Be honest. How many of you have googled “restaurants with a good vibe” before a date or a guest comes to town? Because sometimes, there’s a type of New York City dinner that has nothing to do with the food - we’re looking for mood, for 19th-century sconces, for Aesop soap in the bathroom. But what if I told you we could do even better?

I’m Rose, and I write The Rose Period - a newsletter about the special, unusual, and slightly unexpected stories from the art world that you need to know. And today I’m letting you in on the art world’s open secret: the best canvases in the city aren’t hanging in a gallery. They’re painted directly onto the walls of your favorite dining rooms.

We’re talking murals - one of the oldest storytelling traditions in human history, and as it turns out, one of New York’s best-kept secrets.

So throw away your museum ticket. Make a reservation instead. Here are five NYC dining rooms with a secret worth keeping - and everything you need to know.

1. Old King Cole Bar - Maxfield Parrish, 1906

Head to the Old King Cole Bar at the St. Regis and beeline to a bar seat. Order a Red Snapper (the bar’s og name for the Bloody Mary, invented here) and settle into the real reason you came - the 30-foot mural behind the bar that’s been there since 1906.

Here’s the backstory: Railroad heir John Jacob Astor IV commissioned the famous illustrator Maxfield Parrish to paint it, with one condition: Astor’s own face had to be the King’s. Parrish, a Quaker abstinent who didn’t want his work in a bar and butted heads with Astor from the start, took the unheard of sum of $5,000 and got his revenge.

According to legend, the King — Astor— is depicted mid-flatulence. Every grimacing courtier has Parrish’s own face. Astor never let on that he knew!

The mural originally hung in Astor’s Knickerbocker Hotel. After Astor died on the Titanic in 1912 (yes…the Titanic!), it eventually landed here in the 1930s.

Use this for dinner conversation: Salvador Dalí checked into Room 1610 every winter in the 1960s - wife Gala, pet ocelot, and cape of dead bees in tow - and announced his arrival by throwing open the doors and shouting “DA-LÍ… IS… HERE.”

2. Bemelmans Bar — Ludwig Bemelmans, 1947

You might have to politely wait in line for Bemelmans Bar at The Carlyle alongside TikTok stars - but unlike them, you didn’t come for the $30 martinis (although they do come with a sidecar).

You came to feast your eyes on the sprawling mural by Ludwig Bemelmans - aka the Madeline guy.

In 1947, the Austrian-American illustrator behind the beloved Madeline children’s books painted the entire bar in exchange for 18 months of free accommodation at the hotel.

Take a closer look, and you’ll see he designed a whole universe: Central Park across all four seasons, rabbits in top hats, hippos in tutus, Madeline and her eleven friends in two straight lines. Somewhere to the right of the cash register, he painted himself in as a waiter holding the bill.

What I love most about this mural? You get a whole new chapter of an iconic children’s story. We can see what Bemelmans’ brain looked like outside of France - as if Madeline grew up, moved to New York, and yes, ordered that $30 martini with a sidecar for herself and her eleven friends.

Use this for dinner conversation: this is the only surviving public Bemelmans commission in existence - one of the few places in the world where you can sit inside an original Madeline universe.

3. The Waverly Inn — Edward Sorel, 2007

The Waverly Inn is the kind of West Village restaurant that makes you feel desperate to LIVE in the West Village - low ceilings, candlelight, and a dining room wrapped in New York legends.

In 2006, Vanity Fair editor Graydon Carter bought and revived the place - and commissioned American illustrator and satirist Edward Sorel to create the now iconic murals on the walls.

Sorel is famous for his sharply funny caricatures in publications like The New Yorker and Vanity Fair - and he went all in here.

He immortalized 40 Greenwich Village greats - Walt Whitman, Allen Ginsberg, Bob Dylan, Andy Warhol, Fran Lebowitz - in his signature style: loose, wickedly observant caricatures that almost feel more accurate than the photos.

Look closely, and you’ll spot Whitman being attacked by a Truman Capote butterfly, or Jane Jacobs, Gertrude Vanderbilt Whitney, and Willa Cather playing ring-around-the-rosy.

Use this for dinner conversation: the mural is basically a love letter to Greenwich Village - and to that old-world, bohemian version of New York the Waverly Inn has attracted since opening in 1920. Before Graydon Carter took it over, the inn had already lived several lives: tavern, bordello, tearoom - a place where poets, creatives, and beatniks came in troves. Robert Frost himself was once a regular.

4. The Monkey Bar — Edward Sorel 2009

Two years after the Waverly Inn, Graydon Carter brought Edward Sorel back - this time for Monkey Bar, the storied Midtown restaurant tucked inside the old Hotel Elysée that opened in 1936.

For the mural, Sorel turned his attention uptown. We’re talking roughly 60 Jazz Age and New York cultural legends - Billie Holiday singing into a microphone, Dorothy Parker side-eyeing the room with a cigarette in hand, Frank Sinatra holding court at the bar, critics gossiping over martinis and actors flirting across booths.

Sorel stages the whole thing like a chaotic Manhattan dinner party - everyone talking over each other, performing, gossiping, and scheming.

Use this for dinner conversation: This room has SEEN some things. Monday Bar is a legendary setting in The Catcher in the Rye (remember that scene where Holden tries (and fails) to pick someone up at the bar?!). And on a more somber note: Tennessee Williams died here in 1983, choking on a bottle cap in his suite upstairs.

5. Clemente Bar — Francesco Clemente, 2024

Eleven Madison Park is already one of the most celebrated restaurants in the world - and owner Daniel Humm decided to one-up himself by opening a cocktail bar upstairs last fall. Enter: Clemente Bar.

Instead of hanging art on the walls, Humm handed the entire room over to Italian painter Francesco Clemente, who painted directly onto the walls and ceilings himself.

Clemente filled the space with floating faces, surreal eyes, fragmented bodies, and washes of red, gold, black, and earth tones. You can still see the brushstrokes, drips, and uneven edges - the whole room feels alive.

There are two massive 17-foot murals, plus a ceiling painting above the staircase filled with swirling figures surrounding a giant eye. Behind the bar, another mural stretches across the walls in deep reds and golds. Nothing is framed - the paintings ARE the architecture.

Use this for dinner conversation: Daniel Humm has said he modeled Clemente Bar after Zurich’s legendary Kronenhalle, famous for its Picassos and Chagalls hanging on the walls. The difference here? Clemente didn’t lend the restaurant paintings - he literally painted the building itself.

6. F&F Restaurant — Julian Schnabel, 2024

F&F Restaurant is one of those great laidback corner spots. Great food, not snobby. And an original Julian Schnabel hangs in the barroom (yup, no big deal).

Haven’t heard of Schnabel before? Here’s the TLDR: he’s a prominent figure in the American Neo-Expressionism movement, alongside Jean-Michel Basquiat and Eric Fischl. He’s known for massive canvases strewn with color and found objects, and as a filmmaker whose work has won him awards at Cannes and the Golden Globes (and an Oscar nomination!).

Here’s the story: when the restaurant first opened, the celebrated painter and filmmaker asked to try their pizzas. So owners Frank Castronovo and Frank Falcinelli sent him a couple. Schnabel responded with “a little something,” a photo of a piece of art in one of his favorite hues, purple. He liked it so much, he had it framed and delivered.

Schnabel is in good company: famed abstract painter Ron Gorchov’s work hangs at F&F, too.

Use this for dinner conversation: Julian Schnabel and Ron Gorchov were fixtures of the New York art world for decades. Today, Gorchov’s estate is represented by Vito Schnabel, Julian’s son.

There you have it: 6 iconic restaurant murals to make your next dinner reservation around. Isn’t that just the magic of New York after all? Some of the city’s greatest artworks aren’t behind velvet ropes or protected by museum guards. They’re above your martini. Behind your burger. Hiding in plain sight while the rest of the room debates the crudo!

So the next time you go out to dinner in New York, look up. The best table in the city might also come with a masterpiece.

Sara Leveen is the co-owner and operator of the critically-acclaimed Vietnamese restaurant Hanoi House in New York’s East Village. Previously, she spent more than 15 years working for restaurateur Stephen Starr and his restaurant group, including leadership roles during the company’s expansion into New York, which included the openings of Buddakan and Morimoto in 2006. Sara took some time last week to tell us some of the things she’s learned running a busy, buzzy restaurant for nearly a decade, from lessons about finding the right partners to the importance of details and the right playlist.

• “Stay connected to your people as much as you can. Everything from meeting a prospective employee before they’re hired to checking in a month later to see how they’re acclimating and enjoying work. I learned this from Stephen [Starr]. He interviewed every server, bartender, and host candidate. He probably had 15 or 20 restaurants at the time.”

• “You cannot expect what you don’t inspect. If you need the underside of the bar well wiped, the floor fan turned on, and hot water poured down the drains to prevent fruit flies, you have to check it yourself.”

• “Don’t waste time trying to do something that someone else can do better and faster. If you can learn from them while that’s taking place, then everybody wins.”

• “Bring on partners who have significant skill sets that you do not. When you're looking for someone that you're going to be shoulder to shoulder with through the blood, sweat, and tears of doing an opening, where you work several months, sometimes a year straight, without days off, you really want to make sure that you're aligned in the vision and the goals with that person. It is really about being able to trust the person.”

• “Don’t do it for the money. You need to be motivated by the idea of employing and taking care of people and changing their lives, giving them a place that they can go to be seen, to feel safe, to learn.”

• “High turnover is one of the worst things that you can have in terms of quality of operations. It is expensive, but it also means less trained, less knowledgeable, less fulfilled staff doing a job.”

• “Sometimes the things that are the hardest to do are also the most rewarding. The item we became most popular for was not what we intended to be, which is the pho. It was one of many dishes that we believed paid homage to the city of Hanoi. We did it right, and it landed. People were drawn to it, and it became our identity. But it’s very labor-intensive and time-consuming. ”

• “Don’t do something that may save you money simply because you can get away with it. That means no shortcuts. Doing the right thing.

• “Restaurant jobs are not easy. They are not glorious. There’s a lot of dirty work, heavy lifting, and risk that lies beneath the surface you may not see as a diner. When we ask someone to do a job that requires them to work in those circumstances, it’s on us to balance that with treating them well, feeding them well, paying them well, and making them feel like they’re part of a family, not just someone hired to do a dirty job.”

• “Value is what drives the business overall. But value is... not just the price you pay for something and what you’re receiving on the plate; it is all the aspects of the service and dining experience that contribute to that value. Coming into contact with multiple people who are focused on your happiness adds to the feeling that money is well spent.”

• “Nothing matters more than maintaining food quality and consistency. There are countless ways to adapt to a changing market and evolving tastes. Keep your head down and grind towards that goal, and the noise disappears.”

• “Managing staff is a delicate balance. You have to create a comfortable environment where people can be themselves and forge strong friendships with their coworkers, while also demanding respect and workplace focus that reinforces that we are a business. Truthfully, I’m still working on that skill.”

• “Make sure there are no stray pieces of cilantro. This is Ben’s specialty. [Ben is Sara’s business partner and spouse]. He does so many thoughtful little things that no one ever sees or notices. He expedites a couple of shifts a week. He's the last person to see the food before it goes to the dining room, and it just always looks better with him.”

• “Keep that energy super high. As the restaurant builds up on a Friday or Saturday night, when we have more large parties, the music gets louder. You’re keeping that energy super high. On a Monday at 6 o’clock, it’s significantly lower, but the music itself is always audible. You can always say, “ Hey, wait, what is the song? I can hear the lyrics. We have a playlist we started in 2017. It’s a lovely hybrid of hip hop and reggae.”

Colin Camac (aka @resyguynyc) is officially Blackbird’s “Strategic Sales Lead,” and unofficially is our resident insider’s insider. He is out, on the town seven nights a week, sniffing out the city’s best joints, skateboard in one hand, martini in the other.

After a slight break in the action, I have to say it feels good to be back! This month was jam-packed with a ton of great meals and unusually heavy on some heavy-hitter sushi spots. I was also able to fit in a work trip to Chicago for the Utility conference put on by Tilt each year. Throw in an awesome Burger League meal, a few pop-ups, and new openings, and I have a pretty solid list of recommendations for May. We’re coming into the best time of the year to dine in NYC as the mass exodus approaches and the hard-to-get reservations become just a bit easier to attain. Hopefully, I can help you choose wisely.

Yoshino
📍East Village
🍽️ Japanese

Yoshino has been on my list of places to visit since it opened a few years back. One Michelin Star later and 4 from NYT by pedigree alone, it is considered one of the top omakase spots in NYC. Unlike some of the other top-rated restaurants in the city, I was able to score a fairly last-minute reservation for Friday night on Tuesday of the same week with my friend Phillip. Arriving at a nondescript door on Bowery, we were quickly seated in front of Chef Yoshida himself. Chef previously helmed a highly regarded omakase in Nagoya, Japan, called Sushi No Yoshino, known as the best sushiya in Japan outside Tokyo. This meal started with a bang, a small glass filled with seaweed, uni, and caviar that got everything going. For a high-priced spot, I thought they did a great job of alternating between high-end ingredients like caviar and more fun (for me) traditional bites such as abalone w/ uni sauce, Chef’s signature Saba (mackerel), and kohada (gizzard shad). They also served two of the more unique tomato preparations that I have seen. The first was a rolled omelet around eel, and then, at the end of the meal, another was a neatly cut rectangle of custard with a bit of brulee on top. Both were fantastic. I would highly recommend this place for a special occasion for any sushi lover.

Yugin
📍Midtown
🍽️ Japanese

I was lucky enough to be invited to try Yugin, which is a several-month-old omakase counter on the 60th floor of a private club on the edge of Central Park South. While the club is private, the restaurant is available to the public. Chef Yugin grew up in the Republic of Moldova, then cooked around the world before eventually becoming Masa's apprentice at Masa's flagship on Columbus Circle. For over 10 years, Chef worked his way up until he found the perfect spot for his own counter. What I loved about this experience was that the Chef strives to learn about his guests, and each diner does not receive the same meal. It goes back to the old-school style of omakase that nobody does anymore. Otsumami courses tend to be seasonally inspired and more improvisational, while nigiri follows a stricter traditional form. I absolutely loved this meal and thought all of the personal touches made it feel like a very special experience. For me, he pulled out five different types of hikarimono (silverfish) once I asked about it. Chef purposely keeps the fish hidden so he can surprise each guest with a meal tailored to their preferences. There is no other room in town with views like this. I will definitely be back.

Roll-O Dairy Bar @ Ghost Hawk Brewing Co
📍Clifton, New Jersey
🍽️ American

I had been following the enigmatic Rolo Dairy Bar online for a while now, sometimes barely catching their whereabouts in an Instagram story shortly before it vanished. The Dairy Bar refers to a small trailer from the 50’s that a chef serves food from, with a small paper menu hanging on the side. On this day, I set a reminder that it would be close enough for me to take a quick trip over to NJ to check it out. The menu consisted of an amazing burger, stuffed peppers, pickles of all kinds, and vanilla and sherbet twist ice cream topped with orange oil. Such a fun spot, can’t wait to track it down again. Bonus points that it was parked across the street from the world-famous Rutt’s Hut, and you could double down with some hot dogs before or after!

Raoul’s (Burger League)
📍Soho
🍽️ French Bistro

It had been a while since I was last at Raoul’s for a full meal, and Burger League was the perfect excuse to get back. Normally, the burgers here are extremely limited and only served at the bar, but for Blackbird Burger League, every table in the room gets one per person. I remember liking the burger the first time I tried it years ago, but this time was absolutely epic. The burger comes with a cracked peppercorn crust, triple cream cheese, dressed greens, red onion, cornichons, and an au poivre dipping sauce. Pair that with some of the best fries around, and it all works. I loved it so much, I was back within a week and snagged a bar seat to do it all again.

Cellar Door Provisions @ Ops
📍Bushwick
🍽️ Mediterranean

Ops is one of my favorite rooms to be in during the early evening hours when the light still hits the dining room just right; that is exactly why I was so excited to hear about them opening for (non-pizza) lunch one Sunday each month with a special guest for a reasonable prix fixe. This month, the team brought in Cellar Door Provisions from Chicago, and it was exactly what I was looking for: vegetable- and fish-forward, perfect for an early afternoon. We started with mussel conserva w/ soupy sorana beans and an aioli served with Ops amazing sourdough. Following that, we had wood-smoked asparagus with tarragon and blue cheese. My favorite dish of the meal, though, was a salt-roasted ocean trout from the pizza oven, impossibly tender, served with favas, pea shoots, and a sauce mousseline. The meal ended with rye and chocolate shortbread with sabayon.

Sushi Yasuda
📍Midtown East
🍽️ Japanese

As I’ve said before, long fancy lunches are my favorite, and Sushi Yasuda does it right. Yasuda was part of the first wave of the omakase craze, and even after a few chef changes, it is still great. Also, unlike most high-end omakase spots, it is open for lunch. Additionally, they offer à la carte options if you don’t feel like a real commitment, which is exceedingly rare nowadays. Highly recommended if you find yourself in Midtown, such a great way to spend an afternoon.

Holbox @ Corima
📍 Chinatown
🍽️ Mexican

I couldn’t wait for the Holbox/Corima collab dinner, so I hauled ass to Chinatown. Holbox is an amazing Mexican seafood restaurant in LA, and they were coming to town for one night only. The several-course menu was thoughtful, and a beverage pairing consisting of Agave, beer, and wine was well done. A chawanmushi with uni was a particularly fantastic bite, as well as one of their classic smoked kampachi tacos. Such a treat to catch them while they’re in town.

Vantre @ Claud
📍 East Village
🍽️ Modern

Vantre is one of my absolute favorite restaurants whenever I’m in Paris. When I found out they were coming to NYC for a pop-up at Claud, there was no chance I wouldn’t find a way to go. Claud does a ton of these and they do a great job of hosting awesome chefs from all over the world, this one was no exception. For these dinners, the team usually brings a few dishes and the rest of the menu is from the Claud team, it’s a really fun and smart way to do a pop-up without turning the whole place upside down. It was a fantastic meal and made me long for my next trip to Paris to get the full experience.

Dean’s
📍Soho
🍽️ British

After a lighter-than-usual meal at Claud for the pop-up, we went to check out Deans with Annie Shi (who had dined with us) as she had to go back to work. The place was bustling with the windows open wide onto 6th Ave, and feeling fantastic. We tried a few of the dishes that had been catching my eye: oysters & Guinness, scotch quail eggs, cold beef, fish & chips, and a few others. Such a great feeling place with an original concept that will definitely be in the rotation.

Quick hits, Pop-ups & New openings

Portillo’s & Barnelli’s
📍River North, Chicago
🍽️ Italian

First stop off the plane was a quick trip to Portillo’s, a few short walks from the apartment, for a classic Chicago dog. An institution that makes one of the best versions I’ve tried.

Gene & Georgetti
📍River North, Chicago
🍽️ Steakhouse

Going 80 years strong, this Italian Steakhouse is an old-school staple and definitely worth a visit if you’re in town. It’s full of solid food and old-school charm. I love Gene & Georgetti’s crab cake, baked clams, and roasted chicken with hot & sweet peppers and hot sausage.

The Loyalist
📍West Loop, Chicago
🍽️ New American

My final meal on my short trip to Chicago was at The Loyalist, located just below the 3-Michelin-starred Smyth. The subterranean space has a great feel with a large bar and booth seating around the room. My favorite bites here were easily the anchovy toast and the OG cheeseburger. Worth a stop if you’re in town.

The New York Public Library's online menu collection is a perfect rabbit hole for restaurant lovers to fall down. Got a few hours? It’s a fascinating and exhaustive record of dining out over nearly two centuries.

The Buttolph Collection, as it’s also known, consists of 45,000 menus, more than 17,000 of which have been digitized, the oldest dating to 1843. It’s named for Miss Frank E. Buttolph, an eccentric menu buff (and archivist) who wrote to restaurants to request copies of their menus and meticulously cataloged every one. She graciously donated her life’s work to the NYPL.

That 1843 menu? It was from the luxurious Astor House, and it was for a dining area reserved for “ladies.” The specials included clam soup, stewed mutton with turnips, and calf’s head with brain sauce. Breakfast started at 5:30 AM.

Menus are more than lists of foods and beverages. They’re a very specific kind of literature. They’re functional guides, yes, but every menu also tells a story about the time and place it existed. As a whole, the NYPL’s menu collection — which includes examples from Boston and Chicago — tells a specific culinary history: the birth and flourishing of American restaurants.

The ones that stand out include those from Delmonico’s, the father of American restaurants. There was nothing like it when it opened its doors in 1837. Before Delmonico’s, restaurants were found in hotels, seating was communal, and you ate what was served. Delmonico’s was inspired by European styles: it gave guests their own tables and took their orders. Its menus were massive and written in French, the language of the gourmand.

Delmonico’s wasn’t just the most popular restaurant in New York; it was the most famous restaurant in the country. For decades. And it inspired countless imitators; New York City has been crazy for restaurants ever since.

And then, while perusing, I found a menu for Smith & McNeil’s, which I then learned was the busiest restaurant-slash-dining hall in 19th-century New York. It was a massive operation that sat across from Washington Market, the city's trade center, in Lower Manhattan, where it served the masses until the 1920s. Founded in the late 1840s, Smith & McNeil reached its peak in the 1890s, reportedly serving 10,000 people a day. The turnover must have been madness: the floor seated 1,000 diners at a time. This wasn’t Delmonico’s; the menus were in plain English, and the goal was fast, hot, honest food. It’s a monster of a menu, and I’ve pored over it, imagining myself a Gilded Age gentleman ordering dinner amongst the rabble.

Here’s the menu, which is also reprinted below for those of you without reading glasses. It is exhaustive but filled with foods modern diners would definitely find palatable, if not delicious. Who doesn’t love corned beef hash and eggs?

The prices listed are pennies; adjusted for inflation, one dollar at the turn of the century is worth about $39 today. So a porterhouse steak that cost seventy cents would cost about $27 now. Reasonable!

Join me. What are you ordering? Little clam fritters? Lamb chops? Pumpkin pie? Sound off in the comments.

DINNER

WEDNESDAY, JANUARY 31, 1900

TO-DAY’S EXTRAS

Stewed Tripe with Onions $.15 · Boiled Turkey, Oyster Sauce $.30 · Boiled Beef, Horseradish Sauce $.15 · Roast Pork, Apple Sauce $.15 · Beef a la Mode $.15 · Chili Con Carne, Mexican Style $.15 · Beefsteak Pie $.15 · Boston Pot Roast $.25 · Frankfurter Sausages and Sauerkraut $.20 · Baked Chicken Pie $.20 · Ragout de Boeuf $.15 · Chicken Fricassee $.25 · Baked Ham, Champagne Sauce $.25 · Oyster Pie $.15 · Pork and Beans $.15 · Chicken Patty $.20 · Oyster Patty $.15

ROASTS Beef $.15 · Veal $.15 · Beef, Loin $.25 · Lamb $.15 · Beef Tenderloin $.25 · Pork $.15

SOUPS Green Turtle $.30 · Beef $.10 · Clam $.15 · Chicken $.15 · Vegetable $.10 · Mutton Barley $.10 · Ox-tail $.15 · Tomato $.10 · Pea $.10 · Clam Broth $.10 · Bean $.10

EGGS Sardines $.15 · Baked Halibut $.15

TO ORDER — FRIED OR BROILED Bluefish $.25 · Fish Cakes $.25 · Codfish $.25 · Salmon Steak $.30 · Halibut Steak $.25 · Picked-up Codfish $.25 · Salt Mackerel $.25 · Eels $.25 · Shad Fried or Broiled $.25 · Fried Smelts $.25 · Fresh Mackerel $.25 · Finnan Haddie $.25

BOILED Smoked Ham $.15 · Mutton, Plain $.15 · Corned Beef $.15 · Smoked Beef Tongue $.25 · Mutton, Caper Sauce $.20 · Corned Beef Hash $.15

POULTRY WITH APPLE SAUCE OR CRANBERRY SAUCE Roast Spring Chicken $.35 · Chicken Fricassee $.25 · Chicken, Broiled on Toast $.50 · Roast Spring Duck $.35 · Roast Turkey $.30 · Chicken, Fried, Vienna Style $.50

STEAKS AND CHOPS TO ORDER Porterhouse Steak $.70 · Bone Sirloin Steak $.50 · Top Sirloin Steak $.30 · Porterhouse Steak, Tomato Sauce $.75 · Sirloin Steak with Fried Potatoes $.25 · Porterhouse Steak with Mushrooms $.80 · Sirloin Steak, Tomato Sauce $.30 · Porterhouse Steak for Two $1.00 · with Tomato Sauce $1.05 · Rump Steak $.25 · Porterhouse Steak for Two with Mushrooms $1.15 · Rump Steak, Tomato Sauce $.30 · Tenderloin Steak $.40 · Pork Chops $.25 · Hamburger Steak $.25 · Tenderloin Steak, Tomato Sauce $.45 · Veal Cutlet, Plain or Breaded $.25 · Tenderloin Steak with Mushrooms $.50 · Ham Hash Browned $.15 · Corned Beef Hash, Browned $.15 · Country Sausages $.25 · Corned Beef Hash with One Poached Egg $.20 · English Mutton Chops, Single $.25 · Broiled or Fried Ham $.25 · English Mutton Chops, Brace $.40 · Pork Tenderloin $.25 · Rib of Veal, Single $.15 · Brace $.25 · Lamb Chops $.25 · Country Sausage $.25 · Broiled Pig’s Feet $.25 · Liver and Bacon $.25

EGGS Two Fried or Boiled $.15 · Three Poached Plain $.20 · Bacon and Eggs to Order $.25 · Three Fried or Boiled $.20 · Two Poached on Toast $.20 · Omelet, Ham or Oyster $.25 · Two Scrambled $.15 · Three Poached on Toast $.25 · Omelet, Plain $.20 · Three Scrambled $.20 · Frizzled Beef and Eggs $.25 · Omelet, Parsley $.25 · Two Poached Plain $.15 · Ham and Eggs to Order $.25 · Omelet, Rum $.25

VEGETABLES Stewed Tomatoes $.10 · Cauliflower $.15 · Lettuce $.10 · Potatoes, Fried to Order $.10 · Stewed Corn $.10 · Sliced Onions $.10 · Potatoes, French Fried $.10 · Green Peas $.10 · Extra Cabbage $.05 · Potatoes, Fried Saratoga $.10 · Succotash $.10 · Green Peas $.10 · Potatoes, Mashed $.05 · Spinach $.10 · Celery $.10 · Potatoes, Lyonnaise $.10 · Boiled Onions $.10 · Boiled Sweet Potatoes $.05 · Fried Sweet Potatoes $.10

LOBSTERS Broiled, Half $.30 · Whole $.50 · Stewed, Half $.30 · Whole $.50 · Plain, Half $.25 · Whole $.50

LAMB’S TONGUE $.10 · TWO $.15

NOTICE

Please Pay Your Check at the Door You Leave

Overcoats, Hats Etc. May Be Checked at the Greenwich Street Entrance.

The Proprietor is Not Responsible for Articles Not Checked.

OYSTERS AND CLAMS Raw $.20 · Saddle Rocks, Raw $.25 · Little Neck Clams, Raw, Half Shell $.20 · Raw, One Dozen $.30 · Saddle Rocks, One Dozen $.40 · Little Neck Clam Stew $.20 · Stew $.20 · Saddle Rock Stew $.35 · Little Neck Clam Fry $.25 · Box Stew $.25 · Saddle Rock Fry $.35 · Little Neck Clams, Baked $.30 · Milk Stew $.25 · Saddle Rock Broil $.35 · Little Neck Clam Roast $.25 · Fry $.25 · Saddle Rock Broil, Milk Toast $.40 · Little Neck Clams, Steamed $.25 · Steamed $.25 · Saddle Rock Pan Roast $.35 · Little Neck Clam Fritters $.25 · Oyster Omelet $.25 · Saddle Rock Roast, Half Shell $.40 · Soft Clam Stew $.20 · Broil with Cream $.30 · Saddle Rock Fancy Roast $.45 · Soft Clam Fry $.25 · Broil on Toast $.25 · Saddle Rocks, Steamed $.40 · Soft Clam Fritters $.25 · Broil on Milk Toast $.35 · Saddle Rocks, Fricasseed $.40 · Soft Clam Broil $.25 · Pan Roast $.30 · Saddle Rock Broil, Cream $.35 · Soft Clam Roast $.25 · Roast on Half Shell $.30 · Soft Clams, Cow Bay, Fry with Bacon $.25 · Fancy Roast $.30 · Fricasseed Oysters $.30 · Soft Clams, Steamed $.25 · Scallops, Fried or Broiled $.30

STEWS Stewed Tripe, to Order $.20 · Beef $.15 · Veal $.15 · Stewed Tripe with Oysters $.25 · Lamb $.15 · Oyster $.20 · Irish Stew $.15 · Lamb with Green Peas $.20 · Stewed Mushrooms $.25

COLD MEATS WITH POTATO SALAD Roast Duck $.35 · Roast Lamb $.15 · Smoked Beef Tongue $.25 · Corned Beef $.15 · Roast Chicken $.35 · Roast Veal $.15 · Ham $.15 · Turkey $.30 · Roast Beef, Loin $.25

SALADS Chicken $.25 · Celery $.05 · Lobster $.30 · Potato $.05 · Lettuce $.10

PUDDINGS — Wine with Puddings, $.05 Extra Apple $.10 · Bread $.10 · Plum $.10 · Bromangelon Jelly $.05 · Tapioca $.10 · Rice $.10 · Cold Rice $.10 · Apple Tapioca $.10 · Baked Suet $.10 · Catskill $.10 · Bird’s Nest $.10 · Apple Dumpling, Boiled $.10 · Apple Dumpling, Baked $.10

PIES Mince $.10 · Pumpkin $.10 · Apple $.10 · Cocoanut $.10 · Lemon Meringue $.10 · Custard $.10

Tea, Coffee and Chocolate, per Cup $.05 · per Pot $.10 · with Pitcher of Cream $.06 Extra · Vienna Coffee, per Cup $.10 · Postum Cereal Coffee $.05

TOAST Dry $.10 · Buttered $.10 · Milk $.15 · Cream $.20

GRIDDLE CAKES WITH MAPLE SYRUP OR STRAINED HONEY Rice Cakes $.10 · Wheat Cakes $.10 · Indian Cakes $.10 · Buckwheat Cakes $.10

DAIRY DISHES Oatmeal and Milk $.10 · Oatmeal, Bowl of Cream $.20 · Cup Custard $.10 · Rice and Milk $.10 · Milk per Glass $.05 · Cream, per Glass $.10 · Crackers (all kinds) and Milk $.10 · Milk, per Bowl $.05 · Cream, per Bowl $.15 · Rice and Pitcher of Cream $.10 · Oatmeal, Pitcher of Cream $.10 · Rice and Bowl of Cream $.20 · Bread and Milk $.10

WELSH RAREBIT $.20 · GOLDEN BUCK $.25

FANCY CAKES Jumbles $.05 · Raisin Cake $.05 · German Pancake $.20 · Wine Cake $.05 · French Pancake $.15 · Sponge Cake $.05 · Chocolate Eclair $.05 · Banana Cake $.05 · Cream Cake $.05

BREAD French · Oatmeal · Entire Wheat · Vienna · Rye and Gluten · Home-made · English Muffins, each $.05 · Health Bread

FRUIT AND PRESERVES Oranges, each $.05 · Apples, each $.05 · Apple Sauce $.05 · Canned Peaches $.10 · Hot Baked Apples $.10 · Canned Pears $.10 · Stewed Prunes $.05 · Stewed Apples $.05

ICE CREAM Vanilla $.10 · Chocolate $.10 · Strawberry $.10 · Lemon $.10 · Neapolitan $.10 · French $.15

GOLDEN RUSSET CIDER $.25 PER BOTTLE.

Without rules, society would collapse into chaos. That’s especially true when dining out, which requires a basic understanding of human decency. The entire restaurant experience is built on hungry flesh-and-blood strangers knowing how to behave. You might think you’re above such codes of conduct, but you’re not. No one is.

This is where The Supersonic’s Restaurant Do’s & Don’ts Vol. 1 comes in: a definitive, ever-evolving guide to eating with a little dignity. These are more than suggestions: manners are the only things separating us from banana-smashing rage monkeys.

Do you have any additions? Email us your personal dos and don'ts here. We’re out here doing God’s work.

👍 DO: Place your phone face down on the table. Hopefully, in the future, all restaurants will ban phones.

👎 DON’T: Answer a call. Step away. Step outside. Step anywhere that isn’t here. For the love of all that’s holy, do not subject the restaurant to your inane conversation.

👍 DO: Volunteer to make the reservation. It’s not that hard, but it’s nice to be the person who says, “I’ll make the resy.”

👎 DON’T: Ghost on that reservation. What are you, a monster?

👍 DO: Eat sushi in one bite. That’s how it’s done: the fish-to-rice ratio is designed for a single chomp.

👎 DON’T: Dip your sushi into your soy sauce multiple times. It’s not a Chicken McNugget. And remember: dip it (once) fish side down.

👍 DO: Walk in. Live dangerously! You may get lucky and score a two-top somewhere buzzy. There are cancellations all the time.

👎 DON’T: Turn your nose up at diners. Every place booked? Greasy spoons are built to feed folks on the go. You cannot go wrong with a BLT and a side of fries. Hey, get a chocolate milkshake while you’re at it.

👍 DO: Enjoy a long, lazy lunch. It was good enough for Don Draper.

👎 DON’T: Stop eating slop bowls. You’re busy, we get it. Grab a sandwich instead. Nobody should be eating $20 hubcaps full of bougie chow.

👍 DO: Get gussied up. When was the last time you put on a tie? Is there a little black dress that hasn’t been seen in public since last year? It’s okay to look nice.

👎 DON’T: Wear sweatpants. True story: every night of the week, someone wears their gym clothes to some upscale bistro, and it’s a vibe killer.

👍 DO: Stand in line. Why not? The aquachile verde is incredible.

👎 DON’T: Complain while standing in line. This is the price you pay for the incredible aquachile verde.

👍 DO: Make eye contact with your server. Yes, you have social anxiety. Who doesn’t? But when you’re in public, we really must insist you engage with other human beings.

👎 DON’T: Roll your eyes during the spiel. Listen to the specials. Appreciate a job well done. It’s part of the show.

👍 DO: Ask for a wine recommendation. Smile while you do it. This is fun. Why does everyone have to be an expert?

👎 DON’T: Slurp the wine when you taste it. Oh, you’re a sommelier? No? We know.

👍 DO: Order all the apps. Life is short. Spend the money — none of us are retiring anyway.

👎 DON’T: Order just the crudo. That’s barely a mouthful for one person.

👍 DO: Make yourself happy. You want chicken tendies? Great, get them.

👎 DON’T: Apologize for loving chicken tendies. They’re delicious. Do what you want.

👍 DO: Eat the table butter. First things first.

👎 DON’T: Ask for more bread. Unless you intend to eat it as well. And by all means, carb it up.

👍 DO: Tell a corny, off-color joke at the table. Don’t have a joke? Tell a funny story, instead. Ask a silly question. Once upon a time, before screens, we had to entertain each other. It’s a good thing.

👎 DON’T: Be obnoxious. You want them laughing with you, not cringing because you made it weird.

👍 DO: Make a mess. It’s BBQ, a shrimp boil, birria. Get in there. The handiwipe is there for a reason.

👎 DON’T: Eat the last splotch of guacamole with your fingers. Everyone gets why you’d do that, but don’t.

👍 DO: Bum a smoke after the meal. If you want.

👎 DON’T: Wonder why you smell like an ashtray. You made a choice. Choices have consequences. Etc.

👍 DO: Try new foods. Challenge yourself. Grow. After all, cultivating taste is about experiencing things you may not find palatable.

👎 DON’T: Spit out foods you don’t like. What, are you twelve? Don’t like the texture of okra? Too bad, swallow it down.

👍 DO: Finish the whole Italian sub. You know, the one with prosciutto, fresh mozzarella, hot soppressata, arugula, and hot pepper spread on Stirato bread.

👎 DON’T: Sheepishly say “I’ll finish the rest later.” It’s going to get soggy, anyway.

👍 DO: Order the damn dessert. And whatever you do, don’t say “I can’t” or “I shouldn’t.” You can, you should, one molten chocolate lava cake coming up.

👎DON’T: “Steal a bite.” That’s how you get stabbed with a fork. You should have ordered your own molten chocolate lava cake, but you didn’t. Live with your decisions.

👍 DO: Gnaw on the bones. Chicken wings are not meant to be nibbled. Chew on that cartilage, king.

👎 DON’T: Talk with your mouth full. This is something everyone should have learned as a child, but guess what? Not everyone did.

👍 DO: Tip 20%. It’s part of the ticket price. Every great meal you’ve ever had has been project-managed by a server who knows what they’re doing — attentive, friendly, keeping the train running on time.

👎 DON’T: Order DoorDash. That shit is so expensive now. There are always items missing, and the food arrives cold. Put on pants and go out into the world.

👍 DO: Say please. For instance: “Can we get the check, please?”

👎 DON’T: Ask for the check by scribbling your signature in the air. No one — absolutely no one — likes a mime.

👍 DO: Ask for extra mayo. You never can have enough. If anyone asks, tell them this is how it’s done “in Europe” before dipping your fry.

👎 DON’T: Get mayo shamed. There are going to be people in your life who will attempt to “yuck your yum.” Do not let them.

👍 DO: Grab a nightcap. What is a nightcap? It’s the way old school hedonists did it: one more for the road. A final little drinky-poo.

👎 DON’T: Close the bar. Unless that’s the plan. If that’s the plan, good for you. YOLO.

👍 DO: Join Blackbird. Eat out. Earn rewards. Life is good.

👎 DON’T: Forget to tap the puck.

Jeremy Salamon is the Beard-nominated chef/owner of Brooklyn’s Agi’s Counter. And he’s hiring. In a recent Instagram post, Salamon shared some straight talk on the current recruiting season. He doesn’t hold back, and it’s a breath of fresh air. With his permission, we’re republishing it. Drop your take in the comments.

I gotta be honest, and I can really only speak for the restaurant industry, or at least my small corner of Brooklyn, but this hiring cycle has been eye-opening.

A few candid thoughts for cooks applying to leadership roles (but not limited to):

• Three months at a pop-up or casual spot without prior experience does not automatically equal professional kitchen or leadership experience. There’s nothing wrong with being newer to the industry, but honesty matters. Don’t lie on your résumé. People figure it out quickly.

• Consistency matters. Personally, I’d rather see someone grow and stay in one place for a few years than bounce between impressive names every six months. Reliability, humility, and growth say more to me than prestige.

• Please don’t put trails on your résumé as work experience. A trail is exposure, not employment. It’s like listing the places you interviewed at. Clarifying that internships (paid or unpaid) and volunteer opportunities are great to list!

A chef once told me, “I’d rather hire the grill cook from Five Guys who worked there for five years than the one-year cook from Eleven Madison Park.” That still rings true to me.

• Dress for the job you want. Maybe that sounds old school, but presentation matters. You don’t need a suit, but showing up to an interview in an oversized, torn sweatshirt tells me something immediately.

• If you’re coming in for a trial, show up prepared. Bring a notebook. Bring your knives if you have them. Be ready to listen, learn, take notes, and work cleanly.

• Don’t spend your interview talking badly about your previous chef, restaurant, or coworkers. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth immediately. Every kitchen has challenges, but professionalism matters.

And for anyone reading this: the NYC restaurant industry is very small. It may seem huge, but everybody knows each other one way or another. Reputations travel fast. Be mindful of how you carry yourself.

• Small independent restaurants are doing the best they can. Most of us cannot afford $40/hour line cooks. But you should absolutely and always advocate for yourself professionally.

• If the compensation or schedule doesn’t work for you, say so. Communicate. No chef or owner is a mind reader. Clear communication is one of the biggest things that sets people apart.

• If you already work another full-time job, try to disclose that upfront. There’s zero judgment. This industry is hard, and people do what they need to do. That being said, burnout is real. Some people can do it, some can’t. What matters is honesty, self-awareness, and consistently showing up ready to work.

• And for the cooks applying right now: don’t lose heart. You’ll have bad trails, awkward interviews, services that humble you, and jobs that aren’t the right fit. That’s part of it. The cooks who last are rarely the loudest or flashiest. They’re the ones who keep showing up. The ones who stay curious, move with humility, ask questions, communicate honestly, and quietly get better over time. There is a kitchen for you out there, one where your rhythm, your personality, your cooking make sense. Keep showing up. Keep cooking. The right opportunities will come.

At the end of the day, every chef and owner I know is looking for the same thing: someone reliable, communicative, hardworking. Skills can be taught. Attitude, consistency, and professionalism are a lot harder to teach.

With all that being said… Agi’s is hiring, and I really would love to meet you! This is not to scare anyone off; I am tired of seeing the same thing over and over again. I know I’m not only speaking for myself here.

Jeff Ayars heads video at Blackbird, produces independent films, and formerly field-produced stories for MSNBC and NBC News.

On a sweaty night last July, I went restaurant-hopping with wunderkind chef Marcin Król in anticipation of his pop-up collaboration with Blackbird. I had recently acquired the go-to camera of the performative male community, and was duty-bound to document every morsel that hit the table. Dishes were rotated, hands were frozen, chopsticks were balanced. I accepted my position as Vibe-Killer-In-Chief. Does that lemon have another squeeze left? Can the coup glass have more condensation? Strike the seafood tower — the ice looks like it’s from AMC.

For a little while, though, snapping such photos scratched my cinematic itch.

Then, suddenly, I was struck with an existential question: “why?” Why was I trying so hard? Don’t we all know that trying isn’t cool? Or, more to the point of this piece: does anyone really want to see, let alone believe, your perfectly orchestrated food porn that serves no greater purpose than a grating social media flex?

I happened to catch the precise retort to my question in 47.3 megapixels: Chef Król absentmindedly using his (outdated) iPhone to snap a single shot. Done. Back to eating. Dude was locked, in the zone, with no time for performative documentation.

If this article has made its way to you, I’d wager you’re likely responsible for a handful of the 1.5 trillion photos taken per year — an estimated 85 billion of which are of food. That’s over two-thousand photos every second.

Should we stop this madness? Yes! But of course we won’t. The only alternative is to photograph our food in a more nonchalant way. So, whether said photos wind up on your grid, in a magazine spread, or rotting in your digital waste bin, I humbly present the following suggestions as someone who lets food get cold for a living.

Pretty food, ugly flash
The low-hanging fruit. Use your iPhone or the early aughts point-and-shoot that you just overpaid for on eBay. This has already saturated faux-casual culture, so limit yourself to one shot. Nothing says try-hard like blinding your server.

“I’m good, but I’m busy.”
If you insist on retaining some artistic integrity, grab the frame just after the perfect frame. Yes, you can set your blocking, dial in your light, line it up — but then miss it and move on.

Or miss the dish entirely
“I’m so busy (and present and grateful) that I totally forgot.”

The work flex
You’re not bragging, you’re so busy and this is all room service had.

The high-low
“I can’t resist but I’m self-aware.”

The confessional
Raw. Shameful. A cacio e pepe is as hard to photograph as it is to eat, but you can hear the antacids rattling into my hand.

Pure cinema
No amount of preparation could have achieved this, my most memorable food moment of the last seven years. The sunset, the graffiti, the waste, the temptation. Why didn’t they finish it? Where did they go? Why wasn’t I invited? The photo below is the only version that I found. I didn’t bother to adjust my shadow or crouch for a closeup. The result? An effortless snap that my adversary, Monsieur Marcin, might have taken.

But back to my night with Marcin

Like all art—and, yes, in this case I am really stretching the definition to include our ‘phone eats first’ shots—sometimes it’s what we choose to leave out that tells as much as what we include. Case in point: my night out last summer. Gun to my head, I couldn’t tell you what I ate that night. But my best photo? Sure. It’s this slapdash shot of Chef Król stealing the last seat from me at Sip & Guzzle, which captures the vibe of that evening better than any perfectly-framed food photo could have. Sometimes nice guys finish last, and nice photos don’t do numbies. In the end, I didn’t get my nightcap, I certainly didn’t photograph it, and yet I slept like a baby.

My advice? Don’t try. But if you must, make sure nobody knows.

Baker. Grocer. Mensch. Eli Zabar is a man who needs no introduction, especially here in his hometown of NYC. We caught up with the OG Foodie (a term we are sure would make him bristle) in a corner booth at his eponymous UES spot Eli’s Table to talk Parisian power lunches, the transcendence of a simple, honest meal, and why he loathes black and white cookies.

My mother wasn’t a very good cook, and she didn’t cook many different things, but she made copious amounts. Dinner wasn’t complete without a couple of boiled chickens, couple of roasted chickens, then there would be boiled beef, and this is all the same meal. We had a house up in the country. There was a farmer across the road. My brother Stanley would run out and get the corn. They’d just picked it, you know, and he’d run home with it, and so we had corn, and there was always some vegetables and these platters of steaks, grilled steaks.

This was in Putnam County, in an area called Mohegan Colony. Mostly full of real lefties, communists. My parents would invite everybody to come over. We were in the food business, so we had tons of food, Sunday morning bagels and lox and white fish and herring, different kinds of herring, rye bread, thick sliced rye bread, all in copious amounts. Men would talk politics. It was loud. I was five, six years old. My parents spoke English to me, but spoke Yiddish among the group, and sometimes Russian. This was 1949, 1950, the war wasn’t so far behind. That’s my first association with food.

The first time I had real French food, in France, I was 17. I was with a friend of mine. We were on a bike trip through Europe. Stopping in little villages, sleeping where we could. I remember going to a grocery store. I remember buying a baguette and a Camembert, and I remember opening that Camembert. It had a kind of raw milk smell that I’d never experienced before. That slightly barnyard smell that comes from raw milk. It wasn’t even ripe all the way through. It had a little chalkiness, and still it was delicious. I was 17. We were on bikes. I was free.

The original La Petite Ferme was down in Greenwich Village, and it was owned by this French guy whose family came from Burgundy. Let me talk about this place, okay. It was down on, like, Charles Street, where the Village could still be extremely charming. It was very small, very few choices on the menu. And they had cuckoo birds. They had birds in cages that were cooing during the meal. I mean, it was very rustic. This was a gay guy who had extraordinary taste and everything was really delicious. It was so simple, like, big bowls of mussels in kind of a vinaigrette with red onion served at room temperature. Doesn’t sound interesting, but they were delicious. I loved that place. They eventually came up here to 71st on Lexington and it failed. But there was a time, you know, that Jackie Onassis went there. Society went there, but it was really, really good and full of its own style.

There was a place called Steinberg’s Dairy Restaurant between 81st and 82nd on Broadway. There was a time when, you know, in the 1920s, ‘30s, ‘40s, if you were Jewish and upwardly mobile, that’s where you lived. Riverside Drive. West End. Sometimes on Broadway. Otherwise over on Central Park West. That was the mecca of wealth. There were all kinds of restaurants and one of them was this dairy restaurant called Steinberg’s. They only made dairy. They made the most delicious blueberry blintzes, and they were crispy. They were fried. My mother made blintzes, and they were very good, but they were soft. Steinberg’s only made them with cheese. They made them with blueberries, and they served them with sour cream. That was absolutely delicious. I would go with my two brothers. I was a kid. It lasted until I was about 18.

They had maybe a 20-foot mural. A mural, a painting, on the wall. It was very New York, very 1920s kind of WPA project from the Depression. It was of young people under the George Washington Bridge having a picnic. I remember it so well because in the end, when the restaurant closed and the building got sold, one of my brothers bought the building and took the mural. Now it’s in his dining room. Every time I go over there, I see it and it brings back memories.

We have a house down in the Provence area, and I have a big wood fired, kind of pizza oven that looks like it’s been there since the Middle Ages, but we actually installed it. It’s outside. I’ve never turned on the oven inside the house. I demand that everything we make has to be cooked in this oven. It’s kind of a discipline to make things the old way. If you want to bake pastry in this oven, you’ve got to wait to the very, very end when the fire has actually gone away, and the oven is still basically a little hot. And you know it by feeling it, by feeling the temperature. And let me tell you, I’ve screwed up so many things in that oven. I’ve burnt my bread a thousand times. I love it when Oliver comes. My sons Oliver and Sasha, they’re very careful. I’m burning things left and right, and they’re very careful. I make bread every day.

I used to be a slave to the bread making process. Because bread, bread doesn’t wait. Everything had natural yeast, a natural starter, sourdough, you know, when it’s ready, it’s ready. It’s like a soufflé. You’re ready for it. It’s not ready for you. I keep playing with the flour. I keep playing, playing with the grains. I get the amount of water and the amount of mother. It takes about five days for the mother—which has been sitting in the refrigerator since I left in September of the year before—to kind of revitalize itself. Maybe a week. Sometimes, after three days, I begin to think it’s dead and it’s not going to come back. I have sleepless evenings over that. And finally, it does, it does come back.

I’ve been yelled at so many times at markets in France. Thousands of times! I like to eat little things along the way. The French don’t like that. It’s not part of their culture. To give samples. It’s very rare. It’s not like when you go to farmers markets here in New York. I’ve gotten severely embarrassed. I mean embarrassed. Called out. I wish to disappear. I’ve been called out so many times that my wife won’t go with me to a market without a promise that I won’t touch anything.

It’s very hard to find fresh peas. You’ve got to take a pod or two, you know, stick your hand in and open it up, eat the pea. I mean, otherwise they taste woody. No, I taste everything as I’m going through the market.

There’s a big chocolatier in Zurich called Sprüngli. I walked in and on the shelf right behind one of the women working there they had challahs. So, okay, so I brought this challah. I ended up making bread pudding with in in Paris with Joanne. Johanne Killeen. She’s my wine wife. She owns Al Forno restaurant in Providence, Rhode Island, which is arguably one of the most delicious restaurants in America. They’re not actually in Providence. You’ve got to go over a bridge to get there. Her husband, George, who passed away about six or eight years ago, invented this grilled pizza. It’s very, very thin, and they do it on a grill, on a charcoal grill, and it burns a little bit. And they put all kinds of toppings on it. It’s a vernacular. It’s Italian. It’s, you know, Providence is like Italian. It’s Portuguese, but it’s like American Italian. George came from Yonkers, you know. He and Johanne, they’re not Italian, but they’ve spent so much time in Italy that they kind of married the most, finest, and delicious aspects of Italy with this, with the vernacular, the American vernacular of Italian food. So they come up with something that’s totally delicious. Portions are enormous. It’s a unique, unique place in America.

I had my birthday at Troisgros a few years back. And I’d say, of all of the quote ‘fancy restaurants,’ that one stands head and shoulders above every one of them. Why? Because it’s a family restaurant, and that kind of hospitality is true hospitality. They care about you, and they talk to you like they care about you and they treat you like they care about you, like you’re going into somebody’s home. There’s no other restaurant like it. It’s about an hour, an hour and a half southwest of Lyon. It’s famous, three Michelin stars, but I’m not interested in most of those kinds of meals. But I love this place. I went there for the first time when I was about 31 or 32 years old. The family had a hotel for many generations, and they had a restaurant downstairs. The father’s two sons had taken over the place and had built it into something very special. I remember staying there for four or five days. I told one of the two brothers, I said, ‘I’m in the business,’ even though I’d only been in business for a couple of years. He said, ‘well, come with me to market. If you can get up at five, we’ll go to the market together.’ He had a little French van, you know, and we went to the market. I helped him carry the cheeses and helped him carry the meat. I helped him carry things into this van. And when I left, he gave me a bundle of Havana cigars. They came wrapped together with a ribbon. It was a bundle. It was like a gift. It’s that spirit, that spirit of giving back. I would say, that was among my inspirations for my whole life. And it confirmed what I thought good food was.

I don’t think anybody should be at the table for more than an hour and a half or two hours. Unless you’re with the most boisterous, wonderful group of buddies, and then it doesn’t make any difference what you’re eating, right? But a Michelin-starred restaurant, that’s not the kind of place you’re going to have that experience.

I’m looking for very simple food, just very simple food, well prepared. I mean, where it appears that not much has been done to it. But in fact, there’s been a great amount of thought to getting it exactly right, right in terms of… it’s hard to describe where everything kind of works because, you know, it’s an amalgam of a lot of different things. When you talk about meals, you’re talking about putting a lot of different things together. It’s not just the food, it’s the glasses. It’s the glass. It’s the wine list. It’s the choice of wines on the list. It’s a million things. Very few places really put the whole picture together. I, as I said, I think Troisgros puts the whole picture together.

There are lots of places that I like here in the city. I like Penny a lot, okay? And I like Claud a lot. I like the lobster at Penny. I like that it’s cooked there. It’s not like they made it mise en place a couple of hours ago, and then dip it in some warm broth before it comes out. I mean, it’s, like, made there, and it’s right.

Parcelles is a restaurant in Paris. The menu hardly ever changes. It’s got a few appetizers and a few main courses. I like it. I like the wines. I like the glasses. I like the true energy, the true understanding of the people that work there. I don’t even know their names. They probably change. And, you know, I order the same things every time I go, the menu doesn’t change a whole lot.

What else? What could I tell you? Where are we in this thing, in terms of restaurants, places, meals? My twins, Oliver and Sasha, it’s great coming together with them, because they actually bring a new, a young vibe to it, and they appreciate things. We went over to Sushi Noz — you gotta go there. The guy makes it all fresh, right? I went there with Sasha. It was a Sunday, four o’clock. They were going to the movies, and before they went to the movies, they were going there. So I met them there.

Le Griffonnier is a place in Paris that you’ve got to go to. It’s right off the Élysée Palace. It only serves lunch, and it’s like three guys hustling as fast as they can. It’s like Paris’ Midtown Power Lunch place. Everybody is wearing suits, smoking cigarettes, drinking wine. It’s not expensive. They have a little table right outside the door for the smokers to eat, and every time you want to leave, one of the three people at the table has to move. They have to stand up in order to get the door open. The place is packed, okay? Everybody’s, like, very French. It’s about 70 percent men, 3 percent women. And the women, they know it. They’ve been there. They’re treated like men, you know? It’s a very cool. One of my closest French friends, who’s in the wine business, took me there. Every March, his friend of mine and I and Oliver and Johanne, my wine wife, we go there, we go have this lunch. We look forward to this lunch.

I like Shake Shack. I like that crispy burger. And a vanilla milkshake. I love a vanilla milkshake with a heavy dose of ice cream, mostly ice cream, not too much.

I have the lowest possible opinion of people who like black and white cookies. I mean, listen, I make, we make black and white cookies. We have guys in my pastry shop making black and white cookies all day long. We just spent, like, $60,000 on a machine that can make the batter that we can bake into black and white cookies. But I’ll go back to my earlier statement. I have the lowest possible opinion of anybody who likes a black and white cookie. I like cookies that have lots of butter in them. There’s no black and white recipe that has that. They make them with oil or margarine or shortening. I mean, it’s a goyish American affectation. Having said that, my wife loves black and white cookies. My kids, too.

There’s this American guy in Paris, he’s 25 and he opened a little tiny bakery. His name is Jack Henry. The bakery is, like, very narrow. He works all day long by himself. He apprenticed at some very interesting places. He worked on the line at Estela when he was, like, 16 or something. I mean this guy, so he makes this kind of whole grain buttery cookie that’s crunchy, crunchy, and then he puts a filling of leeks that he’s cooked in butter and some greens and some other stuff, and he covers it with another cookie, so it’s rectangular, and it comes out of the oven and he crimps the edges. When that comes out of the oven and you eat that, that crunchy, that butteriness… it’s absolutely delicious. He’s on Rue de Tournon, down from the Luxembourg Gardens. I don’t know how he makes a living, but it’s cool.

This was great. It’s… it’s free association. It’s like therapy. Thank you.

To say we live in an uptight era just might be the understatement of the year. Drinking and socializing are out. Self-optimization is in (we see you, bro). You can blame all this on doomscrolling, dating apps, fear of AI, the paradox of choice — the list goes on and on.

Our collective uptightness applies to dining, too. The hot table, bucket list restaurants, the must-have (and document!) viral dish. This is nothing particularly new. Countless apps and content series have made us all culinary experts, trekking the world like roving gourmands with our smart phones firmly in hand. And most of the time, we condone this type of behavior! Being gastronomically adventurous is a good thing, for both guests and restaurants alike. However, the downside of this means we’ve all become—on some level—insufferable, hype-chasing snobs. There comes a time when we could all just…relax.

Well, that time is now. Below, our proposal for 25 simple restaurant pleasures to abide by this spring when you just want to get back to the basics and dine like no one’s watching.

25.) Put your phone away
We’ll dispense with the obvious first, aka a sin of which we’re all guilty. You’re there with people you actually want to be with, right? And if you’re alone, eat, imbibe, and people watch, just like olden times.

24.) No work talk
Even at a business dinner! Also: forget humble bragging about being busy, it’s tacky.

23.) Never modify your meal
You are not the chef, and in the chef you trust.

22.) Don’t nitpick reservation times
A hotspot can take you at 10:30 p.m. on Sunday? Great, accept the reservation. Go ingratiate yourself and maybe next time they’ll seat you at a more reasonable hour. Big things have small beginnings.

21.) Wait on a line
There’s a reason why Via Carota and other iconic/dependable spots of its ilk always have folks queued up. You are not smarter or savvier than them. Go join the fray. It’s worth it.

20.) Make friendly eye contact
This applies to everyone working at the restaurant you’re patronizing.

19.) Have a cocktail order
A go-to drink signals something about yourself to the rest of the world. You’re confident. Consistent. You live by a code. Don’t look at the menu. Don’t ask annoying questions. Order. Drink. Rinse and repeat.

18.) Don’t split the bill
Going Dutch and itemizing everything is for cheapskates. Once in a while, cover the whole shebang, even if you didn’t have an appetizer and only swilled one glass of wine. Live large. The good karma will return to you in spades.

17.) Or your entree
Order decisively and eat with no regrets.

16.) A salad cancels out the order of fries
Just ask RFK, Jr.

15.) Forget the valet
Get some steps in!

14.) Have a finely-tuned fried chicken radar
You should know the best fried chicken sandwich within a 10 mile radius of your home.

13.) Embrace mid pizza
No, not all the time. But have a mid pizza joint in your rotation that never has a line and always serves acceptable slices.

12.) Don’t read internet reviews
Or write your own. Not everyone needs to be a critic.

11.) Always do an amaro
Bonus points if you use it to wash down an affogato.

10.) Ask for more bread
“Don’t fill up,” they say. That will never happen…

9.) Fridays are for liquid lunch
Get your work done and get out of the office. Drink good wine while it’s still light out.

8.) And conduct an affair while you’re there
If you must, of course. Just ask the French. Look for a sleepy little joint where you won’t be spotted making eyes at each other.

7.) Tap water is fine
So is the house red.

6.) Ask for a bottle of A-1
Go ahead. It’s your steak.

5.) Be a regular at a local spot
Just don’t bring your first dates there.

4.) Have an order
What applies to drinks applies to meals, too. Are you club sandwich coded? A shrimp cocktail fiend? Steak frites toujours? Pick a lane.

3.) Say ‘yes’ to meatballs
Bolognese, too. These are the meals sure to coax out that inner child your therapist says you’ve long been neglecting.

2.) Good meals are like good sex…
They should always conclude with a cigarette.

1.) Linger over lunch
In a world rife with self-optimization mania, a leisurely meal and nowhere else to be signals the ultimate in luxury. Plus if it’s lunch, the restaurant staff isn’t trying to turn tables. Stay until the sun sets. Just make sure to keep ordering, and do tip well.

Colin Camac (aka @resyguynyc) is officially Blackbird’s “Strategic Sales Lead,” and unofficially is our resident insider’s insider. He is out, on the town seven nights a week, sniffing out the city’s best joints, skateboard in one hand, martini in the other.

After a whirlwind week in Mexico, my girlfriend Marcela and I returned to NYC to do what we do best, namely, check out spots new and old. Needless to say, the two weeks below did not disappoint, and I was able to congregate with many of my favorite folks in the industry. All of which made the inclement weather more than manageable.

All the restaurants and bars below our worth first time or repeat visits, so add ‘em to your list, friends.

Colin

Coqodaq
📍 Flatiron
🍽️ Korean

Why I Ate Here: Last minute invite when friends’ table had extra seats after people left early to beat the snow. Simon Kim’s temple to Korean fried chicken is always a fun landing spot, especially on a chaotic weather night.

Who I Ate With: Lala (host of Put It In My Mouth podcast), Marcela, Lucy (Steak Club / The Wild Honey Pie), and my friend Gloria who was in town from LA for work.

What I Ate: Champagne picked by sommelier Fred, caesar salad, 24 karat nuggs topped with caviar (a must), regular and soy garlic chicken (my preference over gochujang), cold perilla noodles, and soft serve before heading back out into the snow.

Bistrot Ha
📍Lower East Side
🍽️ French-Vietnamese

Why I Ate Here: After years as a pop-up and then a snack bar, the Ha’s team opened their first full restaurant — one of the most hyped openings of the year.

Who I Ate With: Emmett Burke (owner of Emmett’s).

What I Ate: Bright, punchy dishes heavy on fish sauce, lime and chilies. Sticky rice with pork and foie in fish sauce with pickles was the standout. Also crab salad eclair, leeks vinaigrette with mussels, and profiteroles.

Corima (Eliane pop-up)
📍 Mexican
🍽️ Chinatown

Why I Ate Here: Pop-up from Kobe Desramaults of Eliane and In de Wulf, hosted at one of my favorite restaurants in NYC.

Who I Ate With: Phillip Kirschen-Clark (chef/owner of Phillip Marie).

What I Ate: Corima’s house flour tortilla (the best here), potato with caviar, turbot in reduced mussel sauce. Curveballs included a brain taco and mushroom and abalone tostada. Mezcal throughout.

Chin Up Bar
📍 Nolita
🍽️ Cocktail Bar

Why I Ate Here: Brand new LES gin-focused bar — one of my two spirits of choice.

Who I Ate With: Jenna Ransom (artist) and Chef Phillip Kirschen-Clark.

What I Ate: Perfectly made house martini and a dealer’s choice cocktail with gin, curry, coconut, apricot and lime. Fried clams and a strong raw bar.

Le Veau d’Or
📍Upper East Side
🍽️ French

Why I Ate Here: Team lunch done properly at one of my favorite dining rooms in the city.

Who I Ate With: Timothy & Rachel (Blackbird team).

What I Ate: Salade lyonnaise, pate en croute (a must), steak frites, and poulet roti over mashed potatoes. Always fantastic service.

For All Things Good (TJ Steele pop-up)
📍 Bed-Stuy
🍽️ Mexican

Why I Ate Here: TJ Steele (chef/owner of Claro) doing a memelas pop-up at the Bed-Stuy molino.

Who I Ate With: My friend Thalia.

What I Ate: All five memelas. Pork rib over beans with cotija was my favorite. Soft braised chicharron prepared like trippa alla romana was a really fun play.

Superiority Burger
📍 East Village
🍽️ Vegetarian

Why I Ate Here: Presidents Day meeting in the East Village — stopped in for their underrated lunch service.

Who I Ate With: Marcela.

What I Ate: “The Ezekial 4:9 grilled cheese w/ pickled Norwich Farms daikon & carrots,” with creamed cabbage hidden inside and tangy pickles on the side. Incredible fries.

Moon & Back
📍 West Village
🍽️ Thai

Why I Ate Here: Valentine’s Day lunch wandering the Village looking for somewhere not insane.

Who I Ate With: The arcela.

What I Ate: Giant prawn with green nam jim and fried watercress salad, chicken & shrimp dumplings, khao soi that brought me back to Chiang Mai, and pork blood larb with dill.

Kees
📍 West Village
🍽️ Cocktail Bar

Why I Ate Here: Friends from PDT & Mixteca opened their long-awaited high-end bar.

Who I Ate With: Sarah (VP at Boka Restaurant Group).

What I Drank: Fancy vesper with Grey Goose, Tanqueray 10 and Chateau d’Yquem. Mini mezcal negronis with Del Maguey Tobala. Large backbar heavy on brown spirits.

Noz 17
📍 Chelsea
🍽️ Japanese

Why I Ate Here: Belated birthday dinner; downtown location of Sushi Noz with a shorter, more nigiri-focused format.

Who I Ate With: Sarah (VP at Boka Restaurant Group).

WhThe at I Ate: Kohada, young sea bream, bottarga with grilled mochi wrapped in nori, shirasu handroll with anchovy sauce, custardy tamago.

Bar Bianchi
📍 East Village
🍽️ Italian

Why I Ate Here: Industry family meal hosted by Jamie Gordon, longtime industry bar vet.

Who I Ate With: TJ Lynch (co-owner of Mother’s Ruin), Naama & Assaf Tamir (Lighthouse), Will Wyatt & Alex Thaboua (Electric Burrito / El Camino / High Life Burger).

What I Ate: Martinis, fantastic breadsticks, caesar salad, and a large serving of lasagna.

Golden Steer NYC
📍 Greenwich Village
🍽️ Steakhouse

Why I Ate Here: Las Vegas steakhouse import; excited to see how it translated to NYC.

Who I Ate With: Steak Club and Alexandra Shapiro (Hoexter’s / Flex Mussels).

What I Ate: Shrimp cocktail, oyster shooters, tableside caesar and wedge, tomahawk and porterhouse medium rare (preferred the char on the tomahawk), and tableside bananas foster.

Schmuck
📍 East Village
🍽️ Cocktail Bar

Why I Ate Here: Post-event stop; Barcelona import built to feel like several rooms in a large home.

Who I Ate With: Jamie Skrocki (runs memberships at ZZ’s Club).

What I Ate: Martini variation with blended vermouths topped with olive oil drops. Savory, food-inspired cocktails — I’ll be back for the Thai larb one.

I have seen every movie nominated for an Oscar this year because I spend a great deal of my free time at movie theaters with reclining seats and full-service menus.

I don’t know if I’m a cinephile, per se. I don’t have a Letterboxd account. I will watch almost anything: horror, action, period dramas. Mostly, I just like to emotionally eat in the dark. This isn’t a hobby or a coping mechanism. I need this. It’s my thing. My kink, though I don’t think it’s rooted in childhood trauma or anything particularly Freudian. I’m not going to write “don’t judge me,” because I don’t care if you judge me.

I gotta house this chicken goat cheese wrap while Jesse Buckley cries about her dead son.

When I’m sitting in a movie theater, cramming an overstuffed smashburger into my face, I am relieved of the burden of civilization. I can truly be my truest, most honest, and grotesque self.

The only person I have to make eye contact with is Leo DiCaprio’s giant head projected on a silver screen. I can disappear while sucking BBQ sauce off my fingers.

It’s a liberating act of radical surrender.

As a rule, I feel immense social pressure to wipe mayonnaise or hummus or Gochujang-paste from my beard when I’m in public, but not so when I’m sitting, feet up, in a vinyl La-Z-Boy-style theater seat. It is a safe space. Possibly, the safest.

​​It is no secret that the movie theater business is in steep decline. Ticket sales are down nearly a third from just five years ago, and the number of adults who go at least once a month fell 22 percent between 2019 and this year. There are various reasons for this, the growth of streaming platforms chief among them. People are staying home, binge-watching made-for-Netflix shows and movies, and slowly evolving into hideous, Cronenberg-esque couch-human hybrids.

There’s also a creeping behavioral problem: an epidemic of rudeness at the major chains. According to a recent poll, a third of moviegoers admitted to taking a call during a screening — 46 percent of millennials and 42 percent of Gen Zers. There’s barely anyone monitoring out-of-control texting or scrolling. Then there are the smaller indignities: the food options are limited, and commercials blare before trailers.

But the theaters where I like to debase myself aggressively discourage cellphone use, don’t shove ads down your throat before the show, and offer more sophisticated food options.

These theaters serve a surprisingly diverse selection of comfort foods that sit somewhere between upscale fast food and serviceable gastropub. One place serves filet mignon sliders with blue cheese, caramelized red onions, arugula, and garlic aioli. It’s bougie but tasty. I’ve ordered a perfectly fine tuna salad and snacked on blistered shishitos and fried pickles. My local sit-down theater serves a fried buffalo cauliflower sandwich that I’m really into. Even the popcorn is kicked up and tossed with truffles, Parmesan, or ranch seasoning. Old school Regal theaters? There’s only one option: butter-flavored car oil.

I’m not a drinker, but these theaters all have bars, and if you want an IPA, or a cocktail, or a spiked milkshake, they can make that happen.

Sometimes I go to the movies in the mornings, say 10 a.m. on a Saturday. I zoom right to my reserved seat (always an aisle) and order a coffee and French Toast sticks or a breakfast pizza with bacon, eggs, mozzarella, and scallions. Then I snarf it all down, blissfully checked out of reality, while zombies moan on the big screen.

I’m also not some anti-social loner. I enjoy eating at restaurants. I put my napkin on my lap and never slurp my soup. I can twirl pasta with a fork and splatter nothing. I have been known to attend dinner parties, where I laugh and make small talk, and no one knows that I am on autopilot, a human Waymo.

It’s just that if given the option, I’d rather put on sweatpants and do my best impersonation of a self-force-feeding foie gras duck while watching a Portuguese-language drama about political oppression in South America at a movie theater that also plays indie hits and black-and-white classics.

I’m not reinventing the wheel. There was a time when one of the cornerstones of American leisure time was the ‘dinner and a movie’ one-two punch. This was a classic couple activity—first dates, anniversaries, and regular ol’ Fridays. It was also one of the things you’d do with friends. I spent many nights in the late 90s watching Wesley Snipes movies on LSD with my best buds. Later, in the 2000s, I was a master at sneaking Taco Bell gordita crunches and Popeye’s biscuits into AMC theaters.

I’m sure there are still people who grab a bite at a nearby hotspot and then go to the multiplex. I’m not one of those people anymore. When I ask my wife if she wants to go see a movie, she knows what to expect: me, eating chicken wings while watching The Rock punch someone.

I’ll be honest with you because the internet is the one place in our society where being honest with countless strangers is rewarded with positive affirmations: it’s always midnight in a movie theater, and I do love munching on quality garbage as my eyes glaze over. I recently watched a sci-fi comedy about a time traveler, and I happily popped little pretzel dogs into my mouth after gently dunking them in a spicy mustard sauce. I ate those pigs-in-blankets with my pinky up, like a little French dauphin.

A few years ago, apropos of nothing, my therapist interrupted me—then looked me square in the eyes—and declared, “You need to get out more.” And I had been talking about a funny meme. I responded immediately, and defensively: “I go to the movies.”

And then I told him I go to the movies and gorge on mozzarella sticks. Yes, I go with my wife sometimes. And friends. But mostly, I like to drink Coke Zeros and eat loaded fries all by myself.

I reminded him, too, that when I’m at the movies, I am surrounded by the family of man, who are also mindlessly chomping away as light flickers in their dead eyes.

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Colin Camac (aka @resyguynyc) is officially Blackbird’s “Strategic Sales Lead,” and unofficially is our resident insider’s insider. He is out, on the town seven nights a week, sniffing out the city’s best joints, skateboard in one hand, martini in the other.

We're finally back after a brief hiatus for the holidays and some of the coldest weather we've seen in years. For this special edition, I'm taking you through my recent birthday trip to Mexico where I met my girlfriend Marcela's family, explored her hometown of San Juan Del Rio in Querétaro, hit coastal Baja, and revisited Mexico City favorites. This trip showed me how special Mexico is — every region has unique food and specialties, and the seafood was a revelation. If you're planning a trip south, use this as your guide.

Colin

Gorditas Doña Coco
📍 La Peña de Bernal
🍽️ Querétaro Gorditas

Why I Ate Here: Fresh off the plane, Marcela’s family insisted this spot near the base of one of the world’s tallest monolith boulders was a must-visit for gorditas. The town was hosting some sort of festival, so the streets were absolutely packed.

Who I Ate With: Marcela, her mother, and several family members who’ve been coming here for years. Most remembered the town as less commercialized, though nobody could say exactly when it changed.

What I Ate: After dodging crowds up the hill, we finally made it to this small indoor/outdoor stand. The table came set with salsas and escabeche. I ordered papa con chorizo, chicharrón prensado, and migajas with queso. The chicharrón prensado was the star—braised pork skin full of flavor with a chewy texture inside warm masa. The migajas, tiny bits of crispy pork mixed with cheese, was also a hit.

Maizajo
📍 Mexico City
🍽️ Masa-focused taqueria

Why I Ate Here: Pretty much everyone I spoke to pointed me toward Maizajo, a restaurant specializing in masa with a taqueria downstairs and fine dining upstairs. Our friend Cesar reserved us the taco chef’s counter — a small standing table in the middle of the kitchen.

Who I Ate With: Marcela, our friend Clara (an artist from Paris), and my friend Sam Morris, head bartender at Sip & Guzzle, who was in town for a brand trip.

What I Ate: As we walked upstairs for drinks, a cook handed each of us a fresh warm tortilla right off the comal with salt and salsa. That hospitality and corn flavor told me we were in for something special. At the kitchen counter, choices were taken from our hands. First up: a small fried tortilla filled with head-on shrimp and a sliver of mayo—like perfect shrimp tempura in a mini flauta, absolutely incredible. Their signature campechano taco—a mix of suadero and longaniza—burst with flavor, doctored with just a little lime. The brisket taco with guava mole was insane, bitter fruity notes meeting fatty BBQ-style brisket. Desserts were best in class, both the tres leches and flan.

Ultramarinos
📍 Mexico City
🍽️ Seafood

Why I Ate Here: I wanted a celebratory birthday lunch spot where we could have a long, boozy meal. Everyone suggested Ultramarinos over the classic Contramar, and I couldn’t be happier—it was one of the best meals I’ve had in a while.

Who I Ate With: The whole crew: Marcela, Clara, Thalia, Evan Sung, Omar, our friend Elias, plus Marcela’s mom and brother Gonzalo.

What I Ate: This is now a permanent stop on my Mexico City itinerary. We started with all three tostadas on the menu—shrimp, tuna, and caracol (snail). Shrimp may have been my favorite, but I’d order all of them again. The seafood tower for seven featured some of the best clams I’ve had—dressed with diced onion and bright mignonette. Tacos Gubernador—shrimp in slightly spicy tomato sauce with cheese on warm flour tortillas—shouldn’t be missed. My favorite dish of the trip came next: camarones a la parrilla, full shrimp sliced down the middle and cooked in a sauce of onions and its own head juices. They served these with tiny rolled bean tacos on the side to dip in the sauce. It had everything. The pasta roja con cangrejo (crab) with rigatoni would stand with the best Italian versions anywhere. Whole fish baked in sourdough and served tableside with buttery sauce and trout roe rounded out an EPIC meal.

Tacos El Franc
📍Tijuana
🍽️ Tacos

Why I Ate Here: When Frank C from Frankies tells you he just had the best tacos of his life in Baja, you listen. After consulting with Cesar, who helped plan the trip and confirmed how incredible they were, this became our first stop off the plane.

Who I Ate With: Cesar Sandoval (National Brand Rep for Casa Lumbre Spirits), Marcela, and me.

What I Ate: After a flight delay threatened to derail our packed Tijuana itinerary, we finally made it to this wildly busy spot. The inside is stark white with tons of people working behind counters — taqueros and a tortilla assembly line in perfect sync. We went for everything: tongue, cabeza, incredible carne asada, and my personal favorite, their adobada (al pastor). This place should not be missed on any visit to TJ.

La Carreta Guerrerense
📍Ensenada
🍽️ Seafood

Why I Ate Here: We arrived early hoping to catch Mariscos El Gordito before they sold out, but they weren’t opening for another hour. We pivoted to this cart about 10 minutes away—a mariscos shop specializing in stacked tostadas made famous by Bourdain.

Who I Ate With: Marcela.

What I Ate: Ensenada may have been the most eye-opening stop of the trip. This small seaside town had some of the best seafood I’ve ever had from roadside stands you could easily miss. Four people worked the cart, cleaning seafood and dressing tostadas. We ordered two each to try as many as possible. Within minutes we had plates with two tostadas piled impossibly high with the freshest seafood imaginable. All were mind-blowing, but the best was the #1 “Singapur”—crab salad topped with shrimp and octopus. The sweet crab salad was the perfect base for salty seafood. We also loved the campechana: tuna salad with shrimp, octopus, snails, scallop, and clam that hit you in the face with briny ocean flavors. They had about 10 salsas to doctor your tostadas to taste.

Mariscos El Gordito
📍Ensenada
🍽️ Seafood

Why I Ate Here: A small mariscos cart that routinely sells out within an hour or two of opening.

Who I Ate With: Marcela.

What I Ate: Around 12:05, I spotted someone with a large cup of coctel and found the small stand with three guys already working at a furious pace. It was amazing watching how fast and clean they worked — one making tostadas, one cleaning clams, another assembling cocteles. The coctel master was incredible to watch, tasting each one individually to ensure perfect flavor. We started with a tuna tostada, much smaller than earlier ones, with finely chopped tuna, herbs, peppers, and avocado slices — a really fresh, bright bite punched up with salsa. Next came a clam opened to order, quickly cleaned and mixed with lime, onions, avocado, and housemade cocktail sauce with a horseradish kick. One of the top dishes of the day. Finally, a campechano cocktail made by the master himself — clams, shrimp, and octopus perfectly seasoned in a large glass with cocktail sauce and lime. Each bite delivered the best of the ocean all at once. A can’t-miss Ensenada experience.

Hussong’s
📍 Ensenada
🍽️ Bar

Why: Hussong’s is the oldest cantina in Mexico still operating today, opening in 1892. It is also known as the birthplace of the margarita.

With who: Marcela

What I ate: After getting my face melted by how good our tostadas were we took a short walk to Hussong’s to take a beat after hitting our next food stop. After a pat down by security we entered a mostly empty old bar that reminded me of a Mexican version of McSorley’s, with older gruff bartenders and sawdust on the ground around the tables. We both ordered margaritas on the rocks and the bartender quickly built two in highball glasses. The first sip was a bit jarring as none of the flavors seemed to be incorporated into the drink with the absence of a shake, but it came together a bit more with a few stirs of the straw and we settled into a little buzz before hitting the next stop.

The kitchen gets all the attention, but what about FOH? That’s where worlds collide. Our anonymous columnist (who is currently in search of a job at a new restaurant) suffers the tribulations of table service for your entertainment, and perhaps enlightenment, too. Today, she takes on the trope of the coveted Valentine’s Day reservation.

Picture This, Girls:

February 14th. 4:45 p.m. You’re running late. You shoot off an apologetic text to your date as you swaddle yourself in layers. It is both an effort to ward off the frigid winter and an attempt to disguise your cocktail attire before it becomes socially acceptable to begin drinking. You recognize you are not remotely hungry yet, but still rush out the door for your 5 p.m. reservation.​

Scrambling through the door, you spot him by the host stand, anxiously checking his watch. Instead of a sweet, festive peck on the cheek, his attention is swiftly diverted to the host stand. No hello, simply “We are all here.”

The hostess leads you to a long line of two-tops, sandwiched shoulder to shoulder and performatively gazing at one another with complimentary glasses of cheap champagne. You apologize for being late. He tells you unconvincingly that it’s ok, he just really didn’t want to lose the table.​

As the winter temperatures dropped and swiping season set in, you were impressed by his initiative to see you a handful of times in quick succession. And when he dmed you asking you to be his Valentine, you were touched and a little surprised. But as you glance at the Pre-Fix menu ahead of you, it all becomes clear.​

He definitely made this reservation before he met you.

Men: what you think this signals vs what it really signals

Since the turn of the 20th century, jaded single friends have disavowed Valentine’s Day as a Hallmark holiday, a day for the candy and greeting card companies to capitalize on our existential fear of being alone. But it seems to me, February 14th has a new puppet master. The show is now run by one powerful entity: Big Reservation.

Said reservation wranglers begin fueling our anxieties early. “National Reservation Reminder Day” falls on January 13th – not literally, I just made that up, but the logic tracks, because that’s when the whispering starts. Chiding email marketing messages and the dreaded notify lists that threaten you with impending loneliness, warning you that not being able to secure a table is like the modern equivalent of never securing a mate.

You see, men used to go to war; now they sit at their laptops, sweaty-palmed, waiting for the reservation platforms to open the books. These men aren’t storming beaches anymore; they are booking a two-top at 6:15 p.m. 4-6 weeks in advance. It’s tragic, but TikTok has found your favorite spot, and a Finance Bro is shilling out $25K a year on his Dorsia membership to make sure he can eat there at 7 p.m. on a Friday.

It’s all very American Psycho. Reservations are now a status symbol, everyone of course knows that, and technology has turned it into a blood sport. As a man, especially one trying to signal something in this city, where you sit down for dinner on February 14th is just about as important as the watch you wear on your wrist. So no, your Raya match isn’t making a grand romantic gesture; he’s working on a power play.​

It takes a true Patrick Bateman to secure a Valentine’s Day reservation at a top spot. At this point, 7 p.m. at [insert hotspot here] isn’t sexy, it’s borderline psychotic. A 5 p.m. Pre-Fix with a two-hour time limit on tables isn’t going to set your night up for success. Truthfully, gentlemen, it makes you look like a chudd.

Preemptive and prescriptive plans can lead to disaster, resentment, and ridiculous cancellation fees. Real romance doesn’t fit neatly into a Tetris-style POS. It requires spontaneity (remember that?), not the stifling rigidity of a reservation.

I mean, truthfully, what’s more romantic than huddling close together in the vestibule and hoping for a cancellation? There’s nothing sexier than a finagle. Or just go to the bar and get trashed, forget about dinner altogether, nobody wants to fuck on a full stomach anyway.

Blackbird is now live in Aspen, Vail, and Breckenridge, three of Colorado’s finest ski towns. Pay with Blackbird to earn the best rewards in dining at 30+ standout spots across all three resorts. Just open the Blackbird app map and set your location to “Mountains, CO” for the full lineup. See you on the slopes.

The best nachos I have ever had are at The Red Lion in Vail, Colorado. I have had them many times, most recently last month, when I devoured a plate while seated at the bar. Nachos, like anything in my life, are best enjoyed when paired with skiing. Or following skiing, to be more precise. Nachos at a ballgame? At the movie theater? Please, I won’t even deign to acknowledge that such subpar experiences (aka gas station-coded nachos) could possibly compete with the perfect culinary collab that is nachos x skiing.

In fact, I’ll go one step further: nachos are America’s greatest contribution to the sport of skiing. There, I’ve said it so you don’t have to. Like all things great in America, we of course got nachos from somewhere else. As legend has it, nachos were invented in Mexico as border food made to appeal to the palates of U.S. military families (in truth, they were invented by the dish’s namesake, restaurateur Ignacio “Nacho” Anaya, who served them to American military wives who’d that night come over the Texas border in search of a snack). How nachos migrated to the ski slopes is anyone’s guess, but I can tell you that—as counter intuitive as this might sound—there is no superior food in skiing. Bratwurst? Fondue? Spaghetti bolognese? Nein. Non. Non se ne parla! Such “traditional” alpine foods pale in comparison.

But! But! But! But… America contributed plenty to the sport of skiing. I hear your protestations, dear patriotic powder hound, and I anticipate your counterpoints, many of them valid. Sure, we invented freestyle skiing—or hot dogging, as it was referred to back then—and snowboarding, too. Plastic ski boots and aluminum skis? You betcha, both innovations hail from the grand ol’ US of A, baby. Did the 10th Mountain Division play a part in liberating Europe during WWII? Yup. And let’s not forget our contributions to the world of ski cinema, from directors like Dick Barrymore and Warren Miller to flicks like “Aspen Extreme” and the early George Lopez-vehicle “Ski Patrol.” “Lindsey Vonn!” you shout. “Bode Miller! Mikaela Shiffrin! Ted Liggety! The Mahre Brothers!'“ Also: hot tubs. Still, nachos, in all their culinary simplicity and cheese-laden perfection, trump each and every one of those examples. One could even argue that nachos are the hot tub of appetizers. Had nachos attempted an Olympic comeback in Cortina this week, they would’ve won the gold medal.

“Nooooo,” you scream, as petulant as a one-handed Luke Skywalker dangling over the reactor shaft of Cloud City. “That’s impossible!”

(Why am I weaving Star Wars analogies into this thoughtful, deeply-researched essay about après-ski nachos? Who knows. Just go with it).

To which I—towering over you in that aforementioned reactor shaft in the bowels of Cloud City on the gas planet of Bespin—reply, with all the dispassionate wisdom of a Sith Lord: “Search your feelings, you know it to be true.”

Yes, if you’ve ever snapped into a triangular tortilla chip whose structural integrity is being tested by the layered slop of chili, melted cheese, guac, salsa, and sour cream somewhere on the side of a mountain, or even better at the base of one (meaning you’re already drunk), then it is right now—at this very moment—dawning on you that I am right. Let that realization wash over you, my child. Feel it tickle your nerve-endings. Welcome to the ‘Cho Club™️.

When I am skiing in Europe, which I often do and highly recommend (don’t call me some bougie elitist — it’s cheaper than skiing in America, flight included, and lightyears more charming), I invariably think: this couldn’t get any better. This thought usually occurs to me at après-ski, when most happy thoughts hit me, just as the sun is setting and my buzz is building and everything feels right with the world. And then I remember that I can’t order a heaping plate of nachos to share with my fellow après-ski devotees, and I am crestfallen.

This is not entirely true. One can technically find nachos at some ski bars in Europe, and all of them are equally terrible. If you ever find yourself in St. Anton, Austria, and are struck by a hankering for nachos, preferably of the supreme variety (is there any other kind?), do yourself a favor and don’t bother. The lederhosen-bedecked waiter will serve you a plate of Doritos, with a side of melted cheese not even the most shameless 7-Eleven franchise would deign to sell their customers. Said Doritos won’t even be Nacho Cheese flavored, but rather Cool Ranch. Except they don’t call them Cool Ranch in Austria or anywhere else in Europe. They call them: Cool American, which I’ll admit is a fucking fantastic name. But nachos, they are not.

Sadly, last month when I dined at The Red Lion in Vail, I hadn’t been skiing that day, and so the nachos didn’t feel earned. This diminished them, but only by a bit. Like all bars that pride themselves on their nachos, The Red Lion takes the extra effort of layering the cheese over the Jenga-like layers of tortilla chips, so that once you’ve dusted the top tier of chips, you aren’t left with some booby prize of an appetizer consisting of dry tortilla chips and not much else (what do they have back there, nacho sous-chefs? They must). Like any self-respecting plate of ‘chos, the ones found at The Red Lion come with quac, salsa, and sour cream all appropriately centered at the top of the pile, like a crown rather than pushed to the side in separate bowls like condiments. Because calling such essential ingredients condiments would be blasphemy. As with everything comprising a plate of nachos—the cheese and the chips and the chili (should you go for that)—the trinity of guac, salsa, and sour cream are fundamental, creating a whole greater than the sum of its parts.

Some other great things about nachos: they are perhaps the only food in which the vegetarian option is as good (or, I would argue, better) than the meat options. They are messy, but not as messy as wings, nor are they conceited like wings, always boasting to be the best around no matter where you get them. They require effort and reward that effort with delightful surprises the deeper you dig. “By jove, a chip three layers deep yet absolutely lousy with blended cheese!” Yes, king. Related: nachos inspire competition considering that all partaking in the dish vie for the best bites, yet—silly thing that they are—they keep things convivial, not cut-throated. Nachos are the proverbial campfire around which we spin stories of a day on the slopes. And then, of course, there are margaritas, undoubtedly the best post-ski beverage, and perhaps the subject of a future essay. Is there a cocktail that pairs better with a dish than margaritas do with nachos? Like the plate of nachos, margs should come big, preferably in a pitcher. Shy of that, or if you’re committed to consuming them single-serving style, a proper pint glass will do, which is exactly how The Red Lion serves their ‘ritas.

I could go on and on. But if you’ve made it this far and still don’t believe me, well, may God have mercy on your soul. Word of warning, however: don’t ever disparage nachos as a simple dish, as anyone who has ever attempted to make them at home can tell you. This past Super Bowl Sunday, I threw my hat into the ring, and the resulting nachos—if you can call them that—we’re not even a cheap imitation of what I’ve enjoyed at ski areas across America.

Or maybe that was the real problem: I hadn’t skied before I ate them.

So you survived Dry January. Congratulations! Now get ready for Wet February. It’s a month-long challenge we invented yesterday over Slack. Consider this your get out of jail free card. Anytime one of your newly-minted health nut friends who sounds like the Surgeon General scolds you for indulging in a drink or three, simply say, “relax, man, I’m doing Wet Feb.”

Dry January is a post-holiday detox, and for some, laying off the booze at the start of the year is a great way to reboot and refresh. But it’s still the dead of winter, and you deserve a couple drinky-poos. Maybe a tipple after work with your work spouse, or a long Mimosa-fueled brunch with the besties? Relax, text the chat. Wet February is a life-affirming movable feast of spiked coffees and piles of pasta, a low-key celebration of cocktails, human connections, and pancakes for the table. Next stop: Moderation March, and then spring. Here are eight ways to jump on this (soon-to-be) hot new trend.

1. First thing: order a Hot Toddy

   There are few beverages that warm the cockles of the heart more thoroughly than the Hot Toddy. What is a cockle? No one knows, it's a mystery. A hot toddy is a simple drink: whiskey, honey, lemon juice, and hot water. Also known as Irish Robitussin, hot toddies are supposed to cure all manner of ills, from stuffy noses to sore throats and basic ennui.
   

2. One martini and a dozen raw oysters, please
   Fight the cold with cold. Specifically, two to three ounces of glacial vodka. Wet Feb is the perfect time for a dry martini, extra icy, and twelve plump oysters plucked from the near-frozen ocean. This pair is best enjoyed somewhere a little fancy, a little old school.
   

3. Put a Hawaiian shirt on (over your sweater)
   If you can't go to the beach, make the beach come to you. The classic piña colada, ideally served in a festive vessel sprouting all manner of absurd tropical garnishes, is one of the great lazy August boat drinks, a simple mix of coconut milk, rum, and pineapple, served frosty. It's also a must-drink during the dark days of winter. Trust us.
   

4. End a meal with a digestif

   End a long, raucous dinner with class: a slug of digestif, which, famously, aids in digestion. Some are bitter, others are herbal. Italian Sambuca and Greek ouzo both have a licorice-like bite. Fortified wines like Port and Sherry burn, sweetly. All of these post-feast buzz enablers have one thing in common, though, and that's they're served in tiny glasses. Love a tiny glass.

5. Play darts!
   Go forth into the tundra and find a nice dark bar with a glowing jukebox and play some darts with your besties or some stranger at the bar. But before tossing pointy things for small amounts of money, toss back a boilermaker, the dive bar classic. What's a boilermaker? A bottle of beer and a shot of something brown. This is the anti-cocktail, a simple, working man's pick-me-up. Be careful, though, more than two and the dart board starts to move.
   

6. Pop the champagne
   Fight the wind chill with bubbles. When was the last time you poured yourself and your significant other a flute of fizzy, punchy, sparkling wine? Champagne is the official drink of Valentine's Day, which happens in the middle of February, the middle of cabin fever season. Here's the truth: Champagne can be enjoyed on any given Tuesday night. Celebrate Wet Feb by killing a bottle of cheap champers, the drama queen of libations.
   

7. Spike everything, for fun

   Spike everything with Kahlúa or Bailey's. Yeah, they're cloying. Yeah, they're for amateurs. But, dammit, they're delicious when generously dumped into, oh, whatever's hot. Coffee? Tea? Mugs are underrated alcohol delivery vehicles. Hot chocolate? Enjoy an adult cocoa, it's Wet Feb. Anyway, a strong cup o' Joe and a jolt of liquor is like Liquid hygge.
   

8. Have a beer
   Nothing says summer like a pilsner, but drinking a can of garbage-quality beer in a snowy field has its own pleasures. This Wet Feb, crack some brewskis with your people outside, and fill your lungs with winter. Talk about stuff. Sigh. Switch to hazies to match your mindset (but not too many, those things pack a punch). Chug but be chill.

Everyone carries a whiff of their hometown, no matter how much distance they try to put between themselves and the place. As for me, I grew up as a townie—a resort rat—in a New Hampshire ski town, where my Austrian father ran the local ski school (back then, Austrians ran ski schools in America the way gourmet restaurants always had a French chef in the kitchen). This makes me a skier, through and through, despite my best efforts to shake such a one-dimensional persona. Skiing is the first (and sometimes only) thing people ask me about, though I suppose I’m also to blame. I still get excited when the leaves fall in November and depressed when the first buds return come April, right here in New York City. I still pine for pine trees laden with snow, love the municipal mayhem of an old fashioned Nor’Easter, and when a frigid wind whips through the city and folks complain, I need to restrain my inner cold weather lover (which, appropriately, manifests as a grouch) from telling them to “go move someplace warmer, then.” Humbug, indeed.

But perhaps what I love best about skiing—even more than first tracks, and deep powder, and bluebird days, and whatever other indelible attributes we associate with the sport—is the food, from the overpriced garbage I shovel down in a cafeteria to the good stuff you find in fancier resort towns. Ditto goes for drinking. There’s just something to be said about indulging in the comforts of a good hot meal and/or a warm buzz in a cold place, and I’d argue that there’s no finer place to do so than on the side of a mountain. I have friends who are perhaps purer skiers than me, meaning they’re the type of people who would prefer to scarf down a pre-packed sandwich on the chairlift rather than sacrifice a few runs by stopping for lunch. To me, this is crazy.

My love affair with lodge food began early. Having a father who worked all winter long running the ski school seven days a week, the mountain—a little place called Waterville Valley, funded by the Kennedys and notched in New Hampshire’s White Mountains—became my de facto babysitter. This was especially true on winter weekends, when I, a shy kid in all other walks of life, resumed my role cosplaying as one of the rich brats in the seasonal ski programs, and later on the race team. When I wasn’t pissing off the ski patrol by skiing too fast down the mountain, I swaggered around the lodge in my unbuckled ski boots, pilfered cafeteria trays and used them as sleds, and spent a good deal of time in the ski instructors lounge. Of the latter, I can still smell the sour smell of beer wafting from kegs and the sharp, chemical tang of hot ski wax being ironed into the bases of skis.

I also spent a considerable amount of time looking for my father, who, being a bit of a showboater, and a man allergic to paperwork, was seldom found in his office. What I always needed from him was lunch money, something he was loathe to give me given the cost of everything, even with his employee discount, which the old ladies working the cash registers extended to me. Where I wanted to spend Dad’s lunch money was at the pizzeria on the second floor of the base lodge. It stood wedged in a corner, below the staircase that led to the third floor après bar, and to the left of the cafeteria, where the burgers were the greasiest I can remember. Sometimes the line for pizza spread all the way from the front counter of the pizzeria to the lodge’s freestanding fireplace, halfway across the second floor, its four-sided hearth flanked by skiers removing their boots to thaw their feet out over lunch as they talked lighthearted shit in their heavy Boston accents. To me, the pizzeria’s long line was warranted, as was the precarious act of trying to balance two slices of cheese pizza and a fountain coke on a tray while clomping down the stairs in my ski boots back to my father’s office (a journey that still fills me with fear). I would eat lunch at his desk, streaking tomato sauce on his papers and whatever else I rifled through while eating. The pizza served in the Waterville Valley base lodge was, and remains in my mind, even though I cannot recall its exact taste, the finest pizza I have ever had in my life. The tomato sauce, the puffiness of the crust, the exorbitant amount of cheese — all of it. I am sure were I to have it now it would disappoint, monumentally so, as most things from one’s past do, but since I cannot, it will forever remain cemented in my mind as the platonic ideal of pizza — a totem that takes me home.

Over the years, I’ve enjoyed ostensibly better meals in better ski resorts. It began in Utah, Deer Valley to be exact, where I joined family friends and first—if you can believe it—had oysters, some 30 or 40 of them by the time the night was through, much to the amusement of the adults, who all made jokes (none of which I grasped) about my sure to be surging teenage libido. In my 20s, I discovered Austrian après-ski on the side of a mountain high above St. Anton. There, at the Krazy Kanguruh and The Mooserwirt, the two bars that serve as a one-two punch at the end of everyone’s ski day, I learned the fine art of table dancing in my ski boots while swilling steins of Austrian beer and downing Jägerbombs. Put these two bars anywhere else in the world, and they are the epitome of tacky; but slap them on the side of a mountain, and this snob is in his happy place.

A year later, I found myself in St. Moritz for the season, the place where my parents had met, and working as a ski instructor, just as my father once had. This meant that in addition to teaching my clients how to turn, as well as schlepping their gear from the lobby of The Palace Hotel to the lift, I was in charge of lunch reservations. The slopes of St Moritz—Corviglia, that is, the main resort—are lousy with lunch spots. Alpina, Trutz, Chadafö, Paradiso, the latter rife these days with influencers. But the real spot, back in those days, was La Marmite, cantilevered over the slope like a ship cresting a white wave. Floor to ceiling windows gave way to the Engadine Valley, far below—a valley that Nietzsche once claimed had saved his life—but the guests were always too preoccupied with their food and the scene to care. I must’ve taken clients there some 50+ times that season. So much so that the ski school director, a man who called himself “The Robert Redford of the Alps,” admonished me for fleecing too many guests out of a free lunch. But, hey, I had a thing for the place’s truffled flammkuchen (a wafer thin pizza that went for $100 a pie) and their venison, served with a fried egg over polenta and gruyere. One time a client ordered a magnum of Riesling and insisted on skiing home. It took us over two hours to get down the mountain that day, and she fell so many times that she’d ripped the seat of her Bogner one-piece to shreds.

There were other clients in St. Moritz, of course, many of them better behaved. Surprisingly enough, the Trumps rank among them. Ivanka and Don Jr., upon learning that I would have to adhere to the Downton Abbey-type rules in the private Corviglia Club and eat downstairs with the rest of the instructors (aka “the help”), cancelled their reservation and opted for the cafeteria instead, so that we could all lunch together. I remember laughing over fries and thinking how normal they were. And then there were the ski instructors, the more senior and charismatic of which called the shots. On a particularly miserable day in February, St. Moritz and the rest of the Engadine socked-in with a low-elevation white out and pummeled by an icy snowfall, I was paired with a fellow by the name of J.P. He had a permeant sun tan, his skin as leathery as a catcher’s mitt thanks to not having experienced summer in three decades (he taught in Australia during their winter), and—despite being in his fifties—skied like a badass, usually with a Gauloises cigarette wedged between his chapped lips. J.P. had taken a shine to me earlier that season, mostly because he knew that my father had been an instructor in St. Moritz back in the ‘70s, and he taught me things, like how only rubes believed you couldn’t drink red wine with fish, and that if you wanted to stay at the bar past 7 p.m., when all instructors were expected to return home and change out of their uniform lest they incur a 400 CHF fine, all you had to do was turn your red jacket inside out so that it looked like a generic black parka.

“Putain” JP spat on that cloudy day, looking at me and shaking his head at the exuberance of our clients — a corporate group from Deutsche Bank.

JP devised a plan that would lead to minimal skiing. Where to stop for coffee, a long easy run to a neighboring town followed by an even longer gondola ride sure to eat up plenty of time, and when to break for lunch. When the wine list arrived, JP grabbed it, rolling his eyes at the client who’d dared try to snatch it first. JP only ordered the good stuff, and plenty of it. He got our clients so drunk that afternoon that they all downloaded on the funicular back to town and called it a day.

On the last day of that ski season in St. Moritz, Bar Finale, down in Celerina, gave away all its remaining alcohol for free to instructors (the only people left in town), and I promised myself that once I’d drank enough I’d finally say hi to the blond Swiss girl I’d been making eyes with all season. Sadly, the place ran out of booze long before I’d summoned enough liquid courage to approach her.

My skiing, and thus my mountain lunches, have decreased since then. Still, there have been a few good ones. Hot dogs and cans of Fat Tire at the Dawg Haus at the base of Blue Sky Basin on the backside of Vail. Or ducking the rope off Game Creek Bowl and skiing down to Minturn for Mexican and margaritas at the Minturn Saloon, where old school skiing paraphernalia festoons the walls and the pitchers go down so smooth that you always miss the bus and need to call a cab home. At the Hospiz Alm in St. Christoph, Austria, there’s a slide to the bathroom in the basement to save guests the trouble of having to take the stairs in ski boots after lunch, and on the sun terrace at the Alter Goldener Berg in Oberlech, you can’t go wrong with a lunch of speck, kaspressknödel, and kaiserschmarr’n — though, and I speak from experience here, it might cut your ski day short; consider yourself warned. If you ever find yourself in Kitzbühel, particularly during Hahnenkamm weekend, try to scare up a Salzburg-style “bosna” from one of the street carts (and tell them to go hard on the curry powder). And here’s a deeper thought: an on-mountain restaurant just might save your life, as it did mine. It was some six years ago, atop the Passo Pordoi in the Italian Dolomites, at the Rifugio Maria, over Neopolitan-style pizza and spritzes with my wife, that I first began to come to terms with my father’s death. While looking out the window at the glacially capped Marmolada, a mountain Dad had long mythologized, I began to see him not as the seemingly indomitable six-foot-four man who had somehow irrevocably succumbed to cancer, but as a myth in his own right, whose spirit was now draped upon this alpine land he once called home, or anywhere—really—that I was fortunate to traverse on a pair of skis.

Since having kids (two boys, the eldest of whom we named J.P., after my instructor pal), my ski territory has contracted, and my big trips have all but gone away. We go up to Vermont frequently to see my mom and to sneak in a little skiing, and sometimes up to New Hampshire, too. But I’ve spent a good deal of time at miniature mountains teaching my children. One isn’t even a mountain, but an artificial slope at the American Dream Mall in East Rutherford, NJ. It is there, indoors on artificial snow, the temperature tuned to an unwavering 28 degrees Fahrenheit, and never the slightest gust of wind to spoil things, that I’ve taught both boys the basic fundamentals of the sport. Our classroom is a far cry from Dad’s Alps, or even Waterville Valley; still, as sacrilegious as it feels, it gets the job done, and we always make sure that we reward ourselves with lunch afterward. While there is no lodge to speak of, there is a food court in the mall, and sitting there in our snow pants, our skis propped up beside us, our jackets piled on a chair, it almost feels as if we’re somewhere high up on a mountain. We get slices of pizza from Best Pizza. It’s far better than the pizza I bought with Dad’s money all those decades ago in the base lodge at Waterville Valley, surely, and yet sitting there, the three of us silently chewing our slices, replenishing ourselves on dough and cheese and tomato sauce, it somehow reminds me of it. Maybe it’s the fact that we’ve earned this food, and to know that I have passed this sport down to my children, all of it, lunch included. Or maybe the pizza itself is a time machine, and eating it after a morning of skiing makes me feel like a kid again.

I hope that someday my boys will explore the ski world as I have, and that whatever they eat on the mountain—the lodge dark compared to the sun-splashed slopes, the two of them feeling momentarily blind as their eyes adjust to the interior—reminds them of splitting a pizza with Dad at the mall after skiing, back long ago when they first learned the sport.

Reservations are down. So is revenue. Is there a worst month for restaurants than January? Every year, our favorite industry is forced to lurch through 31 days of dining doldrums before it can resuscitate itself come February.

Well, we only have ourselves to blame, and some of us are more guilty than others. So what kind of January diner are you? Funny you should ask...

The Soup Enthusiast
We all know the one friend who’s gotten a little too into soup — they’re asking the chef for the recipe at the end of the meal. It’s half romanticizing winter, half delusions that the third packet of oyster crackers isn’t going straight to the bottom line. Beach bodies begin in winter but not at the bottom of your broccoli cheddar bowl.

The Sunday Sports Bar Football Fan
Fantasy football still exists for some, but not you, friend who finished in last place. Still, you’re not giving up a standing 6-top with the fellas at Wogies every Sunday. While the rest of us are mapping out the year or catching up on sleep, you’re standing in solidarity with the boys and a beer tower, mock-drafting for the 2026 season (“our year”). And yes — the jersey stays on (“Babe”).

The Dry Januarist
Isn’t Dry January basically No Nut November for the sobriety/non incel-crowd? It’s a virtue-signalling fad, a month of Instagram posts from goody-goodies bragging about being on the wagon while silently white-knuckling it until they can binge drink in February. We’re not saying you shouldn’t give up sweet, sweet alcohol for a few weeks. More power to you! We are saying you don’t have to make “I’m Not Drinking And Neither Should You” your entire personality.

The ‘It’s a Great Day for Drinking’ Friend
The opposite of the Dry January Goody-Goody is the Jolly Ol’ Boozehound who loves to hole up in warm, dark bars and drink the day/night away as snow falls and the temperature drops. That person sure is fun! They love a hot toddy, too! Of course, once everything thaws, they can quickly turn into ‘I Don’t Have A Problem’ Friend, but let’s worry about that in the spring?

The Carbo-Loader
January means eating all the pasta. Not some. All of it. No more pasta? Moving on to dumplings.

The Fondude
You could call them the friend with the après-ski problem, but we just think Fondude’s got a little more razzle dazzle to it (aside from the gendering – sorry ‘bout that). While the rest of us are hibernating over takeout, or devoting ourselves to juice cleanses and other half-baked health hacks (see below), these kings and queens are living it up in Aspen, Whistler, St. Moritz, Gstaad, Lech, Verbier, and other wintry enclaves downing melted cheese like fine wine and deleting all manners of drinks as if après were a medal event in the upcoming Cortina Games.

The Health Nut
Keto, gluten-free, juice cleanses, some weird nut diet resembling that of a squirrel stocking up for winter. Summer is 165 days away and you’re determined to look good in that swimsuit. The budget for dining out has been reallocated to a $400 Equinox membership and an annual pass to Bathhouse, but we’ll see you at Emmett’s in February for a pizza and a martini when you fall back in line.

The Homebody
There are four different Venmos staring at you from December’s slew of holiday dinners. Of course, that one friend had to order champagne under the guise of ’tis the season and sure, you ordered the three-level seafood tower, but “it’s actually more economical than getting seafood à la carte.” Whatever the story is, it’s peanut-butter-and-jellies for you, friend.

The Reservation Hunter
For those who kept it between the ears in December, your reward awaits. There’s perhaps no better time to dine out in New York or anywhere else. Bar seats are open (but, really, should they be reserve-able in the first place?), juicy four-tops are popping up on Resy and OpenTable left and right. There’s a calm magnanimity to restaurants in January — the pours are a little taller, the atmosphere a little chiller. This is for the true veterans, the regulars, the folks who show up rain or shine not just for the ball drop. We salute you.

Go to any city in America—even, in some cases, small towns—and one might argue that we’re already living in a culinary dreamscape. Omakase this, izakaya that, revived French classics, Oaxacan masa, Montreal-style glizzies, whole spots devoted to Korean Banchan. Indeed, how far this great land of ours has come.

And yet, to quote that silver-tongued crooner Billy Idol, we want “more, more, more.” When better than the beginning of the year to propose 56 fresh (and somewhat unhinged) ideas that we want to see take root in restaurants during the next 12 months.

56. Reinstitute Frog Legs
The test of every French restaurant shouldn’t be an egg, but an amphibian. Plus: they taste like chicken!

55. Ban Reservations for Bar Seats
First come, first served. Throw an elbow if you must.

54. We Want Drink Ornaments
Some say, leave the origami out of cocktails. That’s fine when it comes to garnishes. But trinkets? Umbrellas, little monkeys hanging off the side of one’s martini? Yeah, bring those back.

53. And Doggy Baggies
The ultimate flex: letting everyone know you just dined at 4 Charles. Restaurant-branded doggy bags are the Birkin Bags of restaurant merch.

52. More Pillows
If it was good for the Romans, then it’s good enough for our crumbling empire. If you force someone to sit on a banquette, provide them with nice pillows. Same with booths.

51. Restaurants with Their Own Club Cars
Watch this space…

50. Bring Back 21 Club
This year? Pretty, please?

49. Phone Lock Boxes
If it works at a Chapelle Show, it should work at a restaurant. Be present, player.

48. But Put Phone Booths In the Back
There are times when persons of leisure must excuse themselves to take a private call.

47. And One More Thing: Scrolling Sections
Remember smoking sections? What if restaurants reopened request-only back rooms where individuals or families of four can happily stare at their phones like zombies while slowly chewing burgers and chicken tendies?

46. Bowls of Salt and Pepper
We don’t care if it’s unsanitary; we want to be able to apply one, two, or three finger-pinches of salt and pepper to our food.

45. More Marshmallows!
In desserts! In cocktails! On top of sweet potatoes!

44. Mix-and-Match Pasta
Yes, we should be able to mix agnolotti and orecchiette if we want; it’s a free country.

43. Extra-Large Tapas
First, sharing is overrated. That’s fine if it’s your thing, and there are endless restaurants that are happy to shake you down for the least amount of food possible. We just want a plate that’s like family-sized for one. Isn’t that an entree, you may ask? No. It’s tapas, but huge.

42. Tabletop Jukeboxes
These small, personalized music machines were popular in diner booths for decades. Why can’t we have one at our favorite Michelin-starred restaurant? Listening to Geese while crushing foie gras? Imagine the decadence.

41. Flambé Everything
Fire good!

40. The Year Of New England Clam Chowder
Lobster bisque is overrated. We want to see New England Clam Chowder on every menu, even in the summer; it’s the Cadillac of cream-based soups.

39. Pigs-in-a-blanket Dim Sum
Who wouldn’t appreciate a squeaky cart selling à la carte mini-hot dogs halfway through dinner service?

38. Industry-Wide Charcuterie Ban
Then bring it back big and fatty in 2027

37. Dine-In Waymos
For the gastronomes on the go.

36. Every Knife Is A Steak House Knife
The steak knife is the ur-knife, the knife from which all other knives spring, and whose utility cannot be questioned. One can cut butter with a steak knife, but one can’t cut a porterhouse with a butterknife.

35. Burger Bun Choice
Brioche buns are too sweet. Pretzel buns too firm. One should be able to choose one’s burger bun, since it’s the first element of a burger one’s senses encounter when chowing down.

34. House Hot Sauce Arms Race, Please
Every restaurant, no matter its concept or cuisine, should take the time to labor over a house hot sauce that is unique, tasty, and mouth-scorching… ideally, something each spot takes pride in, too. And every restaurant should also compete with each other over the best hot sauces. We deserve a hot sauce renaissance.

33. Allergy Cards
Print them, present them, pass them, collect them. No more explaining your real or invented aversions. FOH might laugh at you, but they’ll also thank you.

32. BYOB(read)
It’s time we make like Eli Zabar and normalize bringing your own bread (and butter).

31. Soundproof Breakup Booths
The awkward restaurant whisper fight is a right of passage in any relationship. Throw some soundproof booths in the back and let enraged couples have it out over supper.

30. Tunnels Between Restaurants and Bars
For a discrete transition between dinner and debauchery. Like the tunnels a-listers used to slip in and out of the Playboy Mansion back in the day, but, you know, like less gross and creepy.

29. Euro-ify American Après-Ski
Glühwein. Spritzes. Fondue and raclette. Table dancing in our ski boots. Why can’t we have this?

28. Make (Some) Clubs Hard to Get Into Again
No, not all of them. But we need some velvet roped joints in the zeitgeist again, with an intimidating bouncer deciding who gets in and who gets rejected. Friends, fit, vibe, swag – say what you will, it all plays. Sorry, them’s the rules.

27. Airplane: The Restaurant
We’ve had tin diners. We’ve had Pullman cars. Let’s step it up with an actual fuselage – a retired 747 or Concorde. Make dining jet set again.

26. Buying drinks for other parties
Sending a round is the ultimate old school move (just ask Chef JJ) that deserves a comeback in this socially awkward age.

25. Kids Rooms at Restaurants
Let them eat chicken fingers in hermetically-sealed, soundproof chambers! (while their parents fight in the other chamber – see idea #31).

24. Dry April
We need alcohol in January. April, not so much. Take a breather before summer, when it’s truly time to play like a champion.

23. Find “Undercover Waitress” a New Job
Our queen cannot remain unemployed.

22. Consider the Meatloaf Sandwich
Cheesesteak? Chicken parm? C’mon, just give this underrated leftover classic the star treatment it deserves.

21. Retire the Word “Invite” for Pricy Meals
Wow, how kind of you to “invite” us to join you on New Years Eve for $1,000 pp++

20. More Regional Mexican Food
Time to go deep on arguably everyone’s throned cuisine.

19. Year of the Hot Dog
Burgers get all of the love, but what about their skinny underdog cousins?

18. Chicken as THE Choice for a Large Plate
It could be the boring choice, but it doesn’t have to be. Bring back The Nomad-style pomp and let’s eat some amazing birds. Bonus points for interesting breeds.

17. Less Wine Bars That Are Actually Just Restaurants Without Liquor
Fully commit to the grape, cowards.

16. Up the Pairing Game
We want beverage pairings utilizing all styles of wine and spirits instead of just wine. Non alcoholic pairings need to get some love, too.

15. Death of the Spiel
Ok, this is a polarizing topic ‘round here, with some proponents of the spiel. As for the rest of us, we say nobody needs to be walked through the menu any longer. Are there specials not listed? Are you out of anything? If not, let’s get some water on the table and come back shortly for the drink order. We can handle the menu.

14. Upgrade the Seafood Tower
Less predictable options, more unique raw and cooked preparations, with different types of clams and crawfish and more crab.

13. Listening Restaurants
Sure, listening bars are cool and all, but those white label City Pop records pair just as nicely with Poulet Rôti.

12. Affogato Ice Cream Stands
Imagine how locked you’d be this year if you punctuated every afternoon with some chocolate chip cookie dough swimming in espresso?

11. The Great Diner Renewal Project
We cannot lose these precious institutions, and it’s time for the government, wealthy altruistic donors, or another third party to step in.

10. Enough with the protein maxxing
We get it!

9. Give Polenta the Star Treatment
It’s the sexiest grain-based dish. Just ask the Italians.

8. Normalize Iced Red Wine
It’s glam, just ask “it girl” Sasha Mutchnik.

7. Restaurants: Step Up the Art Game
You should be a gallery with food.

6. 86 Any Guy Who Treats a Dinner Date Like a Podcast
Debating your date isn’t sexy. Go home, Theo Von.

5. More Tavern-Style Pizza
Especially here in New York.

4. Comfort Food Tasting Menus
C’mon, Achatz, let’s reclaim that lost Michelin Star with some deconstructed tater tots.

3. Smooth Jazz Bars
Controversial? Sure. Smooth? Always.

2. Fitness Apps That Unlock Meals On The House
Torch those calories with 10,000 steps? Your table awaits…

1. Restaurant Divorce Court
Who gets the joint in the breakup? Let the restaurant decide who truly is the regular. Sorry, no joint custody.

The kitchen gets all the attention, but what about FOH? That’s where worlds collide. Our new anonymous columnist suffers the tribulations of table service for your entertainment, and perhaps enlightenment, too.

TUESDAY

3:25 p.m. Reality is malleable. This is what I’m telling myself sighingly as I begin setting up the dining room. If I cultivate the love and the light within my soul, perhaps the universe will bless me with a seamless service.

3:55 p.m. Reality may be malleable, but once again, family meal is not. Slimy-looking sausages and peppers will not help morale. I run down the block, speedwalking into Tenichi mart, attempting to salvage both my stomach and the brief window of time I’ll be allowed to sit down in the next six hours.

5:15 p.m. A shift without a sunset… working through the dead of night. I must say that starting service with the sun already down feels horrible. Not only is it affecting my circadian rhythm in a way that I am sure will take years off my life, but it is warping how time passes in a sick and twisted way. Clocks move differently in the darkness.

7:00 p.m. If you hadn’t guessed, the energy in here tonight is incredibly haunted. The spookiness only magnified as I get a closer look at who the host just sat in my section. Tonight’s equivalent of a ghost. Table 56 is now populated by my ex-boyfriend’s old roommate’s friend, who frequently responds to my Instagram stories. He’s on a presumed date with a girl whom I follow on Instagram, but don’t know if I have ever met in real life.

Serving a nodding acquaintance is one of a waitress’s most difficult challenges. It’s a confusing and sloppy social dynamic that forces you to marry your waitress and person personas while attempting to financially benefit off your charms. You suddenly go from girl to servant, friend to employee, enslaved to their whims and wishes, potentially altering the state of your casual relationship forever.

7:15 p.m. After unsuccessfully attempting to pawn them off to another server, I approach the table with dread, preparing for the “Omg! I didn’t know you worked here,” in which I desperately have to play off the amount of time I spend in this god forsaken room in order to feign being way more successful at my creative endeavors. I swiftly usher them to the drink menu, desperately trying to utilize alcohol to smooth out the awkwardness of this interaction.

7:25 p.m. While getting their orders and noting her gluten allergy, I simultaneously try and gauge how much banter I’ll have to employ to guilt them into overtipping me. He, of course, is eagerly engaged, while I can’t decide if she wants to kill herself or me.

At the end of the day, this is the West Village, and he will be the one throwing his card down, as is the drybar-Patagonia vest culture. So I put the extra effort in to throw in some of the classic canned lines. “And the chicken comes with fries… so you can’t beat that!” Words that really don’t even sound like words coming out of my mouth anymore.

8:30 p.m. I’ve successfully performed a calculated dance, maneuvering us to desert with limited table interaction. Switching off apologetic smiles as I feign business in the dining room and strategically waltzing out of the kitchen when a dish headed their way appears on the line.

But now it’s judgment day. The bomb that is the check with zero comps is about to drop. The mask of feigned friendliness will be ripped off and the pressure to tip 30% removed. There is hope, though, one saving grace in the form of the only thing we are allowed to send “Friends” (loose term) of the restaurant. A tiny swirl of ice cream.

“How bout some dessert?” I say with a big, stupid smile on my face. She’s quick to tell me they are too full and they’ll take the check. I’m screwed. I walk to the Toast iPad and hesitate. To swirl or not to swirl, that is the question. I decide to fire it, darting to another corner of the dining room as to hide the fact that I am not getting them that check they asked for.

8:45 p.m. A coworker closes them out, I avoid goodbyes by hiding in the coffee station, for once happy to return to simple waitressdom and not personhood.

10:00 p.m. A party of four West Village girls with rocks on their fingers and product worth more than I’ll make tonight in their hair are obliterated in the middle of the dining room. A tablescape of fries, little gem salad, and martinis separates the presumed Charlotte of the group from the drunkest of them, as she leans in trying to get her girl to hold it together.

But you can’t save them all. She’s gone full bobble head, swinging and swaying in her seat. On one violent downward sway, she lets it rip, puking on the floor. I alone see this, in what feels like slow motion, until her friends help her up and usher her to the bathroom, barfed Basque food all down the front of her artizia slip dress. At the Toast iPad, I inform the floor manager while simultaneously asking if I can be cut.

THURSDAY

3:25 p.m. I am late and not looking forward to this. The whole gray December thing is really stifling any forced positivity I can muster. I am keeping my headphones on for set up, listening to Lana Del Rey (which I’d argue is the most apt waitress music of all time) and wistfully dreaming of sunshine, success, and a margarita.

3:55 p.m. As I begin to drench white rice in Cholulah (the only edible option from family meal), I realize there is a stirring of activity coming from behind the host’s iPad. Interest piqued, I suddenly find myself on my feet, peering over their shoulder at the Rezy, reading a note under a random name, “This reservation is for Gwyneth Paltrow.”

I thank God for a little excitement.

4:25 p.m. As the GM lists off our VIPs for the night, I size up my coworkers and manufacture the shining feeling that out of all of us, I am the best suited to serve Ms. Paltrow. At the very least, I am the most excited.

5:00 p.m. To solidify my opportunity, I corner the GM at the Toast iPad and shamelessly yet successfully plead to be given her section. Now, this may be seen as some type of star fuckery, and in real life I’m morally outraged by the notion, but in restaurant life I am desperate for a taste of razzle dazzle, glamour, and the insider knowledge of how well Gwyneth Paltrow tips.

​And YES, fine - I have an undeniable fantasy of being so utterly charming that I am adopted, married, hired as an indentured servant, or whatever by one of these celebrities and swept away from the waitressing world.

5:05 p.m. Service starts, and I skip to the bathroom, hoping to ensure I am operating at my most beautiful. I am more than disappointed at what stares back at me in the mirror. Whatever grease is not collected in crusty stains across my yellow t-shirt seems to be in my hair. I’m looking like a lifeless Cinderella. I’ve got to do something about this.​

I beeline it for the GM and frantically inform her of our problem. There is no way in hell I am serving Gwyneth Paltrow looking like I spent 16 hours washing dishes and another 48 in a prison cell. Thankfully, she’s almost as excited about Gwyneth as I am, and in an act of mercy allows me to go to the office and retrieve a fresh T-shirt. Usually, I would be docked like $30 for this, but because it is truly out of necessity and no fault of my own (other than me being the one who spilled things all over it and did not have it laundered before this shift), she gives it to me for free.

5:20 p.m. I’ve rebraided my hair, hounded coworkers for a little blush and concealer, and thrown the old shirt in the trash. I should probably see if I have tables.

6:00 p.m.I am pulling a Princess Diaries, walking like there is a book on my head as I walk three brothy ass bowls through the dining room. “Goop Girls don’t have stains,” I whisper to my coworker as I heel-toe-heel-toe by.

6:30 p.m. I stand by the bar, an eagle eye on the door. Then, a billion-dollar blonde in a low ponytail pushes her way through the front door. I have butterflies. I run to the coffee station to catch my breath. Also, I am assuming she’ll drink bottled water and not tap.

7:00 p.m. Things are going swimmingly. Ms. Paltrow and I are laughing, she’s telling me about eating shrimp in Biarritz, I am nodding like I totally relate. She’s polished and polite as well as hungry. She needs some snacks before she has any wine, and I happily offer to get her some bites to start things off.

The sunshine coming from Table One is immediately overtaken by a cloud at the host stand. A horde of people, the teens being transformed into one big table. No, no, no, it can’t be. Not a large party. Not in my section. Not NOW. But my pained expression to the host doesn’t stop them from leading the group of 12 to my section.

7:20 p.m. After a small tantrum that got me nowhere and a pained introduction to the large party, I rush back to get Gwyneth’s wine order. Apologizing profusely for the delay, in a way that makes it a little too obvious, I am emotionally invested in our interaction.

Because she’s Gwyneth Paltrow, she’s just going to order as they go, and because I’m me (a waitress), I have to smile and nod regardless of knowing that this may set me up for failure as it completely dismantles my ability to streamline her meal.

8:00 p.m. 12 people is too many people to take to dinner. It leads to sidebar conversations, a fracturing of the group, and awkwardness over who had more of what. I really do believe that in order to truly dine together, you must share food as well as conversation. Besides, it would do us all some good to be a bit more selective about our dining partners.

That being said, the 12 top is playing a game of musical chairs in a valiant attempt to prove me wrong, making it impossible to figure out who ordered what beverage.

8:45 p.m. Reaching across the 12 top’s crowded table to clear some chicken, I look longingly at Gwyneth, as she smiles at the backwaiter graciously getting her dessert order. (Just a peppermint tea, of course.) Her stunning elegance and grace distract me as I bump the head of position 8 (formerly of position 2 fame), spilling chicken jus all down the front of my crisp yellow t-shirt.

I barely apologize for the bump, nor the splattered jus. NOT IN FRONT OF GWYNETH. I sprint to the kitchen to dump the plates in dish, then head back to the host stand to beg for a Tidestick, not keeping my expletives to a whisper.

8:50 p.m. I tend to be slightly over aggressive with the Tide stick, always resulting with a giant wet splotch where the stain used to be. When you need immediate relief, this isn’t really much of a solution. So I return to Gwyneth, delivering a tea and the check with a defeated smile.​

10:00 p.m. Of course, my last table in the restaurant is the 12-person army of belligerent drunks. I feel beaten, battered down, and am cursing their espresso martini order. A closer hesitantly comes to take them off my hands. I lean on their shoulder, wistfully staring at where Gwyneth once sat, tortured by thoughts of what could have been. If only I could have spent a little more time with her…

The tip she leaves me? 30%.

TUESDAY

7:00 p.m. It is a Tuesday at 7 p.m., and I am driving home from filming a movie in Pennsylvania when I receive an email from the GM, subject line: “REDACTED Schedule.” I am assuming this is due to the frantic texts I sent about calling out to do this job and the fact that I have been too busy to work a consistent schedule in months.

The email reads:

I wanted to reach out regarding the upcoming schedule. After some careful thought and consideration we’ve made the difficult decision to downsize a bit. In adjusting our hours and staffing needs, we will be removing you from the schedule moving forward. We will take responsibility for covering all your future published shifts.

​

It feels a bit like getting broken up with by someone who you’ve actively been trying to distance yourself from for weeks. I have two thoughts: “Whoa, I just got fired for the first time” and “Omg, I don’t have to work tomorrow!”

I respond with:

“Well, I guess this is goodbye then!”

No follow-up from the team, interestingly enough. Curious if it had to do with spilling Jus on that guy’s head, but no use dwelling on the past. For now, I am collecting unemployment and thinking of getting into Poker.

X

Back in the day, restaurant “merch” meant an old t-shirt you wore for softball practice and sleepovers, stamped with the name of the local burger joint down the street. Sure, you had outliers like The Black Dog Tavern in Martha’s Vineyard, which stumbled its way into a cute black dog logo that sparked an entire sweater line worth more than the restaurant—and maybe the island itself—but those stories were few and far between.

These days, it’s different. The door’s been blown off its hinges. Restaurants are turning their brands into marketing juggernauts, monetizing every bit of likeness. Restaurant merch is being dangled like a carrot, and folks are biting. For the record, we here at Blackbird fully endorse this trend – the more great restaurants can capitalize on their brand the better.

But back to the merch itself. As in, what is the guy in the backwards Il Buco hat trying to tell you? That he has a great affinity for rustic Italian served alongside a tremendous wine list, both by the bottle and glass? Or perhaps he is telegraphing that a $300 pasta dinner on Bond Street is just a Tuesday night?

Here are a few of our favorites, each one befitting a different personality. Even if you can’t stand the person wearing it, you’ve gotta admit they look pretty good.

St. John Tote Bag - London

For the gastro-heads, St. John—the famous Central London snout-to-tail restaurant—is the shrine, and the classic tote bag its holy grail. The pig logo, a nod to their snout-to-tail philosophy, is about as strong as they come. The restaurant naturally weeds out the unadventurous, featuring dishes like Chicken and Ox Tongue Pie…not for the faint of heart.

What you’re trying to say:
If you spot a St. John Tote on home turf, it deserves a tip of the cap. A trip to St. John isn’t exactly tea at Windsor Castle. The tote signals you know a thing or two about food and have made the pilgrimage to back it.

Where we will spot you:
Back in the States, you’re bombing around Flushing or Harlem looking for a niche taco place. Manhattan no longer excites your adventurous palate. You dragged a date to Astoria for “the best Egyptian she’s ever had.” She ghosted you shortly after, but her loss — you’re headed to a guy who cooks traditional Chinese out of his backyard this weekend.

How to pull it off:
This tote deserves more than just being your everyday office cruiser. Load it up for a picnic: Salumeria, smelly cheese, a bottle of wine, and a Sunday journal. Off to a good start.

IYKYK Rating: 10/10

Paul Bert Shirt - Paris

Paul Bert used to be a deep, deep cut, reluctantly passed around by folks in the know as the place to get the best steak frites, maybe of your life. Unfortunately, like all good things, social media has outed this well-kept secret (is nothing sacred?).

The silver lining? Giftshop Paris. Despite a few press hits, this brand, which assembles one-off collabs with iconic brasseries, has stayed niche. Brasserie Lipp, Fontaine de Mars, and, of course, Paul Bert. The secret is out on the steak frites, but Giftshop still remains for those in the know.

What you’re trying to say:
You went on a solo trip to Paris to research wine-bar concepts…long lunches with Hemingway in hand (or, even more of a signal to the heads, some A. J. Liebling), and it was transformative. Even if you ordered the sweatshirt online and had it shipped straight to your door…we’ll never tell.

Where we will spot you: The well-curated mystique makes it hard to spot you, honestly. Whether it’s performative, the byproduct of a trust fund, or a little bit of both text us back, we’re worried.

How to pull it off:
Cigarette in one hand, espresso in a ceramic in the other. Despite being back for a month, you can’t shake saying “bah oui” instead of yes and insist on a crisp pack of Gauloises rather than the P-funks your rube-like friends still puff. Speaking of which, those friends are waning, but they’re just jealous of that Paul Bert sweatshirt.

IYKYK Rating: 9/10
(Pro tip: Paul Bert just dropped a collab with Frenchette. If you’ve got one of those, 11/10.)

Lucia Hat - New York

With the iconic green-and-white Lucia pizzerias popping up all over New York (including the new Gramercy location), their classic Italian-style logo was too good not to slap on a hat. But they didn’t stop there — tees, beanies, the works.

What you’re trying to say:
You’ve been around the block. Lucia is the pizza New Yorkers go to. L’Industrie can keep their hypebeast lines. Fini the cult following. Lucia has stayed a neighborhood spot.

Where we will spot you:
Everyone knows the one unemployed friend (sorry “creative director”) hanging out on a random Tuesday in Dimes Square. They’re wearing this hat.

How to pull it off:
Levi 501s, white tee, Adidas Sambas, iced coffee. You’re out the door.

IYKYK Rating: 8/10

Amber Waves Hat - Hamptons

Amber Waves is a small not-for-profit farmstand outside Amagansett. Since 1954, they’ve served the community with some of the island’s freshest produce.

That said, they’ve probably raised more money from the cult-like following of their hats than from all the veggies combined.

Where it gets interesting is who wears them: outside of the crunchy intended audience, there’s the West Village girlie and the private-equity dad (with the beaded Buddhist bracelets, of course). At first glance, these personas have nothing in common but a deeper look reveals the hat may not be the only through line…they summer in the Hamptons, have an affinity for $100 lobster salads, and know a guy who can get them into Stephen Talkhouse. The Amber Waves hat remains a badge of honor.

What you’re trying to say:
You summer in the Hamptons…that’s literally the only thing they are trying to say.

Where we will spot you:
Vintage Defender cruising down the Montauk Highway, a group of girls on the 4:06 LIRR Cannonball, divorce court.

How to pull it off:
Even though this hat falls victim to unfortunate occasions, it’s a great trucker. Pair it with white Vans, those aforementioned beaded bracelets (both parties seem to wear them), and a tee from Montauket, and you’re ready for a sunset rum punch.

IYKYK Rating: 2/10

Fini x Local Hoops - Brooklyn

Everyone knows Fini has one of the best slices in Brooklyn, if not New York. What you may not know is that Fini hosts youth basketball tournaments, competitions, and clinics — winners take home “Fini Pizza for Life!”

So naturally, they teamed up with Local Hoops. Like the pizza, most of the collab is sold out, but it’s worth having a look.

What you’re trying to say:
The Fini hat seems to be a mainstay for anyone who’s moved from Manhattan to Williamsburg in search of more space. You traded your studio for a two-bedroom, a significant other, and a dog. The Fini merch says, “Despite all that, I’ve still got it… right?” (Scratches neck nervously).

Where we will spot you:
Dragged to Barry’s class by your significant other. The hat is the only thing hiding the horrific hangover from last night’s “drinks with the fellas.”

How to pull it off:
The whole Fini x Local Hoops line belongs on a basketball court. Whether it’s the Knicks game or pickup at the local park, reach for the Fini Hat.

IYKYK Rating: 6/10

Elena - Montreal

Elena, a new-school pizza and pasta spot in Montreal, could stand alone as an apparel brand — and in some ways, they do. Their “boutique” includes chore jackets, water bottles, Ciele hats (deep pull), and even croakies that would make Connecticut lax bros proud.

What you’re trying to say:
This is for the true culinary heads, you’re saying that you don’t mind an eight-hour trip north to Montreal to get that French injection when “Paris is just not in the cards this year.”

Where we will spot you:
You fancy a good slice with great vibes, you are likely headed to Parla, Emmets on Grove, Joe and Pats in LA or Rubirosa in its heyday…you’re a cool cat.

How to pull it off:
Pair the croakies with Steve McQueen’s signature Persols from The Thomas Crown Affair.

IYKYK Rating: 10/10

J.G. Melon - Upper East Side

These are the pieces your dad might’ve rocked. If you grew up on the UES — Dalton, Horace Mann, Columbia Prep, one of the like, you might’ve reluctantly worn the tie Grandma got you for Christmas. The UES is back, and so is preppy couture, so no surprise the iconic Melon logo is everywhere.

The best part? They list the merch right on the menu, as if it were a side of fries. Just remember, cash only.

What you’re trying to say:
You grew up on the Upper East Side. Every Blackout Wednesday since you were of drinking age (14 for New Yorkers) started at JG’s. You roll your eyes that the UES is hot again, but never worry that there is a line, Bobby (RIP) behind the bar knew you were family.

Where we will spot you:
Anywhere but Brooklyn.

How to pull it off:
Khakis, Barbour, and a good pair of Belgians.

IYKYK Rating: 7/10

Fanelli Café Sweatshirt - SoHo

Smack in the middle of SoHo — the epicenter of fashion — it’s no surprise Fanelli Café has dipped its toe into the merch game. Of course, being just south of Houston, it has to be a hoodie. Flip the logo upside down and you’ve got yourself a $60 collector’s piece…available only at the bar for even the most discerning hypebeast in your life.

What you’re trying to say:
“I swear, bro, I think the bartender is into me.”

Where we will spot you:
Corner table under the sign, any season. When not at Fanelli, you’re below grade at Lure Fishbar (RIP) or down the block at Balthazar for a French 75 and seafood tower…as long as someone else is paying (there’s always someone else paying).

How to pull it off:
This is the perfect boyfriend sweatshirt, the one stolen the morning after a night out. Grab it and never give it back.

IYKYK Rating: 6/10

Great White — Los Angeles

Right under the Venice sign, just off the canals, you’ll find one of the greatest all-day cafés from the Aussie team behind Great White. A stone’s throw from the Pacific, the shark logo is everywhere.

What you’re trying to say:
You’re far more likely to do morning yoga than a Saturday lunch reservation, but if you must: “We’re going to Great White.” And no drinks…too many toxins.

Where we will spot you:
Santa Monica and Venice, full stop. You stay west of the highway, always. Fine…you went to the Hollywood Hills once because a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend knows Charlie Puth but that’s it. When you need to detox the next morning, we’ll spot the shark hat at Great White.

How to pull it off:
Barefoot, matching Great White towel, Bieber smoothie from Erewhon. Great White’s avocado toast, while basic, is admittedly pretty good, but the merch is even better.

IYKYK Rating: 6/10

Lords - Greenwich Village

First came Dame, born from a popular Covid pop-up serving some of NYC’s best fish and chips. Then came Lords — a nod to London pub food and its trendy love affair with offal (wonder where that idea came from…cough cough). Now they’re over at 10 Downing Street with their third concept. Seeing a theme here, as such it’s only fitting that Lords merch draws inspiration from Oasis-style tees and the classic soccer scarves.

What you’re trying to say: None of us actually know what you’re trying to say lLiterally) ever since you went with your grandparents to London it’s “pint” instead of “beer,” “pub” instead of “bar,” “uni” instead of “college,” and “footy” means “football” rather than America’s sport.

Where we will spot you:
Glued to the couch every Saturday and Sunday watching “prem,” because how could you possibly watch a sport with ads?

How to pull it off:
Pint of Guinness in one hand, scarf around the neck, Blundstones on your feet. You nearly got a whippet to complete the look, fortunately, someone talked you out of it.

IYKYK Rating: 8/10