The Regulars
18,976,457 people share this city. This is New York City, perhaps the only place in the world where you can be surrounded, literally by millions of people and be completely alone. Everyone in this city, at some time, has reveled in this anonymity and been oppressed by it, sometimes simultaneously. For the most part, New York is an immigrant culture. Even moving from one borough makes you a stranger. Almost everyone is from somewhere else. But everyone wants a place that is home.
There are thousands of food blogs floating around on the internet. I apologize in advance to the cosmic ether that inventories all of human invention. Perhaps the phenomenon of the blog is the true marker of our civilizations descent, but perhaps it is the ultimate evolution of our democracy. At a time when our republic is woefully stalled, there seems to be an abundance of recipes for pork fat dipped in chocolate and chilies, pureed, fermented, then poached and set into an aspic using humane gelatin made from the toenails of the chef himself.
Someone, somewhere is doing something wildly inventive that will be the next flash, the new wave; they are blazing the path for our new and glorious culinary future.
But in other restaurants, people are cooking for us, making our favorite dishes, cooking everyday, to be our everyday. New York City is blessed with more than 20,000 restaurants and each one makes something that is perfect. Specifically, this is not the perfect of technical and flawless execution. It is not perfect in its ultimate assumption of the ideal. It is not that glorious and pristine presentation of a single carrot. It is the perfection of a Wednesday night, exhausted from work, unable to make another decision, and knowing that the dumplings will be exactly as you remember them, that bowl of short rib stew will warm you through the night, or the cacio e pepe will still remind you of simple pleasures and minor miracles. There is a perfection in opening a door and feeling your day slip away because this restaurant you know and love, knows you and loves you too. Maybe there is one thing on that menu that reminds you of how much you miss her, or maybe it reminds you of how much better you are today than that day you first tasted a green curry infused with kaffir lime leaves. Oh jungle curry, and I though I knew you-I thought I knew me.
Restaurants become homes. Their owners become family. This blog is a celebration of those places, those dishes, those people, our places, our dishes, our people. This is my ongoing dinner party and you are invited. To begin, I’m starting with the places I know and love, but if you read this and want to share your perfect place, let’s have dinner!
Eat what you love with those you love and be thankful for the home you have.
