because it was perfectly balanced as is. We ate them like oysters, sipping the dregs of marinade from the shells. I enjoyed the crispy shrimp heads immensely, the shells delicately shattering under my teeth. These two dishes were the perfect range of bar snacks: something bright and something crisp.

The true highlight of the meal, however, was the stuffed jonah crab, which we didn’t expect would come as a whole crab, legs and all. It immediately inspired envy (and conversation) from the solo diner seated next to us, and that’s always the best feeling. This crab was so good that I’m struggling to describe it—is it possible to be speechless in written form? You’re going to have to order this for yourself, if it’s ever on the menu again…

Viraj and I often discuss whether or not we would eat the meal that we’re eating at the moment on a first date. It’s just a thought experiment—hopefully neither of us have plans to go on a first date—but there’s something so liberating about going ham on a crab leg in public with someone you love. And the verdict is that Cervo’s stuffed jonah crab is probably not appropriate for a first date… but could also probably be an excellent test of compatibility.

Speaking of other messy foods, we ended the savory portion of our meal with their lamb burger, which probably didn’t need the marinated anchovies we paid an extra $3 for. The fennel and celery slaw carried the burger, and that combined with the expected gaminess of the lamb patty gave the entire experience an unfamiliar twist. It’s most definitely a burger in form, but just barely.

I was prepared to dislike the flan de queso, which we ordered for dessert, due to my dislike for goat cheese… and flan. But, it was really good! The goat cheese adds a layer of savory complexity that I didn’t realize I craved, and maybe now this will be the only flan I’ll eat.

Cervo’s food is good… sometimes great, even… but like I’ve written many times before, dining out is never solely about the food. Beyond the actual bites, what I found most special about Cervo’s was its ability to bottle up the essense of what makes sharing a meal one of the most intimate experiences we can have. Truly, there’s something so beautiful in that space alone.

Bite It!

Book Cervo’s on Resy, reservations open 14 days in advance at noon and prime times go fast. They say that they leave room for walk-ins, but based on personal experience, I wouldn’t risk it.

But, enough looking backwards! I believe in the power of a new year as a chance to reset. Sure, a calendar year is arbitrary, but it doesn’t change how magical the advent of a new year feels. And my advice (if you want it) is to lean into that magic. Maybe you can be a new version of yourself on New Year’s Day… I’m sure trying to be.

Speaking of the future, I consider myself as a bit of a professional trend forecaster, and in the past few weeks, I’ve been thinking hard about what my predictions are for dining in 2026. Last year, I focused more on my personal relationship with restaurants, and I think most of my manifestations came true. Let’s kick it up a notch this year: here are five predictions for food and dining culture at large in 2026. My qualifications? An acute sense of “the vibes.”

(Ironic) dining at chain restaurants will be all the rage, even among all you elitists out there.

Is it just me, or are sit-down chain restaurants having a big moment right now? The Corner Store was one of 2024’s hottest new restaurants (and it’s still impossible to book a reservation at to this day), but as one of my coworkers likes to put it, it’s… just adult Applebee’s? We’ve been overpaying for pigs in a blanket for far too long, and how many elevated American classics can one eat before it’s time to go back to the source? Oreo Dream Extreme Cheesecake… I’m sorry that I ever doubted you.

Forget the slop bowl. Weekday lunches are going to be longer… or at the very least more interesting.

The slow death of the slop bowl this year has been well-documented. But, while most articles covering the trend point to packed lunches or fast food as alternatives, I’m predicting a shift in another direction. The slop bowl is suffering due to ever-inflating prices and an uninspired product, and spending less on lunch is probably the obvious pivot. But let me present an alternative: spending more. Let’s bring back the proverbial three-martini lunch—there’s professional value in the personal connection that comes from sharing a meal with someone else, after all.

And since hours-long lunches on a daily basis are unreasonable (I do my job… I promise), I’m also predicting a shift towards more direct slop bowl alternatives: more local restaurants offering lunch specials, food trucks, and neighborhood hidden gems.

The dirty soda trend (the cocktail-ification of sodas) will give way to the soda-ification of cocktails.

Girls, leave your extra dirty martinis at home. Utah (and The Secret Lives of Mormon Wives) brought us dirty sodas, giving sodas a bit of a cocktail treatment with an infinite number of combinations and concoctions. On the other hand, cocktails have trended towards savory for awhile, and it’s time to shake things up. Over the weekend, Viraj and I had dinner at Margot, where our server was about to launch into a long description of a cocktail only to pivot and say, “it tastes exactly like Dr Pepper.” That immediately sold it, and it did! I’ve had my fair share of weird, savory cocktails this year (I’m traumatized by this one in particular), and though I don’t think the joy of mixology is going away anytime soon, I believe that 2026 points in a sweeter direction.

Out: Reservation platforms. In: Phone calls and walk-ins.

I’ve said this so many times already, but I’m exhausted by the state of restaurant reservation culture. We started this year with a front-row seat to the ongoing battle between Resy and OpenTable to get the city’s hottest restaurants, and we’re ending it with Doordash’s entry into in-app reservations in New York. I can’t help but shudder.

Don’t get me wrong. As an aggressive planner and busy person, I love the certainty a reservation brings. But at the same time, we’ve already seen the negative impact of (what feels like) reservations being the only way to eat at a restaurant these days: a black market of restaurant reservations and more importantly, the death of spontaneity, which I think is an integral part of dining out.

And beyond the inability to decide last-minute to go out to dinner on a Friday night, the joy of restaurants also lies within the service: the warmth of being cared for by other human beings. Although reservations don’t entirely take that way, it does put a machine in between yourself and a great night out, an interaction that could instead be person-to-person at the host stand or over the phone. Booking a reservation over the phone is so chic! You can’t tell me otherwise!

The year’s hottest flavor will be banana.

I have nothing further to say on this prediction. Only time will tell! Viraj—famous for his hatred of bananas second only to his hatred of tomatoes—is very upset at me.

From all of us at One More Bite (it’s just me), Happy Holidays. May there be good food and even better company in your near future… and into the new year. And thank you, as always, for reading. It means the world.

Last Friday, for the first time this season, I stepped out the door and into the type of chill that makes you forget how to breathe for a second, which I hope is a universal experience and not a quirk I should tell a doctor about. (Let me know?) Regardless, at least to me, this feeling is a harbinger of many cold months to come, which has been… a bit inspirational? Let me explain.

In all seasons, I’m the opposite of a homebody, and this impulse to go outside gets more urgent as the weather grows colder. Maybe it’s because the threat of cabin fever looms more acutely this time of year, but there’s something about the chill in the air that makes me crave the (warm) intimacy of dining out: the glow of tabletop candles, the electric hum of hundreds of conversations around you, a generous helping of whatever your heart desires… And, there’s no time I’ve ever felt more cozy than watching others walk by a restaurant window, exposed to the elements. Schadenfreude, the season’s warming spice.

This is all to say that I’m back!!! I’m feeling inspired and motivated to dine out, which is great news for this newsletter and my stomach. (My wallet declines to comment.) Right after Thanksgiving, my friend Lauren spent a week in New York, which gave me an excellent excuse to try somewhere new. I combed through The Infatuation’s comprehensive list of new restaurant openings and settled on LenLen. The cold also inspires cravings for Thai curry, after all.

Though it was a Monday night outside, the inside of LenLen was anything but. The entire restaurant feels like one big wink, with a retro-feeling interior filled with an infinite supply of little details to discover, like a stylized drawing of a cat who shows up throughout the restaurant, or what must be a parody of Matisse’s Dance in the bathroom.

Maybe it’s just because I’m always seeking them out, but there are so many Thai restaurants in this city, many of which are very good. Yet LenLen managed to surprise me throughout the twists and turns of our meal, presenting dishes familiar to me with an unfamiliar flair. A good example of this was the papaya and strawberry som tum, or papaya salad. I’d say that I’m a papaya salad veteran—the balance of acid, sweetness and heat makes it my favorite way to start any Thai meal… and I’ve had many Thai meals. But I had never had it with strawberries before, and Lauren and I initially met the addition of it with suspicion, until we had a few bites.

The thing about a salad is that it’s the type of dish where ingredients (save for the dressing) don’t tend to bleed into one another, and the forkfuls of som tum I had without the strawberries tasted totally normal. Delicious, but like any other version of the dish I’ve had. And then I had a bite with a piece of strawberry… On the outside, the fruit was coated in the spicy and sour goodness like everything else, and then suddenly, a burst of sweetness. It’s absolutely sacrilegious to call it a “Sour Patch Kids effect”… but it sort of was that? First they’re sour, then they’re sweet.

The other dish that took me by surprise was the crab durian curry. Whenever durian comes up in conversation (admittedly not often), I have an impulse to defend it in the same breath as defending the many other foods that are characterized as “weird” in the United States from my culture. But, my confession is that I don’t like durian. Or thought I didn’t: I accidentally bought a durian mooncake earlier this fall and ended up enjoying it, and then this crab durian curry convinced me that my liking of durian wasn’t a fluke.

We were reassured a few times that durian was just in the curry itself—lump crab and spaghetti squash is hidden within the velvety sauce instead. But, the curry is still unmistakably durian-forward, the sweet funkiness of the fruit swirling with the delicate flavor of crab and coconut milk. I found my first taste of just the curry to be a bit odd, but was immediately sold when I had it with the other components. I don’t know if it’s my favorite crab curry—I think my palate prefers a more savory dish—but it’s certainly unlike any other curry I’ve had before. And writing this, I’m dying to have it again.

Though there were no surprises, we also enjoyed the eggplant and tofu krapow, which was phenomenal: garlicky and sticky with sauce. Absolutely no notes there. And Lauren and I both can’t turn down ice cream, so we ended the meal with their sticky “r-ice” cream topped with strawberries. The ice cream texture landed somewhere in the middle of a spectrum from gelato to sticky rice: much heavier than normal ice cream and capturing the essence of sticky rice in flavor and in mouthfeel.

Going to a new restaurant is always a bit of a risk, and having an out-of-town visitor increases the pressure. Lauren and I have been dining together since we first became friends in college, and we’ve had our highs and lows, but it never lessens the feeling that I want us to have a good meal when we’re in what I’ve claimed as my city. Fortunately, LenLen was an excellent welcome back to the city for the both of us, and it was reassurance that despite the cold, everything might be alright.

Bite It!

Book LenLen on Resy. Reservations are available two weeks out, and it’s not an absolute nightmare to book… yet. Let’s keep this crab durian curry between us until I’m able to go a few more times, okay?

I’ve always wanted to be a regular somewhere, to have a home away from home in the form of a restaurant. It seems like a marker of having lived somewhere for long enough, and with a few years of New York under my belt, I have a rotation of some go-to places. But no restaurants yet… or at least none where they seemed to have started recognizing me.

Most of that is on me. I’m constantly adding to my list of restaurants I want to go to, and it often feels like a wasted opportunity to return to somewhere familiar. And this self-imposed pressure to always go somewhere new, especially for more expensive meals, means that I find myself in situations where I’ve only been to my go-to answer for “favorite New York City restaurant” once.

I first ate at Rosella in January 2023 (pre-OMB!) on the recommendation of my friends Talia and Neeraj. It was Viraj’s birthday, and if my camera roll from back then is any indication, it seems like all we did that week was eat. I only took one photo—a birthday candle sticking out of their sorbet, the flavor lost to time—but it then became the one restaurant I evangelized over and over again.

As you can imagine, it was quite surprising to realize two years later that I had never been back again. Memories of that one meal, with barely proof that we were even there, stayed with me through what were probably hundreds of meals out. And while the food was excellent (more on that in a second), the people are what makes Rosella such a standout restaurant.

The restaurant is intimate, with the main seating arranged along a bar that circles the kitchen on three sides. There’s a great view of all the happenings of the kitchen from any seat, and it gives an overall effect of hovering by a friend’s kitchen counter as they prepare dinner. Viraj and I recently returned to Rosella and sat a few seats down from our first visit: the best seats in the house are at the sushi bar, where they once served an omakase. (Now, it’s at Bar Miller.)

The feeling of eating at a friend’s place extends beyond the general setup of the restaurant: though you can just order off of the menu like normal, during both of our visits, we started a conversation with the chef, which led to an omakase-like experience, us collaborating with the chef to determine our perfect meal. Throughout our meal, the restaurant staff checked in with us like old friends, asking what we thought about certain dishes and if we had room for more in between bits of banter amongst themselves. And to add to the general are we just all hanging out atmosphere, during our more recent visit, Talia and Neeraj popped in after their dinner around the corner to say hi, raising their voices to reach across the entire restaurant to us in the back corner. It was sweet and embarrassing and no one in the restaurant batted an eye…

But what makes Rosella a truly exceptional restaurant beyond just being the most fun environment to eat in is the food, of course! They’re kind of a sushi restaurant, but they’re really a celebration of seafood, with an emphasis on sustainably sourced domestic species. And in a sea of high-end sushi restaurants (pun intended) that are flying in their seafood from across the globe, Rosella shows that there is a more sustainable way of eating sushi that’s just as luxurious.

Rosella does a brilliant job of highlighting these less common seafoods through sushi—definitely ask the staff what they’d recommend. I tried pickled mussel sushi for the first time, which I found too acidic for my taste, but it was undoubtedly unlike any sushi I had ever had before. (Viraj loved it.) The shrimp nigiri was also outside of my usual sushi preferences, but an excellent suggestion from the chef. We got two rolls: fatty tuna & white kimchi and spicy tuna. I appreciate that Rosella can take relatively familiar items and put their own spin on it, like using thick cuts of tuna and fresh herbs for the spicy tuna roll.

It might be tempting to skip the other dishes, but don’t. My favorite dish of the meal was the summer sashimi: albacore, pickled Nardello salsa and ponzu. It highlights great quality fish with an unexpected twist, combining the sweetness of Nardello peppers with the citrus of ponzu. The fish sausage sliders were also incredible, with a fluffy bun and a patty made of thick cuts of various fish that you can really taste. At this point of the meal we were pretty full. But, Viraj still had his eye on the XO grits, so we ordered a half portion. Like every dish at Rosella, it was much more nuanced than expected, a supremely fishy (complimentary) and savory concoction that tasted like the ocean… if it was cheesy?

Though we were so unbelievably full at this point in the meal, dessert at Rosella is just as special as everything else. They had a corn nut ice cream the night we were there, which we happily ordered alongside the miso carrot cake. The ice cream reminded me of Milk Bar’s cereal milk flavor, but also tasted exactly like corn nuts… Impressive. I will always order a carrot cake if it’s on the menu (and theirs is good!), but this ice cream was so complex and interesting. And it’s always good to end a meal with a thinker, I think!

Though I haven’t successfully befriended the people at Rosella, there’s something so special about a restaurant in such a big city that makes you feel like you’re their best friends… even if it’s just for the night.

Bite It!

Maddeningly, Rosella has not gotten easier to book over the years. Browse reservations on Resy, and I’d recommend going with a party of two due to the format of the restaurant.

For those unfamiliar, EEEEEATSCON (five e’s, always!) is The Infatuation’s food festival, held annually in New York and a few other major cities. I like describing it to others as just the food part of a music festival, but if the food was really good. This year, the event was held at Pier 76 for the first time, which I thought was a huge improvement from Forest Hills Stadium. It felt a bit like a maze to navigate when I went to EEEEEATSCON there in 2023, making everything feel that much more overwhelming.

Late Sunday morning, as Viraj and I walked along the Hudson River to the venue, a breeze of light salinity in the air cut through the unexpected October heat and I knew it was going to be a great day. At the pier, we were greeted by two rows of stalls facing outwards, with ample room to wander and views of the water throughout. My memory of EEEEEATSCON had been that it gets pretty crowded as the day goes on, so we made a beeline to the Potluck Club and Carnitas Ramirez stall—what I’d been most excited for.

I’m a big fan of Potluck Club and Carnitas Ramirez, and I think the restaurant collaborations are what make EEEEEATSCON so special. The two restaurants were serving carnitas potstickers and tiger shrimp tacos, and we ordered one of each. The shrimp was delicious—fried to a perfect crisp on the outside, yet wonderfully juicy on the inside. I wasn’t sure if the “Potluck Club” of it all came through, but Carnitas Ramirez knows how to make a good taco…

Weirdly, the taco scene was quite competitive at EEEEEATSCON. If you’re a regular reader, you know all about my deep love of Anajak Thai. I’ve always been so intrigued by their “Thai Taco Tuesday,” or “TTT,” and it felt so right for them to bring it to New York for this event. I’m jumping ahead a bit, but if I were to award superlatives, I’d give Anajak Thai “Best Flavor” and “Best Mouthfeel” for their carnitas taco and fried fish taco, respectively. Something about the classic sweet, sour and spicy combination classic to Thai food lends itself so well to a carnitas taco, which was an explosion of flavor at the first bite, thanks to a generous helping of escabeche. And I’m not really a fish taco kind of girl, but the fry on the fish was so, so perfect. So yes, I started the day with three tacos, and… Anajak Thai, I think you won this taco-off.

I couldn’t get over how beautiful the venue was, which was accentuated by the Chase Sapphire Reserve Experience, a lounge in the back corner of the pier. After grabbing a bite of the beef short rib ssam, courtesy of a Momofuku and Bar Kabawa collaboration (it seemed like Momofuku was doing the heavy lifting there), we claimed a couch overlooking the Hudson. I didn’t realize it would make that much of a difference, but the kimchi on the ssam was exceptional, the right balance of acid and sweet and crunch, which made this another taco-adjacent highlight. Also, at one point while we were eating, we were given a chicken nugget topped with roe, reminiscent of the Coqodaq nugget. (This nugget would continue to haunt Viraj for the rest of our afternoon, because he never spotted another, despite sitting in the lounge for a few more hours.)

We also tried a few cocktails in the lounge, including one from Bar Kabawa that had sorrel and white rum (among other ingredients I’ve lost track of). It was hibiscus-y and sweet and dangerously did not taste like alcohol at all. Keep this in mind as I continue to recount what else I ate today.

I was surprised that I had never heard of The Brothers Sushi, which has a few locations in Los Angeles. It’s definitely at the top of my list for my next LA trip, because I was so impressed by their bluefin toro hand roll. Sure, it’s a simple item, served (probably) by millions of restaurants across the U.S. But it’s also so hard to get exactly right… and this was a perfect hand roll. The seaweed is the most essential part, in my opinion, and even in the heat and the time it took for Viraj to locate me in the crowd (we split up), the seaweed was the ideal texture—just thick enough to hold the hand roll together even a few bites in, but still thin enough to bite through easily.

Speaking of bites that shattered satisfyingly, I had the absolute pleasure of trying The Tacolate, Salt & Straw’s collaboration with Taco Bell. The Choco Taco doesn’t mean much to me, but this concept was so iconic (and honestly… funny) that I couldn’t get it out of my mind in the days leading up to EEEEEATSCON. (Please read the article about this.) The ice cream taco is filled with an ancho chili cinnamon ice cream that’s then dunked in dark chocolate and covered in puffed quinoa. It’s decidedly not your childhood’s Choco Taco. But, it’s an excellent grown-up take on it, and another strong contender in the EEEEEATSCON taco wars.

I was scared that the ancho chili was going to make the ice cream spicy (in a weird way), but instead, the overall effect is a cinnamon ice cream that feels extra warming. I only ended up trying the mango japaneño sauce (there was also wildberry cinnamon)—though the sauce was texturally disturbing (too gloopy), it added the heat. The $2 million investment from Salt & Straw was worth it, I think. (Again, read the article.) The taco really was crunchy all the way through, so that’s on good ice cream taco technology, I guess!

At this point, I started to panic. There was so much food, and my decision paralysis had turned to a monstrous need to eat everything… I was firing blindly: I had longanisa and egg musubi from Kanin (visiting from Chicago), Cmarty’s Jerk x Titis Empanadas’s jerk chicken and the aforementioned Nutella cinnamon roll from Cowy Burger (visiting from Miami). And that takes us all the way back to the top of this story.

I tried to avoid visiting the restaurants that I go to often, because (in theory) I can get that food whenever I want. But, I deeply regret not going to Atoboy, where they had a few festival-exclusive food items. Oh well. There’s always next year, where while the lineup may change I will plan my day more diligently… maybe.

EEEEEATSCON is in four cities (Miami, LA, Chicago and New York), and it’s without fail one of my favorite days every year. It’s so special to be in a space fueled by a love of food and restaurants—the team nails it every single time. Go! And I’ll see you in New York next year.

Some might say they’re in danger of being overhyped. I’m very, very lucky to have a friend on the inside so I’m just a tiny bit biased (hi Becca), but you guys… Kabawa is really that good.

One late evening in May, on the heels of drinks at another bar, my friend Katie and I went to Bar Kabawa for a bite (... and more drinks). Caught up in the thrill of spending time with a newer friend and the warming weather—it was May—it was the kind of weekday evening that felt like it could stretch on for forever.

Bar Kabawa feels upscale, yet comfortable the very first second you step in. Katie and I started standing at a central table, dominoes spilling out of their tin, but before I could comment that I had never quite figured out how to play dominoes, we were moved to the bar, which gave an excellent view of all the ins and outs of food preparation. The drink menu, though all rum-based, is unbelievably comprehensive. I panicked and ordered the bay leaf daiquiri, which had a bitterness that satiated my fear of daiquiris being overly syrupy. As we drank, further down on the other side of the bar, I observed a mountain of freshly shaved ice, which made me regret my order. As soon as it’s warm out, I’m filled with a longing for any frozen drink.

Katie and I also hadn’t eaten, so we ordered patties with enthusiasm. Bar Kabawa offers both baked and fried patties, and I chose the geera goat patty. Months later, when I returned for drinks with my friend Aiden, I tried a few more of the patties: my final verdict is that while I prefer the flakiness of the baked patties, the pepperpot duck and foie filling in the fried patty can’t be beat. (So, maybe get one of each?) And though it might feel like “too much,” have it with coco bread. There’s something that’s so satisfying to be able to have the ideal carb-y post-drinks meal with your drinks, and to have it prepared with such care and then eat it with your hands unabashedly at the bar… it’s a treat.

The small bites are not to be skipped either—to me, they’re a sampling of what can be found at Kabawa, which (when I went) also included an excellent raw shrimp preparation. I appreciate that they’re unafraid of heat, and the ruby red shrimp with piklitz is bright, acidic and spicy, serving as the perfect contrast to the savory, greasy (complimentary) patties. During my more recent visit with Aiden, I was most impressed by the Solomon Gundy, best described in my mind as creme brulee, if it slayed… Joking aside though, it’s a salty smoked fish pâté that Bar Kabawa serves bruleed, and the crisp top adds a much-needed texture and sweetness to the dip.

At the end, Katie and I couldn’t resist, and we ordered the Kabawa daiquiri for the pillowy soft layers of shaved ice. It’s a simple drink done so well, with the most perfect sweetness and hint of key lime, and it’s the drink that will become my go-to as I return to Bar Kabawa. But remember to ask if there are specials: Aiden and I got bonny melon daiquiris when we went in September, and it was the most luxurious, velvety frozen drink I’ve ever had. Lots of hyperboles here, but I promise it’s well-deserved.

Katie and I stayed at the bar until the restaurant next door had closed and got a tour of the space, empty now, but still buzzing with the ghosts of recently departed diners. Two weeks later, I returned with Viraj in tow for the $145 tasting menu. It was just a few days after The New York Times’s list had been published, and I was feeling grateful that I had timed my reservation perfectly: it would be much harder to get a reservation now that there was so much buzz about the place.

Ordering was simple, with each of us selecting an appetizer, main and dessert. I’ve read some comments from skeptics wondering if such a “simple” menu deserved such a hefty price, and had similar thoughts prior to my meal. But Kabawa absolutely overdelivered, surprising us at every turn with more and more and more food. Its price might signal a restaurant that demands one to know the difference between a salad fork and a dinner fork, but the dining experience is the exact opposite of pretension. Our meal started with buttery roti and a selection of dips (pepper jelly, plantain ginger chutney, curried chickpeas and mango chutney), and immediately I was spilling flakes of roti left and right, all formality lost.

Viraj and I ordered the breadfruit tostones topped with slices of octopus, and pepper shrimp dusted with sorrel and surrounded by circles of Scotch-bonnet jam. Everything at Kabawa has such a wonderful amount of heat, not enough to be uncomfortable, but just enough to warm you right up. We chose the “jerk” duck sausage and goat as our mains, which came with a parade of rice, beans and sweet potato. The goat is unbelievable, an unassuming cube of meat that absolutely falls apart with spice and flavor. For me, it was the highlight of the meal.

Before our dessert (birthday flan and coconut sorbet), we were served fresh tamarind on ice, a unique take on a palate cleanser. The sorbet was just like the aforementioned bonny melon daiquiri: smoooooth and much needed after a meal filled with heat. I’m not a fan of flan, but I was pleasantly surprised by Kabawa’s: perhaps all flan should be birthday flan, and for some reason, the skinniness of their version accentuated the taste.

And of course, I ended our meal by chugging a frozen piña colada. Had to keep it classy.

Bite It!

Kabawa accepts reservations through OpenTable 14 days in advance. If it were me, I’d try to book a reservation immediately when they release… Bar Kabawa also takes reservations on OpenTable, but I’d recommend just walking in!

While I was on the plane, my friend Lauren and I discussed extensively where we should go for dinner after she (generously) picked me up from LAX. We were picking between Sunday Gravy, which I had been to, and Two Hommés, which I hadn’t. I didn’t have wi-fi beyond texting capabilities on the plane, so it wasn’t until I was at the baggage claim that I pulled up Two Hommés’s menu. Though it was not the most interesting item on the menu, those garlic noodles really called to me, and after reuniting curbside at terminal seven, we jetted off into Inglewood.

Lauren told me that Two Hommés had been a challenging restaurant to get a reservation to, but we were seated immediately at the bar when we arrived, around 7 p.m. on a Friday night. There was a large birthday dinner on one end, and duos scattered throughout, but it was pleasantly quiet, which suited me perfectly.

Two Hommes describes itself as an Afro-centric eatery, a cuisine that I’m not really that familiar with. At this point, it’s a pretty unusual experience for me to read a menu and not really understand what anything might taste like. Lauren and I didn’t ask too many questions and fired blindly: that’s what’s fun about dining out, after all! I had a zucchini dish that has changed my opinion of zucchini forever, with a perfect char and this addictive spicy crema. The jollof platter was also unbelievable: we chose the chili garlic chicken as our protein, which was so tender and juicy that I could have sworn it wasn’t chicken, but the star of the dish was the jollof rice and “bomb azz black beans” (direct quote from the menu). And it was bomb… both the rice and the beans.

I don’t often return to the same restaurant multiple times in New York—there’s so much food that it always feels like my time and money would be better spent trying something new—but weirdly, when returning to California, all I want is to go back to the same places over and over again. My theory is that it’s because on these trips I’m chasing comfort, and nothing comforts quite like a familiar meal.

One night after work, my friend Jen and I went to the original Jon & Vinny’s on Fairfax Avenue, also the first one I had ever eaten at, and ordered my usual hits: the gem lettuce with calabrian chili dressing, the “ham & eazy” pizza and pesto pasta. (We did get ranch with the pizza this time, an excellent addition that I will carry on in future visits.) And eating this meal reminded me of all the other times that I’ve had the same meal at different points in my life, and all the people I had the meal with. Food carries memories, and at this point, Jon & Vinny’s is such a rich text for me. So, another theory: perhaps I return to the same places to add to the story, much like seeing an old friend.

If restaurants are old friends, then Anajak Thai is that friend who has gotten some work done. Last summer, Lauren and I had a fabulous meal there: I’m making the grave mistake of writing while hungry right now, and I’m salivating just thinking about the massaman beef curry. I was lucky to be in Los Angeles the first weekend they reopened after a major renovation, and even luckier that Lauren scored us a reservation. The restaurant was unrecognizable at first: a beautiful open kitchen now dominated the original dining room, and a new dining space was added next door. The whole restaurant was sleeker, more grown-up.

But like friends that have undergone some sort of makeover, inevitably, parts of the person you know start to leak out, reassuringly. The menu hadn’t changed too much, and we ordered a mix of new dishes and ones we had the previous year. Once again, the radish and cucumber salad was my favorite of the night. And once again, it was surprising that something so simple could beat out the complexities of their other dishes. But there is undeniably magic in the ginger scallion dressing, because raw vegetables should not taste that good… and yet…

Lauren and I also ordered soft shell crab—the novelty of eating a crab whole will never lose its novelty to me—spicy fried rice, panang curry and mango sticky rice, famously the only dessert they serve. Anajak Thai is truly the best Thai food you can have in Los Angeles, with a clear attention to detail applied to every single dish. The excellence of the salad is one such example, but the fried rice is another: the dish tastes as if each grain of rice was meticulously seasoned and stir-fried by itself.

And I could sing the praises of the mango sticky rice all day: it’s the best version of the dish I’ve ever had, with the sticky rice satisfyingly sticky yet still retaining the perfect shape of each grain. The rice is delicate, and the mango is bright and sweet, and combined, it’s all so perfect.

The mango sticky rice at Anajak Thai tastes like how I feel now, at a delicate tipping point. One wrong move, and I might be too sweet, too soft, too… I don’t know how to keep extending this metaphor. But, I’m trying to say that I feel like I’m at the precipice of something, hovering somewhere between an inhale and an exhale. It’s all nothingness now, but I’m sure it’ll be something soon.

As summer comes to a close, I’ve increasingly found myself reunited with friends, inevitably answering the question: “So, how’s your summer been?” And perhaps you’re wondering the same… The short, honest answer is that it really hasn’t been a good summer at all, and each time this question comes up, I’m self-conscious of not being the friend who brings the mood down at inopportune moments, like a breezy summer hang. Now, once again, I’m torn between just going back to my usual content or being a little bit honest about why I’ve been away.

But the whole point of One More Bite is that sometimes this is my personal diary, and I hope that’s at least part of the reason why you’re reading. So… here are some vignettes of my Terrible, Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Summer. And yes, of course there will be discussions of food: despite the less-than-ideal circumstances (you’ll see), these past few months have been an interesting invitation to think about how my relationship to food shifts at different points of my life… I’m worried that this newsletter might be a bit of a downer, but bear with me. My annual-ish report from California is next, and then we’ll return to the usual programming.

Time Travel on a Friday Afternoon

On a hot, sticky day at the end of June, I went into the office on a Friday for the first time in years. I was stressed out and behind on a project, the details of which escape me now. The whole day had a bit of a simulative quality to it—the office was nearly empty, giving me a vague, thrumming sense of unease. At an unreasonably late hour, after I couldn’t bear to spend another minute in front of a screen, I dragged myself downstairs to Cava.

One year ago, my father told me over text that my grandmother had died while I was in the middle of being served at that very same Cava, trying to decide between chicken or lamb, which would cost $4.25 more. It’s now a memory that will haunt that Cava forever: me failing to hold back my tears as an impatient Cava employee tries to usher me through the assembly line of ingredients.

Almost exactly a year later, back in the same assembly line, my mother texted me that she had something important to tell me over the phone and asked me to call, and this time, as I was explaining to the employee that while I did want the mix of tomatoes and cucumbers, I did not want the tomatoes and onions, I knew.

Time keeps marching forward until it doesn’t. And at rare moments, it collapses into itself: me and a bowl of Cava, now unwanted, processing the death of a grandparent. A span of time one year apart but also happening all at once: June 2024 and June 2025 interchangeable, simultaneous. We may not have time machines, but on that day in June, I was traveling back to the past, or into the future, depending on how you look at it.

I’m a superstitious person, so you’d think that I’d avoid that Cava at all costs, fearing the death of another family member. But fear has never crossed my mind. The impersonal, uniform nature of all Cava locations (and all related “bowl” establishments, let’s be real) seems to make it impossible to build any additional personal attachment, positive or negative, to a specific restaurant. And that’s probably a good thing, since I would like to keep eating at Cava.

This summer, I learned that life is weird sometimes, all the time. Coincidences are often just coincidences, but it’s undeniably strange that I learned about the successive deaths of my grandparents at the exact same Cava location, exactly one year apart. What an odd glitch in the universe…

I Went to a Funeral (Or, When Food Fades into the Background)

I went to Taiwan for six days, which really turned out to be three nights in Taiwan, to attend my grandfather’s funeral. Once again, time… a mystery. Food has always been central to my visits to Taiwan, but this time, of course, it wasn’t. Death has a tendency to turn life upside down—after all, here I was, suddenly an entire ocean away from home, when just a few days prior work was all that I could think about. But what’s beautiful (if something can be beautiful) about crises is realizing that though I get so attached to planning my life rigidly, I can and will drop everything in an instant for the people I care about.

Going out of your way to eat good food is optional, but food, in general, is absolutely not. Between sitting in long silences at my grandparents’ kitchen table and wondering whether or not the clothes that I had packed in great haste were sufficiently “sad,” my family ate an odd parade of takeout: salads and dumplings and bian dang, the Taiwanese equivalent of a bento box

The food wasn’t exceptional, by any means, but it was such a relief to be reunited with Taiwanese cooking, which gives me comfort like no other food can. Though we were gathered under sad circumstances, crowded around the dining table, my full extended family all present, chopsticks deep into the most perfect mix of rice and pork chop, I was hit with a deep sense of belonging that I had never felt before. We were going to be alright.

The six days—or three days, depending on how you look at it—were like a strange dream sequence, punctuated by a particularly excellent cup of boba delivered at just the right time (in the middle of the funeral).

Unintentionally, food brought us together in the same way the food brings me closer to my friends when we go out to eat with intentionality. We might’ve been busy or bored or stressed or sad in those days leading up to the funeral, but then, like clockwork, time stood still three meals a day. Proof, perhaps, that even mediocre food can cure all if eaten with the right people.

Little Bits of Little Bites

I have a long list of restaurants I want to tell you all about, and after all the craziness of the summer, I’m excited to get back to a regular publishing schedule. In my normal One More Bite programming, I try to focus only on restaurants that are truly worth discussing, though in the name of content I’m guilty of making a big fuss about places that in retrospect I feel just lukewarm about.

This summer, though I stopped writing, I did not stop eating. And in preparation for my return I went through every restaurant I ate at to decide which deserved a full write-up or a return visit. Not wanting a huge backlog to work through, I was much pickier than usual, leaving places that I liked (but did not love) behind. So… we’ll do a highlight reel of interesting places, interesting bites. And then you’ll be up to speed.

After a long day in the sun, my friend Lauren (who was visiting from LA) and I went to Jr & Son without a reservation and got seats at the bar in under an hour. The highlight of the meal was that I had chicken parm for the first time, but overall, I wasn’t impressed. Notably, their viral Italian coconut rainbow cake was too salty… How is that even possible?

I made the mistake of going to JaBä, a Taiwanese restaurant, right after returning from Taiwan. The Berkshire pork LBB (lo ba beng) was great, but it did feel a bit silly eating it at a nice, sit-down restaurant setting, knowing that it’s one of the simplest meals one can get in Taiwan. A friend told me to skip the crab and mentaiko dumplings, but they were the highlight of the meal for me.

The restaurant group Unapologetic Foods can do no wrong in my eyes, and though I’m sad I never got to eat at Adda when it was in Long Island City, its new East Village location is fun… very fun. Beyond the food listed on the menu, there was an endless parade of tableside offerings: my favorite was kulfi dipped into a lemon coating in front of me at the end of the meal.

This is going to sound ridiculous, but Viraj and I had no plans one night and decided to make a last minute reservation for Crown Shy. I usually don’t gravitate towards chicken, and on the menu theirs didn’t seem too interesting, but wow. I was thoroughly impressed. Also, excellent (free!!!) bread.

Also, I had a near-death experience. (I went into anaphylaxis on the subway and it was deeply traumatizing.) I survived though, and I have an epic scar to show for it. And now you’re really all caught up on my life.

More soon. xx

No, it’s not Dorsia. If Patrick Bateman couldn’t score a reservation there, I certainly don’t have a chance in hell. That being said, I’m gonna utter a phrase Paul Allen wouldn’t dare say; Dorsia sounds overrated. A lot of the new-age gastronomical experiences that American Psycho’s fictional Dorsia was built to mock are often all smoke and no fire. Sure, plenty of NYC’s most hyped eateries live up to their lofty expectations. Some of my favorite all-time meals came at the hands of the fancy and experimental, like Tatiana or Kochi. But when I seek a meal that will stick with me for months, years even, and satiate me so well I’m just about ready to enter a monthslong hibernation, I most often turn to the not-so-humble steakhouse instead. Enter Smith and Wollensky, one of New York’s most recognizable, quintessential steakhouse offerings in a city filled to the brim with them.

I’m a simple man. When I desire a hefty, excessive helping of red meat, I seek it out. This impulse has led me to plenty of steaks big and small, serving purposes ranging from celebratory to survival. The sheer range of form factors I’ve encountered make me feel more qualified to talk about steaks and steakhouses than a great number of things, possible only behind movies and fish tacos. In classic movie writer fashion, I’ll take a moment to rattle off all the different forms of steak that have stuck in my mind, Forrest Gump style:

Ribeye, NY strip, filet mignon, flank steak, skirt steak, steak frites, carne asada, steak sandwich, steakburger, Trader Joe’s frozen steak, Wegman’s steak, steak burrito…

So when I say that Smith and Wollensky stands out as one of NYC’s, and therefore the world’s, foremost steakhouse offerings, I like to think that claim carries some weight.

The context for my trip to Smith and Wollensky could not have been more perfect. Picture my dad and I celebrating my 25th birthday, fresh off a weekday broadway showing of The Outsiders, climbing into a yellow cab to make a beeline to the other side of midtown for a 10pm res. Yes, 10pm. And yet when we walked through the grand double doors of the unmistakable green building perched on the corner of 3rd and 49th, it could have been peak service on a Friday night. The place was crammed end to end with wide-eyed tourists, affluent regulars, and sprawling groups celebrating everything from promotions to engagements.

My biggest piece of advice for tackling Smith and Wollensky; go for a special occasion. Not just to justify the prices you’d expect from a spendy midtown steakhouse, but to fully seize the unique opportunity Smith and Wollensky provides. It’s an intimidating place at first. Old-world decor ripped straight from a country club, impeccably dressed servers boasting even more impeccable service, a menu that might not have changed once since the 70s—it’s about as American Psycho of a place you could ask for. But when you walk in there ready to celebrate something truly worthy of the all-out splurge Smith and Wollensky beckons, you feel energized in a way few restaurants can match. Walk in there ready and willing to order the biggest, bloodiest cut of meat. Say yes to any line of questioning around a seafood tower. Say yes to those second and third dirty martinis. Chat with your server, chat with the table next door. You’re here because you earned it, so treat Smith and Wollensky like the award it was meant to be.

That brings me to the food. I had the fortune to try the aforementioned over-the-top cut of meat and seafood tower. Both were exquisite. My go-to cut of meat is a ribeye, allowing me to experience varying degrees of fat marbling and texture across different bites. Smith and Wollensky’s was cooked to my medium rare preference with a delicate precision, simply yet perfectly seasoned with salt and pepper, and boasted a crust that is presently making my mouth water just thinking about it. My dad and I often joke that the best meat-centric meals will cause “meat sweats” the following night. Needless to say such jokes were prophetic of the night to come.

The seafood tower meanwhile was emblematic of the sheer excess and silliness that steakhouses often pride themselves on. Name a shellfish, they had it. And a sauce custom-built to complement it, too. While a dedicated raw bar might have Smith and Wollensky beat for sheer quality and freshness, it was the crowning element of our meal that took things from great to out of this world. Surf and turf, DIY-style.

I can’t wrap up this review without mentioning the dirty martinis, which were strong enough to get a visiting diplomat to spill state secrets. I firmly believe a martini’s quality is impacted most by the context in which you drink it, which Smith and Wollensky epitomized with flying colors. However, there’s still a few basic things you need to get right. The right balance of gin and vermouth, meaty and flavorful olives, adding the right amount of brine, and of course chilling everything to perfection. Needless to say, ordering that second martini was not a tough decision.

When you find yourself needing a reminder of the excess and style that made NYC great, go to Smith and Wollensky. When you have a moment truly worth celebrating, go to Smith and Wollensky. Or maybe you found a wad of 20s hidden in your jeans, and are craving a perfectly cooked, heaping cut of red meat. If such a case arises, go to Smith and Wollensky. It’s a steakhouse masterclass, the best execution of a concept pre-dating multiple world wars. It’s not your new go-to midtown lunch, or a hidden gem to wow your friends with. It’s definitely not pushing any boundaries other than your belt loop. It’s simply Smith and Wollensky, full stop.