A love letter to restaurants of all kinds
A family trip to New York City reinforces this writer’s belief that going out to eat is fantastic
NEW YORK — I’m in New York City and so happy. This is “What She’s Having: A Postcard,” but really, an appreciation of going out to dinner, anywhere. It can feel so good, so grandiose. Where else is small talk a bonus; where else is feeling special, taken care of, and eating food you wouldn’t make at home the goal? Legitimized indulgence: It’s fantastic.
The food here has been satisfying, but being in restaurants nonstop for three days away from home — noisy, unpredictable, bright, hot, mirrored, humid, elegant, clattering, wild, theatrical, precise restaurants — has been the best. The What She’s Having column is a dispatch, and today’s dispatch is one of pure pleasure: the nuance, quirk, depth, charisma, swagger, and delight of the restaurant experience outside your comfort zone.
I came down here with my kids and husband for the weekend to see a Broadway show (“Back to the Future”). We started today on Pell Street in Chinatown at Ping’s, our favorite dim sum place. Manhattan lets you have a favorite place even if you’ve been there twice before because it belongs to everyone; It’s our dim sum hangout even though we go every two years. The pull of the metal door that yields to no one, the puddles on the sidewalk, the glint of the light, the coarse white tablecloth that has seen it all, the way the pulpy chili sauce slants to the left in the saucer? So familiar; so easy to take on a new identity for a half hour.
“Hello, sir!” Our server doesn’t know us, but some dignified norms persist in a world that can be so jarring and brusque. I’m “miss”; my husband is “sir”; our kids are “boys.” I don’t want deference; I just love the ceremony. My yoga-pant-and-sweatshirt-wearing self is worthy of something. There’s pride in doing your job.
We get very fizzy Cokes in giant red Solo cups, and it’s what we all wanted, little geysers of refreshing sugar. The glossy pork buns arrive fast, and my kids eat three at a time until their chins look radioactive. They could be in Manhattan or Omaha, as long as they get their buns. This is the placeless currency of satisfaction; yet here we are, where their mom can also get spicy beef tendon and a shrimp roll splashed in soy sauce and walk back out onto Canal Street and take a cab to the Strand. Who am I? I am no one. I am part of America; I am a supplicant. I am here for the food and for the communality; the accessibility and the delight. There’s a rhythm to kindness.
Next up is Economy Candy on the Lower East Side, and my kids complain about walking until they get inside and become hoarders: Lines out the door and down toward Beastie Boys Square, from my grubbers to a giddy tour group to two middle-aged, bespectacled escapees from Westchester who look like Larry David to hipsters — here to bow down to the universal draw, which is cheap and iconic sweets. There are the regular favorites, but there are also Garbage Pail Kids and rarely seen Fruity Pebbles candy bars, American pop culture so accessible, on a low shelf. Everyone wants a piece; standing in line, delighted, we’re all related. My Jewish great-grandparents arrived a century ago a few blocks over and now here we stand, ready with our money as good and our taste buds as similar as everyone else’s.
Lunch was Urban Hawker, a Southeast Asian food stall in Midtown, near “Back to the Future” at the Winter Garden. The cashier saw the urgency in my eyes: We needed something to eat fast. I got a samosa naan roll-up. “It’s so good!” the cashier cheered, like he was my personal fan, and he was right. We sat and ate curry-filled, chutney-dribbling naan rolls before seeing a classic American 1980s movie set to music. As one does.
Dinner was at Patsy’s, a legendary Italian spot in Midtown. It’s been around forever; the mood is big mirrors and mauve. There are pictures of “The Sopranos” cast and Florence Henderson on the walls. We were whisked upstairs next to a woman discussing her Passover plans to six attentive kids, a Billy Joel lookalike, and someone who looked like Lorraine Bracco’s sister. Clams in red sauce, soft loaves of bread, orange sorbet served inside a frozen orange, an amber Manhattan splashing over the martini glass, a Caesar salad with lemon and anchovy chopped with zero creativity but maximal expertise. The servers wore white aprons; the guests were happy and loud; the room was dim and hot, and here we all were, together.
After dinner, we persuaded our (bribed, phone-equipped) teen to watch his brother so we could go downstairs to the lobby bar, which just so happened to be the iconic Gallagher’s Steakhouse: trodden red carpet, lots of mahogany, big hair, big everything. Settling into that bar, Sinatra in the background and a framed picture of a beaming Dwight Eisenhower (why?) looking benignly down from a crimson wall, I could have been anyone and was everyone.
Stu the bartender took an instant liking to us, or maybe he was faking it, but I don’t want to know. We sat up tall at
Today’s dispatch is one of pure pleasure: the nuance, quirk, depth, charisma, swagger, and delight of the restaurant experience outside your comfort zone.
the bar like grown-ups and got a shiny chocolate cake and a margarita like kids who were being rewarded for a long day, next to a guy who ordered a beer and a banana split. Stu wore a white suit and an apron, and he worked the room with an authenticity that reminded me what a noble and niche calling hospitality is: He was a ballet dancer, socialite, everyman. We got to talking because he gets people to talking.
His kids go to Worcester State and Clark. He lives in West Orange, N.J. He’s been doing this for 38 years, starting in the Village; he pours a perfect spicy margarita. I won’t ever see Stu again, but I know he exists; this safety net of happiness and deliciousness in Manhattan — this reassuring and beautiful theater. I’ll say it again: Going out to eat is fantastic.