I’m riding high after my latest trip to Mexico City. I try to make it down this time of year to catch the vibrant purple jacarandas in bloom — and to eat carnitas gorditas for breakfast and drink Carta Blancas.

On a breezy Friday afternoon, sitting at the bar and taking down a few tostadas at Contramar, I wasn’t exactly pining for the scene back home.

But like clockwork, getting back into a New York routine has me feeling alive. I’ve been embracing the longer days — revisiting long-standing favorites, and finding new gems along the way.

I had dinner at Cervo’s last night for the first time in a while, and couldn’t believe how stellar the experience was — more dialed than ever. So good that it fully snapped me back into a New York rocks kinda mood.

The service was anticipatory and flawless. The 50/50 martinis were flowing. Every dish was perfectly executed (the fried skate wing they’re running, with chickpeas and cilantro, is one of their best iterations). The playlist was ripping. The manager gradually dimmed the lights as the sun set over Canal Street.

As I walked out, I couldn’t help but marvel at spring in New York. It feels like a true return to form in every sense. Everyone’s on their game again — injected with joy, purpose, and possibility. The sun shines brighter, longer. The prawns a la plancha taste a little better.

For me, warmer spring temps mean harder-to-reach neighborhoods are back in play. Leisurely Fort Greene Park hangs are imminent. My Citi Bike membership is getting heavy use. And light beers are going down easy on the Gold Star patio.

It also means cracking open the windows and doing a bit of spring cleaning. While I consider myself a minimalist, I still feel the urge to restructure and recalibrate — even if it’s not tossing clothes into a donation bag. It’s a great opportunity to take stock of what feels out of alignment in my creative and professional life and get it back on track.

Included in this year’s spring cleaning was a little freshening up at Flood’s — namely, a streamlined structure for On Draft. Now focused on recent additions to Flood’s Worldwide, it’ll be easier to parse, bookmark, and act on. I’m hopeful a more frequently published, shorter-form letter will pair nicely with the essays.

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Voraz

Mexico City, Mexico — Proper Meals

In a city full of restaurants just like it, there isn’t a restaurant quite like it. Voraz is a gastro-cantina in Roma that, impressively, manages to stand out among the slew of tastefully designed, experimental Mexican restaurants in town.

Voraz differentiates by leaning into contrast. The tables are set with crisp white linens, but the airy, industrial room has bare concrete walls and reflective metallic-green sheet panels. Servers are dressed in freshly pressed chore coats, but their service style feels decidedly casual. Autoshop-style LED signage sits on the floor in the hall to the bathroom. It’s a refined environment — meticulously considered, but also utilitarian, approachable, and lively.

The food impresses from end to end — bold takes on dishes that sound familiar. Ceviche verde is topped with fried octopus — bright, refreshing, and texturally quite wild. Taco McAllen tucks black angus, mezcal-caramelized onions, and sharp cheddar into a soft-shell-meets-hard-shell situation (yeah, kinda like T-Bell). Tarta Reynosa — buttery maple pecan pie with vanilla ice cream and soft Mexican mountain cheese — is a banger that hits all the notes: nutty, creamy, tangy. Voraz knows exactly which boundaries to push, and just how far to push them — innovating without complicating

Canyon Coffee

Brooklyn, New York — Great Cafés

Northwest Brooklyn is starved for truly great cafés, and L.A. import Canyon Coffee is proving it. There are plenty of serviceable places to grab coffee around Fort Greene, Clinton Hill, and Prospect Heights — but the demand for something that feels special, with an elite product offering, is insatiable.

Which is precisely why dog owners and WFHers (and dog owning WFHers) are queued up on Vanderbilt Ave for Canyon. The coffee is stellar, and the corner space is bright and welcoming (though good luck finding a seat).

The slightly sweet, creamy brown sugar latte plays perfectly in the mid-afternoon — which, conveniently, is when the line tends to settle. The draft matcha pistachio latte is a frothy delight — and I say that as a whole milk truther. If it’s a simple black coffee you’re after, Canyon pours a great cup (in a nice ceramic mug), but I wouldn’t tell you to wait in line for it. Pair that coffee with a bite, though, and it’s a worthy undertaking. The pastry case is loaded with hits, pulling from Elbow Bread and Amanda’s Good Morning Cafe. I realized the absurdity of my order as I bit into a potato sauerkraut knish and followed it with a sip of a syrupy latte, but I’d hop back in line to do it again.

Ba Xuyên

Brooklyn, New York — Casual Food

For all that I love about bánh mì — crusty bread, tender meat, crunchy pickled veg — it’s rarely a sandwich I find myself craving. Every time I eat one, I think to myself, “damn, I should really eat more bánh mì.” After experiencing the glory that is Ba Xuyên, I’m already eager to run it back.

In a humble storefront a block off Sunset Park, Ba Xuyên is making the best, classic bánh mì in New York. The operation is chaotic in all the right ways: orders shouted across the room; carryout bags packed frantically; a faded-out, barely legible menu board behind plexiglass dividers. Bánh Mì Thịt Nguội (“Combination #1”) came recommended. There’s a little bit of everything on the sandwich — ham, head cheese, pork, and pâté. And it’s, expectedly, delicious.

But sandwich #8, Bánh Mì Thịt Nướng, was the big winner. Caramelized grilled pork and silky pâté fill gently toasted bread. It’s sweet, smoky, and — crucially — perfectly ratioed with the fresh vegetables. For $7.50, you’ll be hard-pressed to find a better sandwich in New York. In fact, I dare you to try.

Vacaciones

Mexico City, Mexico — Proper Meals

There comes a point in every Mexico City journey when two desires arise: 1) to eat something other than Mexican food, and 2) to get off the main Roma Norte drag. Vacaciones is the perfect change of pace.

The ever-changing menu is undeniably Italian, driven by fresh local produce. It carries a distinct Mexico City sensibility without ever veering into a fusion. The airy corner space in San Rafael feels like a deep local secret.

Vacaciones is rooted in a passion for good cooking and warm human connection. The chef, Matt, is stationed front and center — chatting with guests while running expo and baking sheets of focaccia. He’s relaxed, confident, and clearly cooking exactly what he wants to be. The dishes are technically sharp, with simple ingredient combinations and a rustic touch that make the meal feel genuinely homestyle.

It’s worth ordering all three pastas, including a seafood busiate in a bright, fragrant tomato sauce. The punchier mains — like grilled beef heart over a bed of chile-laden, brothy beans — are memorably good. As your meal winds down, yeah, you’ll have a badass bombolone with fresh plums and mascarpone, but Matt might also offer you a cup of tea on the house, because “you look like you’d enjoy one right now.”

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It’s 9:00 pm on a Friday, and the Lower East Side is buzzing.

I slide through a circle of girls smoking very thin cigarettes just outside Funny Bar, and swing open the frosted glass door. The front corridor is packed, but a swift weave with a few “excuse me’s” lands me in the back room. My friends are huddled around a long 8-top, directly in the center of the dining room. It’s my friend Emma’s birthday, one of the best reasons to get a crew together.

Funny Bar is a captivating place. Everyone under their roof seems to be cosplaying as the most artistic, avant-garde, quirky-but-cute versions of themselves. I’m wearing an unstructured blazer, a white tee, and black selvedge denim jeans — I don’t feel underdressed, but I do feel too normal.

Each table in the dining room is covered with a blank, white paper tablecloth — a few scattered crayons and briny-looking martinis in coupe glasses sit atop.

I overhear someone refer to the bar as “chic,” which is not the most offensive use of the adjective, but also not one I necessarily agree with. The bar slash lounge slash restaurant is certainly cool, I’d even give it sexy — glass brick, postmodern details, a sunken seating area, dimly lit, narrow walkways meant for brushing elbows. But it leans gritty, silly, and loose more than it exudes elegance or sophistication. We’re on Essex St, after all.

The main draw of Funny Bar is, counterintuitively, not laughter — it’s live jazz music that plays at a conversation-inhibiting volume. But see, it’s not the jazz itself that appeals, but rather the presence of jazz as a tasteful frill to a night out downtown. People don’t say “Let’s go listen to jazz at Funny Bar,” they say “Let’s go to Funny Bar — they have jazz.”

An ice cream sundae emerges from the kitchen, adorned by a single candle, and we break into a spirited rendition of “Happy Birthday.” As we carry the tune, I can’t help but notice the underlying competition of volume. The instrumentation, acoustically loud enough to blanket the mid-sized room, was further amplified by sleek wooden speakers. The table of girls next to us had a lot of drama to catch up on. Every singular voice in the room seemed aware of the surrounding loudness and made itself even louder to compensate.

The musicians play harder. The girls’ week-in-review ascends from a yap to a feverish screech. Every third word seems to be “WHAT?” The server cups his hand and motions toward his ear, indicating he can’t hear my order of a Negroni from just the other end of the table. Our Happy Birthday singing loses all pitch in favor of pure volume. If Funny Bar had a jumbotron with a big decibel meter telling you to “Get Loud,” the meter hand is surely pushing into the red.

And in this moment, surrounded by volume without cohesion, everyone screaming to be heard — I realized why I’ve been enjoying ambient music so much lately.

Because it doesn’t compete — it complements.

There’s a state of being that I often exist in that demands more than silence, but less than full-blown, energetic music. There are moments — days, even — when music feels like too much stimulus. Where lyrics are distracting, and even my favorite albums ask for more attention than I have to give. It’s a companion that I seek, more than anything — music that floats, flutters, and settles softly into the corners of a room.

Plane rides, the thirty minutes before bed, the first hour after waking, deep focus sessions, washing dishes, lying in the park watching the sky, subway trips, walks through the city, sometimes even workouts. These are all situations where I find myself turning to droney, spacey, ambient sounds.

Ambient is a fairly vague and open-ended genre of music — there’s a wide range of sounds and feelings within it. But generally, it’s music that’s mellow, instrumental, abstract, and even a bit mysterious. The opposite of hype music. Brian Eno, the godfather of ambient, has a quote about the goal of his productions: “It must be as ignorable as it is interesting.”

For me, ambient music sounds like listening to art. I know all music is art, but ambient especially feels like immersing yourself in someone else’s deep inner workings.

The soundscapes of ambient music complement the world around me and gently alter how I perceive it. It enhances the emotion of the mundane. It feels like a journey through the woods more than a lap around an F1 track. It swirls like wind, but never blows you off course.

For an active, analytical listener like myself, ambient music solves a specific problem: it offers richness — texture, atmosphere, slow harmonic movement — that rewards close attention but never demands it.

My personal exploration of ambient music has been profoundly rewarding. It feels like I’ve added a tool to my arsenal that grounds me and clarifies even my most complex thoughts. Functionally, it’s less like music and more like a second consciousness running alongside me.

If you’ve felt similarly to me lately — overstimulated, yet not wanting to be fully left in silence — I’d encourage you to give these records (my personal favorites) a shot.

Despite sounding quite different, they have a throughline: It’s music to exist to. To focus on or ignore. It’s what to listen to when you don’t feel like listening.

11’s: What to Listen to When You Don’t Feel Like Listening

01] Nala Sinephro — Space 1.8

Best for: Deep creative thinking; coming up with Substack prompts

The jazziest album on the list. Nala Sinephro brings together waves of live instrumentation and layers it with modular synths and harp cascades. It builds, weaves, and has bursts of energy. Full of life, color, and nice vibrations. It’s funky and fun, and pushes me outside my conventional box of thinking.

02] Various Artists — Virtual Dreams II - Ambient Explorations In The House & Techno Age

Best for: Coming down after a night out; eating something spicy; organizing your junk drawer

A rec from the good people at Choza in Mexico City. This collection of forgotten Japanese ambient tracks feels so cohesive despite being disparate. Existential, hypnotic, and a little wobbly, this record gets the most airtime later in the evening for me.

[03/04/05] Floating Points — Crush, Promises, Elaeina

Best for: Café hopping on a Saturday afternoon; contemplating; sitting in a Snow Peak chair around a campfire

Floating Points is the artist I’m most captivated by right now. His live sets are masterful and journeylike (experiencing his Sunflower Sound System is at the top of my musical wish list). Naturally, for an artist so talented, his recorded albums are beautifully artistic, boundary-pushing, and timeless. I’ve listed three of his five albums because I listen to them substantially more than the other two.

Crush is the most experimental, synthy, and loopy of the three, which lands in a surprisingly meditative way (it’s also my all-time favorite album artwork). Promises is a magnificent orchestral-ambient collaboration featuring the late, great Pharoah Sanders on saxophone — it feels like moving through a daydream. Elaeina was the album that started the Floating Points project, and still holds up as an intimate, ethereal record 10 years later. All stellar in their own ways, showcasing the full spectrum of the Floating Points sound.

06] Brian Eno — Thursday Afternoon

Best for: Thursday afternoon (in September, with overcast skies and a slight breeze); drinking soba cha

A recommendation from my friend , who writes Time Signature. I was familiar with Eno’s Ambient 1: Music For Airports, but he turned me onto this hour-long single composition, which has become one of my favorite things to listen to. It’s a gentle piano progression that builds to a sunny, lively climax that never fails to raise my spirits and spark a bit of creativity.

07] Chihei Hatakeyama — Late Spring

Best for: Any sort of to and from — plane, train, automobile

Minimal, grounding, rooted in nature. Chihei Hatakeyama’s springtime ode is a bit melancholic, a touch understated. It’s sonically rich in a way that envelops me and allows me to drift into a soft, steady state of mind.

08] Jon Hopkins — Music For Psychedelic Therapy

Best for: Swiftly calming the nervous system; looking at the stars

My undisputed goat ambient album. I’ve listened hundreds of times and can never get enough. “Tayos Caves, Ecuador i-iii” puts me under a serious spell with the mix of field recordings and droney spacey sounds. Ambient is a hard genre to use the phrase “best,” but this record and its emotive qualities create a sound that I really, deeply connect with the most. Perfect in all situations.

09] Aphex Twin — Selected Ambient Works 85-92

Best for: A late-night drive; watching the ocean’s waves roll in

The most well-known album on the list, for good reason. Richard James’ timeless creation is more rhythmic than many albums on this list, with a sound that can’t be pinned down, fluctuating between warmth and cold, light and darkness. Every song on the record has a transportive quality and really takes me to the same deeply specific place across listens.

10] Four Tet — Three +

Best for: Cleaning out your closet; drinking ginger ale on an airplane

A steady yet adventurous instrumental jam from one of electronic music’s greats. Three is a bit underappreciated in the Four Tet discography, but it’s comforting, listen-to-able in a way that’s a great entry point for the ambient curious. Four Tet has many bangers, but you won’t find them on this record.

11] Jon Hopkins — Quiet (Spotify playlist)

Best for: Winding down. Way, way down

The softest, slowest of the entrants here. Jon Hopkins’ Quiet Spotify playlist pulls together some of the best, mellow ambient tracks that are perfect for a tender, mellow state of relaxation. It’s often shuffled with a 30-minute sleep timer right before I head to bed.

If you’re a fan of ambient music, I’d love to hear from you. Drop an album rec or share your favorite situation to listen to ambient. Turn me onto something new.

And for all these albums on one master playlist, follow the link to my Spotify here.

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Sophomore year of high school, after hockey practice, my dad and I had a routine: a quick drive from City Sports Center to Detroit’s Eastern Market for a post-skate bite.

Supino Pizzeria was about two years old at the time, but still felt like a hidden gem with something to prove. We’d order two small pies: usually a San Gennaro, with roasted red peppers and housemade sausage, and a Funghi with smoked gouda and mushrooms. One red pie, one white — to keep things balanced.

At the time, my parents were in the early stages of opening their first restaurant. The concept was just starting to take shape, and my dad was painstakingly focused on mastering a pizza dough recipe to anchor the menu. Nothing else was going to move forward until he did.

After collecting our order from inside the narrow, rustic shop, we’d sit at the wooden picnic tables out front and settle in with our pizzas. Supino’s pies were (and still are) damn good — to my dad, frustratingly good. His recipe was improving with every batch, but still needed tweaks to get it where he wanted it to be.

Before diving in, I’d watch my dad lift and rotate the slices — studying them, inspecting the char, trying to deduce what combination of flour, water, and yeast produced such a crisp-yet-chewy bite on these unmistakably thin pies.

We’d sit in silence for a while — marveling at these brilliant slices — before finally giving in, dipping them in a pool of fiery-orange chili oil, and crushing them in short order.

Pizza was the food I first learned to be discerning about — distinguishing bad from good, and then good from great. My dad’s fixation with doppio zero flour and peak gluten development certainly contributed to this.

Most kids my age subscribed to the “even bad pizza is still pizza” philosophy, paying no mind to amalgamated cheese and radioactive sauce. But at Supino, I had seen the other side. And I wasn’t going back.

Even today, I judge pizza by the standard Supino set: textural contrast, restraint with toppings, the chew of the dough. I’ve had plenty of formative pizza experiences since — the hot/cold sensation of the burrata slice at L’Industrie; the Reggiano-blanketed sourdough crust at Middle Brow. Some pies have been better, some more interesting — but my fascination with great pizza started in that little shop in Detroit.

And it’s what keeps sending me across cities in search of the next great pie.

Lucky Charlie is a pizzeria in Bushwick. An excellent one. And despite the never-ending NYC pizza hype cycle — a deeply underrated one.

It’s a place that, I’m certain, would have blown up and been infiltrated past the point of no return if it weren’t tucked away on a desolate stretch of Bushwick off Myrtle Ave. But I write to you, year 2026, happy to report that Lucky Charlie is still a restaurant you can (and should) get into.

Despite opening just last fall, Lucky Charlie is a place you’d walk past and assume has been there for at least a decade. It’s designed to look and feel timeless, without being tacky or distracting from the reason everyone’s in that room — to eat ripping-hot pizzas coming out of a coal oven.

Coal oven cooking is Lucky Charlie’s modus operandi — and its reason for being. Miraculously, almost unfathomably, they’ve inherited and are using the oldest coal oven in the western hemisphere.

Read that back: The oldest coal oven in the whole damn hemisphere sits in the basement at 254 Irving Ave.

Built in 1890 to bake bread for the neighborhood’s Sicilian immigrants, the 17-by-14-foot medieval-looking monstrosity rips at 600 degrees all night long.

And it’s being put to great use.

On a particularly nasty winter day in New York, I hopped on a bus that must have made at least 100 stops on a hilariously indirect route between Fort Greene and Bushwick.

As I stepped off — delirious in the way only an hour of stop-and-go public transit can induce — I was immediately grasped by the smell of El Salvadorian street meats grilling underneath the M train, and the persistent blare of a fire truck struck behind a parked car. A few blocks later, I was face-to-face with Lucky Charlie’s green-and-white striped awning, a neon sign reading “COAL OVEN,” and a neat row of lawn chairs positioned along the exterior wall.

By the time the front door swung open at 5:00 pm, a small crowd had formed outside the restaurant — everyone in a light dusting of sleet, hankering for pies. Some were regulars, visibly worried their neighborhood spot was getting busier. Others, like me, were filled with anticipation about the pizzas to come. Minutes later, we were ushered into the dining room — illuminated by the hazy red neon glow, with the faint smell of charcoal in the air — and suddenly, the journey felt worthwhile.

There are many things I respect about the way Lucky Charlie operates: open ‘til 3:00 am and serving pizza ‘til close; walk-in only, as any respectable pizza parlor should be; High Life ponies are $4, and kept ice cold. But what I respect most is the gregarious character roaming the room donning a leather jacket and dark orange sunglasses, dropping one-liners like “badda bing” and asking with sincerity, “how the hell ya doin’?”

Nino Coniglio is the owner and face of Lucky Charlie. It’s difficult to tell if he’s performing like a Sopranos season 3 extra, or if this is really who he is. Either way, he is a certified pizza-making renegade — boisterous, but deeply committed to the craft. And his presence in that room makes a world of difference.

We settled in at the bar and surveyed the menu, which is deeper and more captivating than you’d expect for a neighborhood pizza shop. There’s a roster of Italian-leaning dishes and house specialties that complement the pies: baked pastas, bread service, and grilled seafood — all of which are cooked in the same coal oven.

I’d be remiss not to mention the very good little gem Caesar (not cooked in the coal oven) that we were instructed to “pick up and eat like little Caesar salad tacos.” The handheld salad format, new to me, is something I can get behind. But besides the greens to kick things off, today was all about pies.

Between three hungry mates sitting at the bar, each of whom had made a bit of a pilgrimage to get to the pizzeria, two pies felt like the mildly aggressive yet appropriate order. There are three simple pizza options at Lucky Charlie — red, white, and classic — and you can top them however you’d like.

As the server emerged from the kitchen and headed our way with a wide metal disk in hand, I sat up a little straighter in anticipation. Every pizza I had ever known and loved flashed before my eyes. I looked on with wonder as the tray was placed on the stand in front of me.

Stylistically, Lucky Charlie’s pizza is unlike anything I’ve had before. It blends elements of New York, New Haven, and Chicago tavern-style into a crunchy, chewy, haphazardly cut, crushable masterpiece.

The crust of the pie is miraculous — crisp as hell, flat from edge to edge, and beautifully charred, right on the edge of burnt. As you pick it up, the slice maintains structural integrity — straight as an arrow, with a sharp crack and snap as you fold it.

Calling Lucky Charlie’s classic pie “classic” is technically correct, but massively undersells its brilliance. The classic is composed of rich, nutty Pecorino Sardo, sheets of fresh fior di latte mozzarella, stripes of bright San Marzano tomato sauce, and finished with a grating of 40-month Parmigiano and a healthy drizzle of Sicilian olive oil. Primo in every single way.

There’s nowhere for mediocrity to hide on a pizza this decidedly simple — because you can and will taste the difference. Every ingredient pulls its weight and delivers exactly the taste and texture you’d hope for.

The second pie was a touch more daring: the same classic base doctored up with cup ‘n char pepperonis and fresh Calabrian chili. While not as revelatory as the unadulterated classic, this pizza was still magnificent. A bit greasier, a lot spicier. Something you’d seek out to nurse a hangover, or to watch a post-season football game. It’s heavy enough that the front third of the slice flops. But that crunchy crust prevails, even with the added moisture and heft.

As slices disappeared, a charcoaly residue accumulated on my fingers, a reminder of the oven this pie came out of — not that I could have, or would have forgotten.

Discernment, when it comes to pizza, isn’t usually focused on anything massive or obvious. Pizza is a fairly fixed template. The difference between good and great isn’t the inclusion of a wild ingredient — it’s the accumulation of micro-decisions. Dough fermentation, balance of toppings, oven times, and temperatures all add up to something major.

But at Lucky Charlie, the pizza being great isn’t a matter of subtleties — it’s greatness that hits you square in the jaw. Hell, you can probably tell it’s a great pizza through the screen.

And its greatness is reinforced by the room — a proper pizza parlor where you can slow down and take it all in.

I’m not going to declare it the best pizza in New York, or pretend to rank pizzas that precisely. But I will say this: it’s the pizza I want to eat the most. Most days, and certainly right now.

What Nino and crew are producing in that coal oven is the kind of pizza you don’t need to overanalyze or compare. It’s pizza that anyone — discerning or not — can sit down and enjoy.

This was a restaurant write-up from Mr. Flood’s Party. Subscribe for free and get Flood’s delivered regularly. If you feel inclined, consider becoming a paid subscriber and supporting the creative process.

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If you’re wondering where I’ve been the past month, the answer is Swift Hibernian Lounge. The gravitational pull of the charming NoHo pub cannot be overstated. Every time I’ve been within a 10-block radius — before I can even consider my options for an afternoon libation — I’ve found myself ducking out of the cold and into Swift’s back room.

Swift is New York City’s finest public house. It’s an easy place to saunter in, a hard place to get yourself to leave. The pints at Swift are stellar, and the room they’re served in — wood-clad, coated in art and surreal murals — is immersive, transportive, and supremely comforting. But what keeps me coming back to Swift isn’t just the product or the room — it’s the spirit. Swift is a bar you can call on for any situation — the perfect place to meet friends, to talk with strangers, or to exist on your own. It’s convivial, celebratory, approachable, and just rowdy enough. It feels good.

In all seriousness, despite the bitter winter weather, it’s been a lovely month. For the first time in a while, I dedicated my time to experiencing rather than documenting. It was a recalibration of sorts — refocusing on the world around me and how I was noticing it, rather than how I was capturing it.

And so that meant pitchers of Labatt at The Canuck, watching the Rangers lose in historic fashion, but having a great time doing it. It meant eating spinach pie at Kafana as live Balkan music enveloped the East Village taverna. And yeah, it meant a lot of time spent sitting at the pub.

Last January felt like the driest one yet. Friends went Cali-sober for a few weeks. I was meeting them at the café for an afternoon cortado, rather than the bar for a couple of rounds. But this January was different. Decidedly wetter. Fewer friends seemed to be scaling back the boozing, and almost all of them had a different intention — resolving to get the hell off their phones. Myself included.

The pub is a sacred place built around community and togetherness — a sanctuary from screens. When I’m at the pub, time ceases to exist. My breathing slows. The worries of the outside world can, at least for a moment, be suspended. The pub is where we catch up, talk through life’s problems big and small, and connect, human-to-human, about everything, anything, or nothing at all. It’s not flashy, inventive, or particularly experiential. It’s just the pub.

I love my New York pubs — Swift, Hartley’s, Iona, amongst others — but until recently, I don’t think I fully understood why I felt so happy in them. I knew I enjoyed the buzz from two pints of nicely poured Guinness, but it always felt deeper than that. And now I’m starting to realize: pubs make me feel like myself — grounded, human, emotional, and alive.

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Back in August, I got my first experience of pubs in their truest form — in the UK. I quickly found that, for as profound as my American pub experiences had been, there’s no comparison to the feeling of guzzling a few pints on a London street corner amongst blokes truly living in the moment. Pubs in the UK feel deeply woven into the rhythm of everyday life: any long workday leads to the pub, and Sunday lunch happens at the pub. I’ve been thinking a lot about that trip, and longing to go a layer deeper.

And so, in the depths of January, in the midst of this recalibration, I snuck back to London (with mom and dad) for a long weekend of basking in pubs.

London in January is gloomy, but the energy is not. You could stroll down the most deserted-looking of streets, only to be met by a booming boozer. As a visitor, the vibrance is contagious. Even on a drizzling day when the sun doesn’t shine, rest assured, the pubs will be packed.

Shortly after landing, I was diving headfirst into a pint at The Devonshire, a pub that needs no introduction. Perched in prime Soho, The Devonshire is an undeniable scene. And yet, it manages to stay approachable and come-as-you-are. On a Thursday at about 3:00 pm — the room absolutely buzzing — you can’t help but wonder what these people do for work.

Many things make The Devonshire a good pub. There’s rarely an open stool, but there’s always space. The bar’s impressive throughput ensures you won’t be waiting long for a pint. The room hums, but at a conversational volume. Their “sausage on a stick” is unfathomably plump — seriously, about to burst — and will run you just two quid: the ideal companion for your third or fourth beverage, to ensure you don’t get too pissed.

For all its good qualities, only one thing makes The Devonshire a great pub: how nice it feels to be there.

At the end of the day, it’s the only thing that matters. The art form — the art of the pub — is rooted in making people feel comfortable, welcomed, and at peace — free to drop their guard and be themselves. There’s no scientific formula. Good product — snacks, beverages, or both — helps cultivate the spirit, but doesn’t do it all. It’s decidedly intangible. And that’s why it’s an art form I’ve found myself so captivated by. I’m a lighter, more easy-going version of myself at The Devonshire.

Following that logic, the pub that makes me feel the best, the greatest pub, is The Plimsoll in Finsbury Park.

The Plimsoll sits on a triangular corner of a quiet, residential street flanked by parked cars and humble flats. No matter how grim the London skies, there always seems to be a ray of sunshine ceremoniously illuminating The Plimsoll’s facade.

The recipe for success at The Plimsoll is quite different from The Devonshire. Less of a scene, more of a neighborhood fixture. Fewer lads with shoulder bags fresh off a day in the office, more freelancers, well, freelancing. It’s a bit grittier at The Plimsoll, and it’s not a place shy about its quirks. The art is bizarre, and the bathroom will probably be out of paper towels. But fresh flowers in nice vases sit on mantles, and a dialed sound system bumps at the perfect volume. The Plimsoll is well-considered, but not overworked. It’s the contrast of dingy and thoughtful that makes it feel so wonderful, so personal.

Over the course of an hour at The Plimsoll, you’ll see people stroll in and be gregariously embraced by their friends, truly delighted to see each other. New parents park their strollers and find refuge in a cold pint. Youthful North Londoners on the outside of the textured glass windows tap the ashes of their cigs into seashells placed on the worn wooden ledge. A group of older ladies celebrates a birthday with sticky toffee pudding adorned with a single candle.

Life unfolds at The Plimsoll, and to bear witness is a beautiful thing.

Soho has the scene. Finsbury Park has the sleeper. Notting Hill has The Cow.

The Cow is a short walk off the main Portobello Road drag, towards the train tracks. Some pubs make you feel at home, others push you a bit outside your comfort zone. The Cow is the latter — a rowdy bohemian saloon. It’s a place that makes no sense, but all the sense in the world.

The interior is charmingly chaotic. Menu specials are written on chalkboards all over the walls (and the ceiling!). Cheeky posters and mismatched furniture fill the room — easy to miss compared to the enormous, psychedelic fever-dream mural of langoustines wearing top hats riding fish through the hills that adorns the main wall. The Cow is kooky, there’s no other way to describe it. The pub’s motto is emblazoned somewhere among the madness: “Eat Heartily and Give the House a Good Name.”

Sat at a communal five-top with a crew of locals straight out of central casting, I snacked on a pint of prawns with a smear of aioli and a lemon wedge, before being encouraged to indulge in a hearty bowl of fish stew with a smattering of sriracha mayo. I was not led down a bad path.

Oysters sat glistening on ice at the bar. Patti Smith played loud, occasionally turned up to a blare just before the chorus — igniting the crowd to get up and have a dance.

Despite its pedigree — a historic building with over two decades of steady ownership and daily raucous celebration — The Cow maintains an unpretentious, genuinely silly energy. You’re just as welcome to stop in for a single pint as you are to settle in for the 100-quid seafood platter. That democracy of experience, that willingness to meet you wherever you’re at — that’s what makes The Cow such a winner.

This trip solidified the deeper significance pubs have had on me. More than just places to get shithoused (although, at The Devonshire, you almost certainly will), pubs are preserving something essential about being and feeling human.

I’m curious what pub culture will look like in New York this year. There’s been plenty of chatter about the Britishification of the city, and I’m optimistic about the trajectory. I think this wave of UK influence is less about the cuisine, the design, or splitting G’s, and more about creating spaces that allow us to get back to ourselves and the reality directly in front of us.

Hartley’s has the right idea — bartenders who look you in the eye, eager not only to take your order, but to learn your name. If there’s a party of two at a four-top, they’ll swap to bar seats if a bigger group comes in. Even though the room is tight, you can stay for as long as you’d like. There’s a level of respect and community that everyone implicitly buys into. And that’s what it takes for this pub thing to really work.

We’re still missing some key pieces — in particular, the ability to hold our beverages outside and spill onto street corners when the weather allows. It’s a big miss, and one that needs sorting if we want to booze like the best of them. But the foundation is here.

The magic, really, lies in bringing people together. Conversations happen because proximity allows them. Strangers become friends because the pub demands nothing more than your presence.

Damn, feels good to be back. Thanks for being here, thanks for reading.

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Every New Year, Tom, Emma, and I like to celebrate with a special meal. It’s probably my second-favorite holiday tradition, trailing narrowly behind my family’s Christmas Eve lasagna. A few years back, we ordered a table full of pastas at L’Artusi. We celebrated 2025 with a decadent brunch at Sailor. This year, in the mood for something grand, we secured a table at the lauded Upper East Side bistro, Le Veau d’Or.

Le Veau d’Or has been on my list since its reopening about 18 months ago. If you haven’t been, it’s probably on yours too. There’s a real je ne sais quoi to this place. Something old made new is always in style. In this case, it’s something old kept mostly old, just made sexier. Even better.

I know technically, the corner of 60th Street and Lexington Avenue is considered the Upper East Side, but everything about Le Veau d’Or’s location feels Midtown. The entryway is nondescript and almost feels like you’re entering a small-town insurance office. It’s positioned at the bottom of the Queensboro Bridge onramp, surrounded by towering buildings and a behemoth Sephora.

We arrived a few minutes early, and the host — holding a pile of jackets, slightly frazzled — made it clear there was no room for us inside yet. We huddled in the velvet-curtained foyer until called for our reservation. You could hear the roar of the bistro: dishes clanking, cocktails shaking, and oblivious diners inquiring about the wait for a table for six, only to be told, “That’s not happening tonight — or probably ever; we’re a very small restaurant, as you can tell.” There was something beautiful about that brief anticipatory period — standing there, imagining what was on the other side of the curtain.

Dinner at Le Veau d’Or struck a wonderful balance between celebratory and everyday. Fine-dining, but also not. There were no theatrics; the red-and-white checked tablecloths felt familiar. It was indulgent, but without doing too much. The meal wasn’t a showcase of luxury ingredients or fancy techniques, but rather demonstrated mastery of the old school French classics. The martini “our way,” served with a vermouth spritz sidecar, is quite the touch — a damn good, damn strong beverage. For red wine, you’re offered a choice of just two glasses: grenache or gamay.

Dinner is prix fixe: an appetizer, an entrée, a vinegary green salad intermission, and dessert. This might sound straightforward, but it made for rather challenging decisions. Our server was kind and eager to help — not only translating the menu written in French, but describing each of the 30 dishes in a beautiful, song-like recital that brought total clarity.

I didn’t find the appetizers particularly special. Escargot is escargot; you can’t tell me otherwise. The boudin noir, or blood sausage, despite comforting flavors, was texturally off. The petite omelette was simple and inoffensive.

Things kicked into gear in the back half of the meal. Poulet à l’Estragon, a half chicken with shatteringly crisp skin, doused in a tarragon butter sauce, was a revelation. Duck magret aux cerises has become their signature dish — perhaps because the cherry sauce matches the color scheme of the 15-table bistro, but more likely because it’s really delicious. The desserts — one chocolatey, one custardy, one fruity — weren’t shy about being sweet and rich.

As a whole, the experience was a great one — I won’t deny it. It felt special to be in that room, and the dishes that hit, really hit. We knew we were in for a baller, spendy meal, but I’ll be honest — it still stung when the bill came.

I think if you’re strategic about it — content with a redeye on a budget airline in the off-season — you could probably go to Paris, eat at Bistrot Des Tournelles, and come home for less than dinner at Le Veau d’Or. And yet, it’s packed from open to close every night. Maybe I am not rich enough to enjoy places like this (yet). Clearly, plenty of people are. Still, I can’t quite wrap my head around why it’s priced the way it is. I suppose the cost of branded linens needs to be covered somehow.

There are two questions people ask about restaurants these days: Was it worth it? And was it worth the hype? They sound like similar inquiries, but they couldn’t be further from each other. The first is a measure of value, the latter is an assessment of how good something is compared to how much you’ve heard about it.

A place can be worth every bit of hype and still not be worth it. That’s Le Veau d’Or: as good as advertised, deserving of the press and praise. But obnoxiously priced to the point where I’m not sure I could justify it again.

I’d love to have old school French luxury like this in my rotation — to work my way through the menu, to venture into the offals. It has the characteristics of a place I’d like to bring my friends from out of town. But I’d rather see if they’re down to hit Paris in November.

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It takes mental fortitude to make the most of the city’s offerings when the temps are below freezing. My typical way of operating — leaving home in the morning and not looking back, checking off bookmarks, seeing where the day takes me — is seriously tested by the elements. Wintery days require more structure, less spontaneity. The lack of sunshine, combined with cold, shaky hands gripping the Fuji, does little to inspire running around taking photos.

I had plans to meet my friend Jon around Williamsburg for lunch. We narrowed down our options from seven places to two: ACRE and Paolina. That’s one of my favorite games — throw a bunch of places that come to mind against the wall and take turns saying what you don’t want. It always lands somewhere that makes everyone happy. Paolina beat out the bento boxes this round.

Under normal circumstances, it’s a 16-minute subway ride from the Fulton G to Metropolitan Ave, and a short walk to Paolina from there. But we must remember: on the G train, circumstances are hardly ever normal. Google Maps tells me to take the 4 train into Manhattan and the L back to Brooklyn. 48 minutes. Egregious.

No matter how many layers you wear — thick long johns, a quilted liner under a puffer, nice Arc’teryx gloves — you will be cold on a Citibike in January. But I’m committed to my plans and my friendships. Turns out I’m not the only psycho. As I ride, I pass herds of runners making good on their New Year’s resolutions. The Kent Ave bicycle superhighway is a blessing because you won’t hit a single light and can keep on pedaling the whole way. I can feel the gusty wind off the East River nudging my e-bike around.

I docked at the corner of Driggs and S 2nd and shortly after had my hands wrapped around a warm pita packed with crunchy veg and freshly fried falafel. They do good work at Paolina. They care about their product, and it shows. We finished our sandwiches, and I posed the all-important question: “Pints or coffee?” There’s no wrong answer. Jon chose pints. Good man.

Layla is across the street and two blocks down. It’s the kind of bar you wish you had on your corner. Dark wood, brick, maroon tile, cozy nooks with comfortable seating — and sun-soaked when there’s sun to soak. The back patio is wonderful, although definitely not right now. One of the owners, Sam, is a lovely Aussie guy. He’s soft-spoken, genuine, and clever. A disco ball hangs in the corner of the room. “We threw a rage-ah for New Year’s,” Sam explains. “I’m still feelin’ it, haven’t taken that bad boy down yet.” One of his co-owners is Irish and has Layla’s pint program dialed in. I stand by it: it’s the most slept-on Guinness in town.

The beauty of a Sunday with no plans is that “pint or coffee” doesn’t actually need to be a choice. It can just be an order of operations. We finished our creamy Gs and headed a few blocks north to Maru for an afternoon espresso. I gave Jon the Maru backstory: a very good Korean-inspired cafe, an L.A. import, perpetually busy (perhaps an understatement).

The coffee at Maru is excellent, and the design is stellar — blonde wood and shiny silver deck the room. The baristas are attractive and must be trained to make strong eye contact. Their branding is sleek, clean, and minimal.

Everything about Maru is cool — and yet, being at Maru feels deeply uncool. It’s packed to the gills with people who don’t know how to act. If you can make it from the counter to a stool without getting bumped by someone lacking spatial awareness, swinging their GANNI bag around, it’s a god damn miracle. I overhear someone at the register ask, “Should I get coffee or matcha?” I wish the girl at the counter would answer with an equally stupid question, like “Well, do you want a brown drink or green?” As I’m standing in line for the bathroom, I recognize there’s a pretty serious diaper change about to go down, and decide to abort mission.

Maru might be one of the worst cases of a business having little control over who it attracts. I can’t imagine this is the scene they hoped and dreamed for when they decided to open in New York. But then again, an address on Wythe Ave comes with certain guarantees. The cream top is delicious, though. Like, really something special — a drink I honestly crave, even as a black-coffee-most-of-the-time person. It’s silky smooth, perfectly sweet, and worth carefully stepping over small dogs to acquire.

“It’s an absolute war zone in here,” Jon says in his charming New England accent. “But I’m loving this cream top.”

Two pints and a cream top really will get you thinking. What do I want to get out of this year? Where am I excited to dine? What do I want to write about? How do I want my days to feel?

Here’s the plan for 2026: keep traveling, exploring New York and beyond, seeking out new experiences, taking on new challenges, and eating well everywhere I go. Write about the places that inspire me. Write with fewer constraints — a bit more freely and creatively. Listen to lots of music, old stuff and new. Take tons of photos — try new techniques, learn new skills. Build out a proper website and a portfolio. Hone Flood’s branding and image. It might not sound all that different than what I’m already doing — and it’s not.

I think we’re conditioned to make dramatic adjustments around the New Year, to fully change course. But more often than not, all we really need are some small tweaks to steer the ship.

Goal setting and resolutions have their place. What I find more useful is paying attention to how I spend my time, who I spend it with, and the things that reliably make me happy.

With that in mind, here are some very specific things — not goals — I’d like to do in 2026. Off the dome, powered by cream top:

• Cozy into a four-top at Kafana on a Friday night, eat cevapi, and listen to live Balkan music

• Drink a perfect Negroni at Torrisi’s bar

• Plan a roadtrip up the East Coast to Maine — I have so many bookmarks

• Go in on prawns, piri-piri chicken, and 50/50 martinis in the back corner of Cervo’s

• Take the airport shuttle bus to the Jackson Heights subway stop and eat at Angel before returning home

• Make it back to London, watch soccer, drink at The Cow, and put the list to work

• Have pints and popcorn with Irish cheddar at Hartley’s — never gets old

• Spend more time upstate — I loved being out of my element camping at Singers last summer

• Settle in for a 3:00 pm vegetable-forward lunch at Via Carota

• Put on a suit and go to Keen’s (you don’t need to wear a suit, but I want to do it right)

• Hit the West Coast. L.A. and San Diego are truly blind spots — time to change that

• Smash a roast chicken at Sailor next time there’s a thunderstorm

• Have a proper cocktail night at Clemente

• Go to Japan for my 30th birthday — Connor and I planned it like 8 years ago

• Take my parents down to Bay Ridge for a feast at Yemenat

• Crush a pie at Lucky Charlie — heard it’s really good

• Go back to Glacier National Park in Montana

• Visit Mexico City for round quatro

• See what Darjaleeing Kitchen is all about

• Catch Tom Misch live — he hasn’t announced anything, but I’m feeling late summer at Forest Hills

• Watch seven different hockey games at once at The Canuck

• Invite everyone I know to Sharlene’s and drink some High Lifes

• Slick back my hair with tons of product and go to COTE at like 10:00 pm

• Buy a poster at Phillip Williams and get it framed real nice

• Venture to Jersey City for Razza, maybe

• Go to a World Cup match if it doesn’t cost a million dollars

• Make another pilgrimage to Zahav

Thanks for being here, thanks for reading. If you feel inclined, you can support my creative process by upgrading to a paid Flood’s subscription. You’ll also gain access to Flood’s Worldwide — all my favorite places from around the world in a concise list and Google Map.

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Another year in the books at Flood’s — and it’s been a damn good one.

This year was filled with growth, which always becomes clearest when you think through the firsts: first story published in print, first co-written collaboration, first time my photos were featured on The Infatuation and Resy. It’s been a lot of fun growing two skill sets in tandem — writing and photography. Both are equally important to what I’m building here, and I’m really glad they’re resonating with an audience.

I can’t tell you how grateful I am for the continued support of this project. Thank you for reading, for subscribing, for sharing it with your friends. I’m consistently motivated to deliver a thoughtful, high-quality product because I know it’s being consumed by people who truly value it. Thank you for being here.

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Today, we’re talking awards — more specifically, award winners. The Flood’s Awards are my way of rounding up the year’s biggest hits and celebrating some of the standout experiences from the past twelve months. Killer meals, travels near and far, plus the albums and songs that soundtracked them.

The 2025 Flood’s Awards mark the 3rd Annual installment: nine categories, one singular voter (me). These awards are meant to be entertaining, but they’re also incredibly meaningful — a true representation of the best of the best, the highest of highs from this year. From all around the world.

It’s always impossibly hard to narrow these lists down. But we did it. Settle in, and read on.

Welcome to The 2025 Flood’s Awards

Café of the Year

The best café visited for the first time in 2025

Winner: Burro Ostuni, Italy
Why it wins: An Italian coffee session typically goes something like this: squeeze in at the counter, order a ripping-hot shot of espresso, add some sugar, down that thing, move on. Burro is a café in Ostuni that veers from conventional Italian coffee wisdom by slowing down that rhythm, without losing the spirit of Italian hospitality.

The café blends seamlessly into its surroundings while still standing out: an old-world cave aesthetic layered with modern touches like sleek Frama fixtures and ceramics from Grottaglie. The offering is specialty coffee done exceptionally well, along with simple, high-quality baked goods and breakfast dishes. Patronized by locals and tourists alike, Burro is a forward-thinking gem of a café tucked away in Puglia.

Best Bar

The best bar visited for the first time in 2025

Winner: Chenin Detroit, Michigan
Why it wins: Unequivocally the coolest place to hang in Detroit, Chenin is a 10-seat wine bar rowing confidently against the current. It’s a place that, even in its early days, is self-aware and sure of itself. There are nods to high-energy European wine bars — thoughtful snacks, tasteful design, an unserious aura to offset a very serious wine list — but it’s also unmistakably Detroit. Square pies pair with natural wine, and the crowd leans young, creative, and well-versed in the city’s techno scene.

At Chenin, standing room — packing it in, making room for others — is a part of the experience. Plenty of bars aim to “feel like a house party,” but few actually pull it off. Chenin is rowdy and convivial, but even at peak chaos in the narrow room, bartenders are making sure everyone feels taken care of. They’ve collaborated with Detroit institutions like Dakota Inn, out-of-towners like Cleveland’s Cents, and are even hosting a collab with forthcoming Brooklyn rotisserie Gigi’s next month. There’s a cultural shift happening around wine bars in this country — dropping the pretense, making drinking fun again — and it’s starting in Detroit.

Restaurant of the Year

The best restaurant visited for the first time in 2025

Winner: Vin Mon Lapin Montreal, Quebec
Why it wins: It takes a special place — and an extremely high level of execution — to deliver such a warm, unpretentious experience while constantly in the spotlight. Mon Lapin, with its near-universal praise, was a restaurant I walked into with high expectations. And yet, it somehow exceeded them.

Mon Lapin’s produce manages to feel peak season in all seasons. The dishes are precise, without being overly avant-garde. Their hospitality is inviting and considerate. The pacing is leisurely and unhurried in a way that feels natural. The menu mainstays — like the iconic scallop sandwich — are there for a reason. The rotating cast of dishes — always a crudo, always a pasta — is just as brilliant. At Mon Lapin, it’s a masterclass in balance, indulgence, and warmth. A special restaurant — in many ways the perfect restaurant — in Montreal’s Little Italy.

Best Dish Under $20

The best thing I ate this year, priced under $20

Winner: Spicy Seafood Rice Cake — Cho Dang Gol New York, New York
Why it wins: I ate more Korean food this year than the rest of my life combined. After experiencing the savoriness, spice, and textures of Korean food, I found myself craving it all the damn time. No dish captures what I love about Korean cooking more than Cho Dang Gol’s spicy seafood rice cake. I can’t tell you why it’s listed as a singular cake, because the bowl is filled with chewy, pillowy rice cakes — stir-fried til lightly crisped, mixed with baby squid and clams, all coated in a spicy, umami-packed gochujang sauce. It’s the most comforting dish I had all year. Well worth the inevitable hour-plus wait at CDG to enjoy.

Best Dish Over $20

The best thing I ate this year, priced at or over $20

Winner: Berkshire Pork Tomahawk — Gaba Mexico City, Mexico
Why it wins: Large-format dishes are a bit of a gamble. Sometimes you lose quality in favor of volume. At Gaba, the biggest swing on the menu is a show-stopping Berkshire pork tomahawk, paired with a slab of charred pineapple — an upscale pastor, of sorts. I know what you’re thinking: pastor is already perfect — don’t go making it fancy.

But this thing is special. The pork is beautifully charred, but manages to stay juicy from end-to-end. The bright sweetness of the perfectly ripe, slightly caramelized pineapple pushes the dish over the edge. It’s a bold, generous dish, and was the perfect centerpiece for our rowdy eight-top.

Best Dessert / Pastry

The best thing I ate this year... that’s a dessert or pastry

Winner: Yuzu Parfait — Kisser Nashville, Tennessee
Why it wins: Tart, creamy, and perfectly balanced — the yuzu parfait at Kisser was the exclamation point on a meal that just kept getting better. Layered with blueberry compote and a graham-cracker-like crumble of crushed Pocky, the custardy top is torched to order. The result is impressive — sweet enough, but refreshing and not too decadent. Kisser is a casual, daytime-only Japanese lunch counter in Nashville that’s seriously throwing down — this dessert alone would be reason enough to grab a stool.

Record of the Year

The best song released in 2025

Winner: Yamaha — Dijon
Why it wins: For a song to take this title, it needs to feel immersive — completely pulling me out of my world and into its own. No track enveloped me quite like “Yamaha,” the standout tune from Dijon’s latest album, Baby. The twinkling, emotionally-packed jam builds slowly to a hooky, emotionally-packed chorus. The vocals are textured, soulful, and grand. The rhythm has clear ties to 80’s pop, with the alt-r&b, experimental sound we’ve come to expect from Dijon still prominent. Yamaha represents Dijon at his absolute best: complex, unexpected, almost abrasive; yet so passionate, rhythmic, and alive.

Best Album

The best album released in 2025

Winner: Blue Moon Safari — Vegyn, Air
Why it wins: Vegyn’s rework of Air’s cult classic Moon Safari (1998) is brilliantly restrained — rooted in the original’s otherworldly sound, and modernized without being overworked. Blue Moon Safari takes you on a late-night journey, filled with haunting synths on tracks like “Sexy Boy” and cinematic progressions like “Tailsman.”

This album shaped the trajectory of my entire year in music. It pulled me deep into Vegyn’s moody, melodic world and sent me back through Air’s discography — floaty ’90s synths that feel almost extraterrestrial. It’s a rare top-to-bottom listen, every single time.

Best Live Performance

The best concert attended this year

Winner: Oasis, Live ‘25 at Murrayfield Stadium, Scotland
Why it wins: There were a lot of great shows this year, but only one was biblical. Watching Noel and Liam Gallagher strutting onto stage, larger than life, was surreal. What followed was two hours of joy and camaraderie — lads bouncing to “Cigarettes and Alcohol,” dads with their sons on their shoulders belting “Don’t Look Back In Anger.” From the booming opening tune — “hello, hello, it’s good to be back,” — to the fireworks closing out “Champagne Supernova,” the night at Murrayfield drinking Tennent's lagers with the crew is one I’ll never forget.

A few things before you go!

I’ve contributed to a few friends’ year-end round-ups — and — which you can read here and here. Fun pieces — I’m honored to be included.

If you’re a paid subscriber, scroll a little further for a special list as a thank you for the support throughout the year.

I captured my favorite restaurants from around the world in one tight list — even tighter than Flood’s Worldwide. These eleven restaurants are the major hits amongst major hits. Places worth planning a trip around! The only rule: it must be a place I’ve visited within the past three years (for quality control). I’ll plan to refresh the list annually as part of the awards process. It’s sorta like my version of a “World’s 50 Best.” But it’s only 11. And I haven’t been to Lima (yet). And it’s not sponsored by Acqua Panna.

Flood’s Worldwide Top 11, 2025

Flood’s 11 best restaurants in the world, all on one list, refreshed annually

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The 3rd Annual Flood’s Awards are right around the corner. I’ll be kicking off the process next week by announcing the nominees for each category on Instagram. Then, on Dec 22, I’ll be sharing the award winners, along with a write-up for each, right here on Substack. You can read up on last year’s winners here.

Among the awards, choosing nominees and winners for the “best dish” categories has routinely proven the hardest. Top restaurants and favorite songs often fall neatly into place, but paring down every good thing I ate in a calendar year is a different beast. Insanely good dishes that I think about, talk about, and crave sometimes miss the cut. It’s just how it goes.

But this year, rather than chop those dishes, I’m giving them a spotlight of their own. I’ve rounded up the just-off-the-list items as a precursor to the awards to come. They’re dishes worth going out of your way for, from restaurants that seriously impressed me this year.

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29 Insanely Good Dishes That Aren’t Up For a Flood’s Award

01] Raw Sobrassada with Honey — Mountain London, England

02] Vol au Vent — Ha’s Snack Bar New York, New York

03] Tam Tam Wings — Tam Tam Miami, Florida

04] Spicy Fish Fillets & Kung Pao Chicken — Birds of a Feather Brooklyn, New York

05] Confit Duck Leg Udon — Kisser Nashville, Tennessee

06] Dal Makhani — Tamil Prince London, England

07] Bánh Cuốn Hà Nội — Bánh Anh Em New York, New York

08] Chicky + Ham & Cheese — Salty Lunch Lady’s Little Luncheonette Queens, New York

09] Sunday Roast — The Devonshire London, England

10] Italian & American Hams with Zeppole — Torrisi New York, New York

11] Cardeau Cru, Sungolds — Mon Lapin Montreal, Quebec

12] Lake Michigan Perch — Oak Parker Oak Park, Michigan

13] Confit Oyster — Penny New York, New York

14] Chicken Liver Parfait — Bar Bete Brooklyn, New York

15] Seekh Kebab — Angel Queens, New York

16] Rigatoni in Heritage Pork Ragu — Rolf & Daughters Nashville, Tennessee

17] XO Duck — Bridges New York, New York

18] Trompo Negro Fuego — Tacos del Valle Mexico City, Mexico

19] Leavitt Street Smash — Leavitt Street Inn Chicago, Illinois

20] Makhlouta Soup & Fattouche Salad — Le Petit Alep Montreal, Quebec

21] Niku Udon — Don Udon Brooklyn, New York

22] Sea Trout — Heron Edinburgh, Scotland

23] Crispy Whole Fish — Bong Brooklyn, New York

24] Tomato Pie with Stracciatella — Elena Montreal, Quebec

25] Beef Tongue — Berbena Barcelona, Spain

26] Muva Fish — Yemenat Brooklyn, New York

27] Kebabs — Dearborn Meat Market Dearborn, Michigan

28] Pad Krapow — Épicerie Pumpui Montreal, Quebec

29] Peanut Chili Pork Hand-Ripped Noodles — Pomelo Edinburgh, Scotland

Somehow, there’s still more to come... follow along on Instagram and keep an eye out for the nominee post next week. And subscribe below to get the Flood’s Award winners hand-delivered to your inbox on the 22nd.

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Connor is a great guy — one of my best friends. He’s hard-working and ambitious. He has great style and appreciates nice things. He’s thoughtful, a great storyteller, and an even better listener. Every time we’re together, we lift each other up (the ultimate sign of a great friendship, IMO). The only problem I have with the guy is that he doesn’t live in New York. Selfishly, he’s just someone I wish were around all the time. But also, I know he’d fit in so well here.

Every time Connor is gearing up for a visit, my friend Sam and I have a half-joking dialogue about the things we can do to convince him to move. None of it has worked (yet). But you better believe we’ll keep on trying.

Weekends with Connor often revolve around some of the greatest hits — restaurants, bars, concert venues, and scenes I want him to experience.

But the New York pitch itself isn’t about the individual hits — it’s about the space between them. It’s about the feeling of being in New York.

When I first visited the city in 2020, that’s what quickly sold me on moving here. The spontaneity, the lack of predictability, the possibility! It was the characters I crossed paths with, and the energy and passion they had for their work, hobbies, and interests. It was the pace and hustle of everyone around me as I walked down 1st Ave. The way people dressed — fitted up for absolutely no reason. And most importantly, it was how I felt being in it.

That’s the spirit of today’s list: not just a roundup of spots, but a collection of situations worth immersing your visiting friend in. Slices of city life that capture the wonder, the pace, and the possibility that make the city lovable and livable. Scenes that might just convince someone to pack their shit and get in here.

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11’s: Places to Take a Friend You’re Trying to Convince to Move to NYC

01] Have a slow morning at the neighborhood cafe

New York has a tremendous cafe culture, which is in part driven by people’s desire to spend most of their time outside their apartments. Start the day slow with a leisurely cafe hang, preferably at a warm, welcoming place where you’ll get a friendly hello from the staff. There’s a misconception that New York is too big to be personable, but the regular, routine coffee hits — places like Villager, IXV, and Cafe Mado — help make the city feel a little tigther. Abraço is a place I write about a lot for good reason — it’s always filled with characters, interesting conversation, excellent music, and it has an aura that leaves you feeling grounded and connected to the community (and the coffee is damn good).

02] Lean into the chaos

Specifically, go out to dinner on the Lower East Side. After living here for a while, the Dimes Square scene and the kickflipping teenagers might start to make you roll your eyes, but with a fresh perspective, it’s a pretty unbelievable rush of chaotic energy and life. Put your name down at Kiki’s and wait for your table at Time Again, sitting on some tiny plastic stools, drinking a bunch of Peronis. You could also deploy the unstoppable one-two punch of Cervo’s to Cellar 36. Embrace the hectic, convivial nature of the city’s sceniest neighborhood.

03] Go dancing

I mean, really go dancing. A night out at Good Room or an afternoon session at Nowadays are both excellent showcases of the city’s club scene — places where music is the priority. If the calendar aligns, catching a show at a larger-scale venue, like Forest Hills Stadium, is the absolute best. The crowd at Forest Hills always has an infectious vibe that’s unlike anywhere else in the world.

04] Spend an afternoon in Greenpoint

Greenpoint showcases a side of New York that’ll have even the most “I could never live in New York” people thinking, Damn, this is kinda nice. Post up on a drink ledge at Bar Americano and have a vermouth with orange foam (or two). Stop by Lot Radio to see who’s in the DJ booth. Have a pastor taco at Ramirez. Draw on some tablecloths and sip on a Bud heavy at Bernie’s.

05] Get up on a rooftop, or just find a nice view

An organic rooftop, though. One where the roof is a nice feature, not the whole point. A place like Cherry on Top in Bushwick, where you can drink good wine and take in some decent views. Or better yet, a friend’s roof in Williamsburg, where you’ll likely get killer views, and it doesn’t feel like it’s trying too hard — unlike the Edge or god forbid, Mr. Purple. I just think hanging on the roof, taking in the scale of the city, is pretty awesome and inspiring. If you’re afraid of heights (or just don’t want to go to Bushwick), the Brooklyn Heights Promenade has a similar effect on me.

06] Go somewhere that feels incredibly New York

I’m talking an on-the-nose, New York City you see in the movies kinda vibe. Sit at the bar at Minetta or JG Melon and crush a burger. Slip into Keen’s or Peter Luger for a martini (even if you aren’t sitting down for steaks). Have a beer at a pub decked in history like Fraunces Tavern, Old Town Bar, or Ear Inn (just don’t get a Guinness). You’d think these classic New York vibes were made up — but they’re not. And they’re just as cinematic as you would have hoped and dreamed.

07] Go somewhere that doesn’t feel like New York at all

I think it’s important to showcase the range we’ve got here. Hang in Ridgewood, which feels more like a suburban subdivision than the big city. Venture out to Salty Lunch Lady for a sandwich; drink a beer at Jones Bar. Or head down to Red Hook, which feels like an old seaside town. Have brunch at Cafe Kestrel, get a burger at Red Hook Tavern, or listen to some bluegrass music at Sunny’s. The number one thing that makes NYC “unlivable” is the constant noise and stimulus. But all it takes is a short trek off the main drag to really settle things down.

08] Get a bunch of your friends together for a pow-wow

Flex your social prowess and show your visitor how great your New York circle is! Pick a bar with plenty of room for people to saunter in and out. The back room at Swift is perfect for these situations. Sharlene’s is another place where you can gather a big crew and hang around for hours. I love a pow-wow: tell a bunch of people where and when you’re going, tell them to bring whoever. It’s the best. There are so many connections to be made and experiences to be had in this city. I love that any given night can introduce you to a new friend for life.

09] Get a late-night bite

New York might not have the late-night dining scene it once did, but it’s still impressive to have something tasty after midnight when most cities are ghost towns by 10 pm. Slide into Sunny and Annie’s for a sandwich on a hero that’s somehow freshly-baked, no matter the hour. Stop into Lil’ Frankie’s Grocery for a hidden gem Sicilian slice (only from 12-4 am). Commodore and Superiority Burger both hit hard in the late-night hours with kitchens open ‘til 2 am.

10] Head to the park

I don’t often engage in many touristy activities, but posting up in Central Park is an exception. It’s certainly an attraction, but it transcends the tourist designation. It’s awe-inspiring and really special — accessible, useful, endlessly explorable. Bring some sandwiches and have a quick picnic; cut through on a walk from Upper West to Upper East; just get in there and soak in the magic. No city has anything quite like it.

11] Leave for the day without a plan

The best thing about New York is that there’s always something to do and always somewhere to stumble into. Some of my favorite days in the city have been the ones where I walk out my door in the morning and don’t come home until after dark. Instead of scripting all your moves and filling the day with reservations and obligations, just bounce around and see what happens. Do what sounds good, follow your heart! Drink a beer at 1 pm. You don’t have anywhere you need to drive! Walk into the tiny French bistro and eat a hanger steak. Follow the rhythm of jazz pouring onto the street outside a gritty-looking bar and see what’s happening. Entertainment will find you in New York. That’s the biggest difference-maker here: You’ll never be bored because something is always happening. Demonstrating that you can turn a blank slate of a day into something packed with good things is incredibly powerful.

Thanks for being here, thanks for reading. If you feel inclined, you can support my creative process by upgrading to a paid Flood’s subscription. You’ll also gain access to Flood’s Worldwide — all my favorite places from around the world in a concise list and Google Map.

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Away Game is a format that showcases journeys as they unfold. Live dispatches from unfamiliar places. Notes, stories, and reflections on the thrill of discovery. Mostly photos, with some shorter-form writing intertwined.

Away Game: Montreal, Quebec

I’m parked at an audiophile café on the edge of Saint-Henri, sipping my third caffeinated beverage of the day, while the shopkeeper loads cassettes into a Tascam 112 and I listen through a very nice pair of Grado professional headphones. Kenny Rogers’ “The Gambler” is playing right now — a pretty silly song that sounds shockingly excellent in a high-fidelity setting.

I’m fending off a dull hangover to the very best of my ability. It’s hard to say if the condition I generally depart Montreal in means the city got the best of me, or if I got the best of Montreal. I think the truth lies somewhere in between.

Coffee numbers one and two today went down at the wonderfully simple Café Bosco — black filter coffee poured into a blue-rimmed ceramic mug with a perfectly spacious handle, sipped on the sidewalk as a gentle snowfall dusted the streets of Little Italy. I ran into Brendan and Alexe from Salle Climatisée just as I was taking my first sip — Montreal is a big city, but a small town.

A strong drip coffee will get you back on your feet after a long night out, but it’s not quite enough to replenish the strength needed to write a newsletter. A slice of an airy, zesty tomato pie will get you there, though. Luckily, just a block down the road from Bosco, you can parlay your coffee into a perfect square slice from Café San Gennaro (at ten in the morning).

It’s amazing that a one-hour flight from LaGuardia is all it takes to get you to a city where you can practice your “bonsoir” pronunciation without being looked at like a pretentious wack job.

Montreal has quickly climbed my list of favorite cities in the world. It tends to surprise people when I tell them how much I like it here — and confuse them when I choose to visit in the depths of Canadian winter. The explanation for the cold-weather trips is usually to watch hockey.

Place Bell is home to the Laval Rocket, the minor-league affiliate of the Montreal Canadiens. It’s a frequent opponent of my brother’s Belleville Senators. The matchups between the two — especially the ones taking place in Quebec — are the dates I’ve circled first on the calendar these past two years. To watch my bro, to hang with family, and to keep exploring everything good Montreal has to offer. It’s a world-class food scene, and the vibe — no matter the weather — is always right.

The weekend started with an epic meal at a big, round seven-top table in the front window of Mon Lapin. Considered by many to be one of Montreal’s best restaurants, Mon Lapin isn’t a hidden gem or a sleeper hit. It’s an often written-about, highly ranked, included-on-every-list kind of restaurant.

When you’re referred to, almost unanimously, as such a special place, you’d think the expectations would be impossible to live up to — and yet, Mon Lapin has found a way to exceed them across visits. The room is bustling: celebratory and grand-feeling, but also, somewhat surprisingly, unpretentious. The food is well-executed and interesting — an indulgent showcase of Québécois produce and producers. Meals here (and in Montreal in general) tend to be lengthy affairs: three-plus-hour journeys with plenty of time to breathe between courses, and space to linger over dessert and digestifs.

The unrushed feeling in Montreal is a really nice change of pace from life in New York. It makes me realize I’ve developed a mild dining anxiety of sorts — filled with worry about arriving at the bagel shops and lunch counters only to face a winding line; stressed about being perfectly on time for dinner reservations, fearing tardiness might result in relinquishing my table to an awaiting guest. In Montreal, I’ve never once felt like someone was trying to turn my table to squeeze in another cover. The economics must allow for this easygoingness — it’s felt and appreciated.

There’s also a distinct warmth to Montreal, even on the coldest of winter days. No matter how frigid your walk down Boulevard Saint-Laurent, you can expect to be greeted with a smile and an offer to take your coat in the foyer of the restaurant. It’s a small detail, but it really does feel like you’re being welcomed into someone’s home.

At Molenne, this was exactly the case. It’s another lively room — warm wood, exposed brick, and textured glass, and vintage tables, chairs, and fixtures give the six-month-old restaurant a nicely lived-in feeling. The best 50/50 martini I’ve had outside Dimes Square certainly helped settle me in and warm me up, too.

Alex and his wife, Kat — two of several owners — took care of us throughout the night. It’s a common theme I’m finding throughout Montreal: owners in control of the dining room. Over the course of yet another long, winding dinner, it felt like we developed a legitimate bond with them. I suspect this is a big reason people love a place like Ha’s Snack Bar back home in New York — it’s refreshing and compelling to have the owners running the show. With so much human interaction, the restaurants in Montreal end up having truly distinct personalities, rather than just feeling like different concepts.

Alex and Kat seemed particularly impressed by the way we spent our gloomy Friday afternoon: a sauna-cold plunge session at Bota Bota in the Old Port, followed directly by a hefty order of Thai food at Épicerie Pumpui. It’s a veteran combination — schvitz into spicy pad krapow. “We should do that tomorrow,” he said, turning to Kat.

The highlight of the long weekend was Saturday lunch. Pasta Pooks is a shop on the edge of Little Italy that’s been a few years in the making — a long-running pop-up turned storefront, a story you’ve probably heard before, but Pooks and the pasta they are churning out are different from the rest.

The restaurant is owned by two friends, Victor and Luca — better known as Coach Vic and Pooks. The latter — perhaps unsurprisingly given the name of the place — handmakes all the pasta.

In true pop-up-to-permanent fashion, Pooks is still a rugged operation at the moment. There’s a tiny storefront and a work-in-progress, makeshift dining room in the adjacent corner space. Wires hang from the ceiling, painter’s tape lines the doorframes, and I’m pretty sure I heard a drill running at one point during lunch. Interestingly, they had a TV installed, mounted, and college football on. Priorities.

Personally, I found the scrappy, build-the-plane-as-we-fly-it energy to be pretty endearing. I could see how it might rub some the wrong way to be dining in an active construction site. But once you’re served Pooks’ pasta — easily the best I’ve had in recent memory — I don’t know how you could have a worry in the world.

Bright yellow tagliatelle was coated in a hearty bolognese; marvelously al dente casoncelli were stuffed with a creamy dollop of squash; pillowy gnocchi sat in a funky cream sauce, dusted with nutmeg; and pipiriolos, or Sardinian macaroni, were tossed in a stewed lamb ragu and blanketed with creamy piave vecchio.

Victor came over to our table toward the end of our meal and explained the vision for the space. “Cocktail bar over here — maybe three-eighths of the counter. Then the other five-eighths we’ll make a special pasta area for Pooks and let him come up from the basement.”

I would eat here once a week, if I could. Based on how many friendly hellos Victor was dishing out to people walking through the door, it seems like many do.

For every great hit I find in Montreal, I seem to add two more to my bookmarks. That’s in large part because everyone here really, passionately loves food — and loves to talk about food. Servers, bartenders, baristas — everyone has an opinion, and a deep list of spots they’re eager to send you (everyone and their mom wants me to go to La Lune). It’s an endlessly repeatable city — one that always leaves me feeling banged up, but inspired nonetheless. I’ll be eagerly awaiting the next iteration of Rocket vs Sens.

A few more standout shots from this week — Mile End, Little Italy, Mont Royal:

Thanks for being here, thanks for reading. If you feel inclined, you can support my creative process by upgrading to a paid Flood’s subscription. You’ll also gain access to Flood’s Worldwide — all my favorite places from around the world in a concise list and Google Map.

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And if you find yourself enjoying my photography, you can read more about my gear, technique, recipes, and mindset here:

Jigsaw Falling Into Place

I’m writing to you from Brooklyn today — taking in the tail end of fall in New York before a few quick trips over the holidays. Next week, you’ll be getting an Away Game from one of my favorite cities in North America: Montreal. After that, I’ve got a queue of year-end recaps lined up, including the 3rd Annual Flood’s Awards. But I’m hoping to sneak in a few more great meals before we start winding down 2025.

Speaking of the Flood’s Awards — this year, in addition to the usual categories, I’ll be featuring some reader-submitted highlights. Specifically, I want to hear about the most memorable meal you had this year.

On Instagram, send me a message with your restaurant, along with a sentence or two on what made it great, and I’ll feature a select few in the Flood’s Awards in mid-December.

Today’s post is a stream-of-consciousness reflection, like a few I’ve written before. Thanks so much for reading. I’ll see you next week in Montreal.

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On Tuesday night, I went to dinner at a place I wouldn’t have gone to otherwise, with a person I wouldn’t have met otherwise.

Todd Stein is a Chicago-based chef — talented, experienced, and well-respected. He’s been a Flood’s follower since the early days; I remember seeing his name as one of the first moments that made me feel like I was onto something — like a restaurant person who gets it was into what I was doing. Todd and I have messaged over the past few years about the Chicago scene, travel recs, and camera specs. This time, he reached out asking if I was free for dinner while he was visiting New York. And I was.

Babbo 2.0 is a hot table right now. I loved reading about the Greenwich Village enoteca in Bill Buford’s Heat, but never felt much pull toward the 2021-2024 version of the restaurant. The revamp has been generating loads of press — to be expected when someone like Stephen Starr gets involved in a project.

Hanging with Todd and his friend Ben in person — bantering about restaurants as we usually do — was a blast. We get excited about the same things: simple dishes executed well; warm, witty service; a good amaro list. Babbo 2.0 has all of those things. And they still have the legendary beef cheek ravioli topped with chicken liver & black truffle butter — rich as hell, and as you might expect, quite delicious.

On Thursday, I had a photoshoot at Cafe Susanne, which opens tomorrow on the Williamsburg waterfront. I first connected with the owner (and designer), Matthew, about a year ago while working on another shoot. He’s one of the most talented people I’ve ever crossed paths with. The space is unbelievable — a sleek, minimal seaside canteen with pops of color that give it so much character and life. The radiant sun that floods through the arches of the Williamsburg Bridge is like nothing else. Watching the room transform from an empty concrete box into something so warm and glowing has been surreal.

Capturing brilliant interiors is one of my favorite forms of photography. And having the chance to shoot in Flood’s style — and feel how deeply the Susanne team appreciated that approach — was really incredible.

I tell you about these moments because they really got me thinking about the process. This week felt like proof that the slow, steady creative growth is accumulating into something special.

When I started Flood’s, I didn’t really expect new friends, projects, or opportunities to be the outcome. For a long time, the only measure of success I was focused on was my Instagram follower count. It felt like the obvious thing to strive for — the most straightforward measure of growth. A bigger audience, in theory, means moving forward.

And even here on Substack, we operate with subscriber counts, likes, comments, shares, leaderboards, and gross annualized revenue — all seemingly obvious ways to measure success.

I’m not saying numbers don’t matter — they do. We all watch on as influencers reel in brand deals, paid partnerships, invites to Resy dinners, and fancy squeeze bottles of olive oil sent to their door. But I’ve come to realize that numbers are far from the only thing that matters. And they’re not reflective of what success actually feels like in the creative world.

I don’t feel like any of the numbers that surround Flood’s represent the impact this project has had on my life these past few years. I feel so enriched. Mostly by the thoughtful, inspiring friends I’ve made, but also by the projects I get to contribute to.

And absolutely none of these connections and experiences came because something I posted went viral. In a way, I’m even more proud of what I’ve built because it’s taken so much of my energy, without much tangible return. I used to imagine some wild moment where everything clicked: the right person sees a photo of mine, it blows up, and everything changes overnight. It’s kind of fucked how our brains are wired to want that.

This process, sitting down and writing every week (or at any regular cadence), is not for those seeking instant gratification. I’d love to hit send and watch the likes, comments, and shares roll in — seemingly, an indication that a piece has really landed with people — but that’s not usually how it goes. And that’s a hard thing to come to terms with.

There are a lot of people on here who do a really great job making this seem effortless and easy breezy. I’m sure, for some, it really is. But for most, this is a deeply challenging undertaking. Turning thoughts, feelings, inspirations, into something tangible — and sometimes getting zero acknowledgement — is hard.

I’m feeling the challenges of writing right now. Which is interesting, because it feels like a moment where the jigsaw is starting to fall into place.

The possibilities for what I could do next have felt endless for a while, but recently I’ve finally felt like my creative skillset matches the shape of my ambition — like I can actually pursue the things I’ve imagined.

I don’t think what I’m experiencing is writer’s block. Or burnout. It’s just a shift in how my creativity is flowing at the moment. This happens to me all the time with physical movement. I’ll go through periods where yoga is what feels best in my body. And then the desire to run starts to edge in. Creativity, naturally, changes shapes over time. And right now, writing is not coming easily.

But at the same time, I recognize the value of showing up over and over again — delivering an authentic version of yourself, not pandering, not outsourcing your voice to AI, and just knowing the process is moving you in the right direction — even if a post results in negative-five subscribers.

When I write and publish Flood’s, I do so with the implicit understanding that the individual essays will not change my life. But I also do so with the confidence that collectively, they will amount to something that will. And so we persist.

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A good memoir can fully draw you into a time and a place, and Keith McNally’s is a prime example. I Regret Almost Everything is a clever, vivid, self-deprecating tale of McNally’s upbringing in blue-collar East London and his subsequent rise to becoming (arguably) the most prolific restaurateur in New York City.

McNally’s stories of New York in the 80s — lawless, reckless — are, frankly, hard to believe, but entertaining as hell. As are his travels, love affairs, and celebrity encounters — all told with candor. The guy has lived a lot of life. He’s certainly more than a restaurateur; he’s closer to a New York City icon. I’m fairly certain he’d loathe that designation, but it feels true.

Prior to reading, I had more or less written off the McNally restaurants because they were billed as scenes first, restaurants a distant second. Every time I’d walk down Spring Street past Balthazar, I’d weave through crowds of tourists with nonexistent spatial awareness and roll my eyes at their very expensive, very simple omelettes. “Fools,” I’d mumble under my breath.

I’m sure there was a time when the scene was worth the price of admission — but in 2025, I had my doubts. Was the room good enough to command $25 for a martini? I didn’t care enough to find out. The celebrated chefs Lee Hanson and Riad Nasr, who brought McNally’s restaurants to prominence, are long gone and focused on their own empires. All this to say: despite their institutional status, they felt, to me, like restaurants past their heyday.

But I liked McNally’s book so much that I finally felt compelled to give his restaurants a shot. I really don’t think I would have gotten over the hump otherwise. I can’t imagine the intent of the memoir was to win over a twenty-something food writer — but it did. Above all, it forced me to confront a question that, like it or not, is central to New York City dining: Can decidedly decent food and a buzzing room be a transcendent, formative experience in its own right?

Even though I was convinced to give it a go, I was still particular about which McNally spot I wanted to try. After much research (read: asking friends’ opinions), an exception to the supposed lack of culinary prowess in the portfolio seemed to emerge: Minetta Tavern.

McNally took over the historic, nearly 100-year-old neighborhood restaurant in 2009 and revamped the concept, taking it from an old-fashioned Italian spot to an elevated French bistro. The neighbors, at the time, were not pleased with the change in ownership. It was a “there goes the neighborhood” moment, with hot-shot Keith waltzing in and presumably paving over the history. I don’t know when exactly Minetta won the hearts and minds of downtown New Yorkers — but today, it stands among the most-celebrated spots below 14th Street. And much of that celebration (stop me if you’ve heard this one before) is thanks to a burger.

I walked into Minetta, reservationless, at 6:00 pm on a Saturday, seeking a table for two. The room was bustling, humming. Every table full, dinner well underway. I wasn’t sure what the host would say, but I expected something along the lines of “we’re fully committed this evening.” To my surprise, the quoted wait was 45 to an hour. Reasonable — with one caveat: “We ask that you wait around the bar, have a drink, and settle in.” There’s no text when your table is ready; just a shout from the bartenders. If they’re in a good mood, they’ll holler twice before moving down the list, but that’s far from a guarantee.

Minetta’s tactic to keep you on site is a wise one. I wonder if they request that of everyone, or if the host read my mind that I was fully prepared to walk a block further to put my name down at Da Toscano as a hedge. I obliged and headed to the bar.

The bar at Minetta is not a place where you’ll need to vie for attention — the bartenders are sharp and proactive, looking out for both the seated guests and those, like me, hovering behind the long wooden counter. My Negroni was poured, stirred, and handed to me in short order. It was, predictably, stiff. This is not a complaint.

Behind the bar, the array of booze bottles and vintage relics glisten in the amber backlighting. It’s organized in a manner that reminds me of my Dad’s garage — jumbled, but somehow perfectly orderly.

Drink in hand, I took a lap around the room. There are two distinct spaces: the front room, with the bar and a line of two-tops against the wall, and, through an archway, the dining room. The dining room is 20% dimmer and, not coincidentally, 20% sexier. The ceilings are low, and the walls are covered in old photographs and artwork. The space is decked in dark wood, contrasted by bright red banquettes and black-and-white checkered floors. It’s as if a classic New York tavern was inherited and zhuzhed up by a restaurateur with a deep love of French bistros… oh wait.

At first, there was no music — just the clanking of dishes being picked up by hustling bussers, and the roaring chatter of patrons. It felt like an old-time diner in a way I appreciated. I didn’t notice when the music clicked back on, but the iconic jazz licks from Nat King Cole and Duke Ellington eventually caught my ear. Jazz always works. I don’t know what else you’d want to hear in that room.

Sam walked in the door to meet me just as “Lorenzo, for two” was called out from the bartender. It was perfect timing. This does not feel like a place that would seat an incomplete party.

Once settled in at the bar, there was an ease that washed over me. I felt less in the way than I did navigating the narrow corridor (because I was, in fact, less in the way). The efficient, direct service persisted — no spiels, no hand-holding. You’re looked after, but the touches are brief and light.

Sam and I didn’t need much guidance, anyway: One Minetta burger, one Black Label burger. Easy as that.

There’s a true mishmash of New York City characters that compose the room at Minetta, especially on a Saturday night. You’ll hear some European languages spoken. You’ll see well-dressed, silver-haired gentlemen with much younger dates hooked around their arm. You’ll engage with drunks who stumbled in post-Comedy Cellar show. And you’ll watch on as regulars crush burgers with veteran ease. The range is what makes the scene so special. The hotspots and newest openings, at times, can feel homogenous. But Minetta felt like a tapestry of the city that really doesn’t exist anywhere else.

The burgers landed in front of us at the bar with heaping piles of fries. Alongside comes a single leaf of lettuce, a pale tomato, and a long pickle spear placed on top. It’s a classic, unfussy, endearing plate. The Minetta burger is a blend of short rib, brisket, and shoulder clod, blanketed by a slice of sharp Vermont cheddar.

It’s the Black Label burger, though, that keeps people coming back: a puck of dry-aged rib-eye with a whole lot of funk and a distinct meatiness. The Black Label burger, interestingly, does not come with cheese (I presume, to let the meat shine). Instead, it’s coated in a spread of deeply caramelized onions. Both burgers come on brioche. And they’re both very tasty.

The Minetta burger runs for $31; the Black Label burger $38. Usually, an upcharge at a restaurant comes with a tangible addition. But at Minetta, the extra $7 buys you quality. Is the Black Label worth it? I’d say yes. I can’t really explain why, it just… is.

The bigger question: Is any burger worth $38? Something feels fundamentally wrong about a hamburger — no matter how juicy, funky, or luxurious — commanding such a price tag. And yet, I’d do it again tomorrow, without hesitation.

There are a few other items I’ve been told are worth ordering: the duck breast, moules frites in a white wine, garlic, cream sauce, and the show-stopping côte de boeuf. As nice as the French bistro classics sound, I can’t see myself ever venturing away from a burger. The one item I will order next time is the chocolate soufflé. It has an aroma that fills the entire room every time an order leaves the pass.

Going in, I expected Minetta to be an experience — and there’s no doubt it was. But what I didn’t expect was for it to be a place I’m genuinely excited to return to. At first, I wasn’t exactly sure where it would fit in the mix — not casual enough to be an easy weeknight hit, but also not a place where I’d go for a celebratory meal. But then it hit me — there’s room for a place in the Village that just… hits. It occupies a softer, harder-to-define space in the rotation: A dependable once-or-twice-a-year restaurant that reminds you why you live in New York.

Minetta is, in its own way, a microcosm of the city — the good, the bad, the challenging. It takes a bit of perseverance to work your way in, and even more time and determination to feel comfortable. You’ll pay a premium that feels downright silly from the outside looking in. But ultimately, it’s rewarding, memorable, and so worthwhile.

This was a restaurant write-up from Mr. Flood’s Party. Subscribe for free and get Flood’s delivered every week. If you feel inclined, consider becoming a paid subscriber and supporting the creative process.

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One More Hour with Tame Impala

I spent Friday night at the Barclays Center, watching from section 19 as Kevin Parker and his band took the 360-degree stage to perform to a sold-out crowd.

I love concerts, but I don’t love stadium shows. They’re big, booming, and energetic, but so often feel impersonal. I suppose that’s the reality of being in a room with fifteen thousand plus people. It’s counterintuitive, but I find the thrill of live music — the buzzing energy and collective presence — actually gets muted when it scales so large. It’s also impossible for the experience at an arena not to feel at least a little commercial and over-polished.

But if you want to catch a major artist on tour, the tradeoff is the stadium. And so we went.

There are, like most things in life, exceptions to the rule — in this case, stadium shows that truly rock. I had the time of my life at the last-minute Fred again.. / Four Tet / Skrillex party at MSG. Oasis playing to 60,000 mad lads at the Scottish National Rugby Stadium was another highlight.

Tame Impala’s Deadbeat tour is one of those exceptions. A show that not only works in a stadium, but works best in a stadium.

It had been 10 years since I had seen a Tame Impala show. My first experience was a lucky encounter. At Lollapalooza 2015, I got dragged away from Perry’s Stage so my friend could catch an Aussie psych rock band he’d been hearing about. We shuffled through the crowd and found our footing at Lolla’s mainstage just as Tame Impala launched into the opening swell of their first track.

The wobbly synth that sounds like a portal opening led into the first chords of “Let It Happen,” and sent the crowd into a hypnotic trance. I was blown away. It was so sonically different than anything I had ever heard before. Currents had only come out two weeks before, but everyone knew every word. It felt like I was witnessing something rare and eclectic.

A lot has changed in the decade since. Kevin Parker has ascended to global stardom as the mastermind behind the Tame Impala project. There are two more albums in the repertoire: The Slow Rush, and the recently released Deadbeat. There’s a whole new generation of fans, many of whom found the timeless, escapist sounds like “The Less I Know The Better” through slap-bass covers on TikTok. Tame Impala has also become known for their immersive, visually stunning live shows — the kind that took the upstart band from down unda from undercard slots, to headlining nearly every festival they play.

Deadbeat, despite an impressive start on the charts, hasn’t had the warmest critical reception. It’s a foray further into the electronic music stratosphere for Tame — fewer psych flourishes and live instrumentation, many more four-on-the-floor beats. As a dance music fan, I understand and appreciate the vision. Yet, something about the Tame Impala album feels half-baked. There are some legitimate bops — but the album as a whole didn’t do it for me, especially when compared to the previous bodies of work.

Throughout the week leading up to the show, I caught glimpses of the brand-new tour through the lens of Instagram — a few friends were there on opening night. I was quick to judge their 15–30 second footage, not finding myself overly impressed by the new production, and feeling like Kevin’s vocals sounded a bit flat. A lackluster preview paired with an album I found to be just okay wasn’t exactly a recipe that juiced me up for the upcoming performance.

And now, on the other side of the Deadbeat show on Halloween night in Brooklyn, I feel a little silly. Very silly, actually.

The show, for lack of a better term, slapped.

The psych rock jams from InnerSpeaker and Lonerism, like the pulsating “Elephant,” got the arena rocking. The climactic moments of the show were centered around the Currents era. “Let It Happen,” the same song that, a decade ago, brought me into the Tame Impala universe, was the peak of peaks in 2025: tension, confetti, and a euphoric roar. And I couldn’t help myself — I was singing along to all the new Deadbeat songs. ALL of them. There were certainly some creative risks: a three-and-a-half-minute piss-break live-casted on the jumbotron, followed by a 20-minute instrumental EDM-segment. But all in all, it was everything I could have asked for, and quite a bit more.

I felt silly because I realized I was being a hater by default, and hating from the sidelines, at that. I almost talked myself out of having a great time because someone else’s Instagram story looked lame. These are the perils of the internet — stimulus, opinions, and points of view arrive preloaded, before experiences have a chance to be personal.

No videos, no matter how perfect the angle or timing, can capture the feeling of a live concert experience — of being there. They can’t make you feel what it feels like to live your life. To go out into the world and do shit! I know that sounds obvious, but sometimes it’s helpful to be reminded.

There was so much detail in the show’s production. Nuance and subtlety that would never have been captured through a screen. An obscene amount of smoke pumped into the building formed a heavy haze that warped your senses. The lights, lasers, and strobes were dialed in, synchronized perfectly to change in frequency. The translucent video screen and lighting rig lifted, lowered, tilted, and leaned. The cinematography and visual effects layered on top were hypnotic.

I’m not going to say that the show changed my opinion on Deadbeat as an album. But it changed the context in which I hear it. Artistry almost always makes more sense once you have the full picture. I gained an appreciation for how the new tracks fit into the broader discography. But as danceable as they were — as much as they had the crowd swaying — they still paled in comparison to the tried and true hits. Truthfully, it felt like night and day, energetically. This is to be expected with an album so new. But it’s hard to see these new tracks staying as timeless and fresh-feeling as the uplifting, ethereal “Eventually.”

The Tame show was my most recent reminder that deciding how you feel before you actually feel something is a pretty dull way to live. Better to do the thing — go to the show, try the restaurant, take the trip — and then decide what you think. Do, then decide. Not the other way around.

Whenever I find myself getting nostalgic, it’s usually for a time of not knowing — for moments where I walked into something without a plan or prejudice. I rarely find myself thinking back to the instances where I had everything “figured out.” The art of the blind stumble-in feels like it’s dwindling, maybe even going extinct. And I’m keen on bringing it back. Because I’m realizing that’s when I really feel the most alive.

I don’t know exactly how to do that consistently. But I think part of it is leaving room for spontaneity — letting your curiosities pull you off the obvious path. It does feel like an uphill battle in the age of the internet, where opinions tend to drift toward the mean. But I do know this: everything is better experienced than previewed.

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As soon as I landed in Denmark and walked off the plane, I reached for my pocket and noticed my AirPods case wasn’t with me. And once my loose buds reached their inevitable demise, there was no bringing them back to life.

There was no soundtrack to my week in Denmark. No podcasts as a companion on the treks around town. Not even a droney ambient track to support a session at the Louisiana Museum. Copenhagen already operates at a shockingly low, peaceful volume — and without anything in my ears, I felt like I fully experienced it. And enjoyed it.

New York, at baseline, is not exactly a quiet place, but every year around this time, I do my best to channel some of the mid-fall Scandinavian energy. The temps have dropped, the leaves are crisp — I’ve been slowing things down, and turning down the volume after a summer on the move.

It feels good: to move a little more intentionally, to set out for the day without a pair of headphones, to take my time at a café on the weekend. To read, to linger, to talk with strangers on the street instead of reaching for my phone to call a friend. They’re subtle shifts, but I notice the difference — in how I carry myself, and in how connected I feel to the world around me.

Settling into fall feels like the right moment to take stock of the past few months in New York — and to draft a proper refresh of Flood’s In Rotation. That’s what we’re doing today.

If you’re new here, In Rotation is a series that captures the places I’ve been visiting most in New York City. There are plenty of restaurants I enjoy and am inspired by — but far fewer that I frequent. This isn’t about one-off meals; it’s about sustained excellence. It’s a snapshot of New York as I’m currently experiencing it.

As a reminder, I consider “frequenting” to mean at least three visits in a six-month rolling period. The spots In Rotation are a mix of approachable, accessible, and repeatable.

In the spring, I published the first edition of In Rotation, where everything was technically new to the list. For this fall update, I’ve noted what’s truly new — and what’s been dropped.

The list is sorted by proximity to home — in Fort Greene, Brooklyn. Frequenting a place on my block often comes down to utility, while trekking across town usually means there’s something special to offer.

Alongside In Rotation, I’ve included updates to Flood’s Worldwide — New York for paid subscribers: new hits added to the mix, and freshly awarded stars.

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In Rotation: NYC, Fall 2025

• SUKH Fort Greene, Brooklyn
  I probably take SUKH for granted. It’s just around the corner — easy to stroll into for a bite, and even easier to carry out from. It makes me so consistently happy. Sunday night pad see ew, while I’m finishing up writing, has become a bit of a tradition.

• [new] Los Burritos Juárez Fort Greene, Brooklyn
  Past the mild pandemonium on Myrtle Ave lies a solid, casual lunch option that I’ve been running back to again and again. Chicken braised in a pasilla–morita mole, wrapped in a chewy flour tortilla, plays so well in all situations. I’m fortunate to have this spot close by.

• [new] al Badawi Brooklyn Heights, Brooklyn
  They do good, honest work at Badawi. Nothing flashy, but with a few more frills than you might expect from the outside looking in. The chicken kebab platter might be the best example of that work — flavorful, with a perfect char. Served with a crunchy, zesty salad, garlic sauce, and a basket of freshly baked pita. I’m a fan.

• Radio Bakery Prospect Heights, Brooklyn
  Radio continues to grow on me. I’m sure there are plenty of die-hards out there who would loveeeee to say I told ya so. It’s the sandwiches, more than the pastries, that have changed my tune. The roast beef sandwich running right now — with castelfranco radicchio and chimichurri on focaccia — is very good.

• Otway Bakery Crown Heights, Brooklyn
  A weekly stop for freshly baked sourdough — I think they have the best in town! I’ll often grab a ciabatta too. And sometimes a pastry.

• Cafe Mado Prospect Heights, Brooklyn
  I love the slight transition Mado made, now operating super casually on weekdays, with counter service and lots of seating to linger. It’s an easy place to slide into for coffee and a breakfast sandwich, and to knock out an hour or two of work. It’s even more repeatable than it already was.

• [new] Court Street Grocers Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn
  You know, I’ve thought pretty hard about it, and there isn’t a sandwich I enjoy more than Court Street’s Italian Combo. It’s the perfect park sandwich. Or plane sandwich (iykyk). Sturdy, substantial, balanced. But you can’t really go wrong with anything at Court Street.

• THISBOWL Noho, New York
  They tried to slander ‘em. They came back stronger. THISBOWL forever.

• [new] Apollo Bagels East Village, New York
  Apollo is actually the only bagel shop I’ve gone to in the past six months. Their expansion to FiDi and Williamsburg makes those crisp sourdough beauties easier to get than ever. Sesame with scallion cream cheese and tomato is my go-to.

• [new] Soothr East Village, New York
  There’s plenty of good Thai food in this city, but no one’s doing it better than Soothr. It’s the most dependable restaurant I can think of — an operation that hums like no other. And it carries out exceptionally well.

• [new] Cho Dang Gol Koreatown, New York
  The lunch combo at CDG is out-of-control delicious, and an outrageous value. Spicy chicken, tofu kimchi stew, all the banchan, a steaming bowl of rice — $20. I love this place. One of my favorite restaurants in all of New York. I could go weekly and not get sick of it.

• Most Visited Cafés: Villager Crown Heights, Brooklyn, Abraço East Village, New York, [new] Principles GI Gowanus, Brooklyn
  Villager remains my reliable neighborhood café, even though it’s a bike ride away. Abraço is the café I spend the most time at — a place to slow down and spend a few hours reading, journaling, or simply existing. New to the list is Principles GI, a big, warehouse-y space in Gowanus with very good coffee and lots of room to spread out and open up a laptop. An honorable mention goes to La Cabra, whose beans I’ve been using around the apartment lately.

• Most Visited Bars: [new] Cellar 36 Two Bridges, New York, [new] Swift Hibernian Lounge Noho, New York, [new] Sharlene’s Prospect Heights, Brooklyn
  Most Lower East Side nights include a stop at Cellar 36 somewhere along the way. Swift is such an easy play for a quick pint — still one of the best in town. Sharlene’s is everything you want in a neighborhood bar: approachable, cheap, dimly lit, and comfortable.

Out of the Rotation:

• Forma Pasta Factory — Still a favorite, just consumed a little less pipette ragu than usual this summer.

• Sailor — Had a nice dinner in June, but haven’t made it back in since. The new bar room and renovation should make it a little easier to slide in, and I will soon.

• Yemen Café — Colder days ahead will call for lamb haneeth. Yemen Café will almost certainly return to the list come spring.

• Ha’s Snack Bar — As predicted, I haven’t been able to get back into Ha’s. The endless stream of press and accolades hasn’t made it any easier.

• Torrisi — I’m due for a celebratory-feeling, blowout meal. One where you order a little more and spend a little more than you should. Torrisi is an excellent place to do exactly that.

• Kisa — I went to Kisa twice, but not a third time! So it’s right on the edge. Still a very fun room, and still a value.

• Mariscos El Submarino — The Greenpoint location was closed for most of the summer, and Clinton Hill only opened a few months ago. I love the aguachile verde so much. Good chance this returns to the list.

• Taqueria Ramirez Greenpoint, Brooklyn
  Only hit it once this summer. Just how it goes sometimes.

Flood’s Worldwide — New York Adds & Updates

17 recent adds, 9 new stars, and 2 stars stripped away

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What to Do When a Hit Doesn’t Hit

The new Tame Impala record is just alright. It’s not as horrible as people are saying, but it’s missing the magic — that special Kevin Parker sauce. Deadbeat doesn’t deliver the psychedelic, otherworldly feeling that Currents did, nor is it really trying to. But I can’t figure out what it is trying to do. Artists are allowed to evolve and change their sound, yes — but in the process, you can’t lose production value. And this album feels like a step in the wrong direction.

I’ll leave the talk about drum machines and lyricism to Pitchfork. Long story short, this record feels half-baked compared to its predecessors. It didn’t feel as meticulously considered. It didn’t make me feel as nice. It’s hard to imagine it being something that’ll keep me coming back.

That’s how it goes with music. I felt the same way about RÜFÜS DU SOL’s album last year — an artist I thought couldn’t miss put out an absolute dud. Parcels’ LOVED came out a few weeks ago and feels shallow and uninspired compared to their self-titled debut.

When an artist you know and love misses, the path forward is simple: listen to something else. Or revisit the older stuff — those songs aren’t going anywhere. It’s disappointing, no doubt, but hardly the end of the world.

But what happens when a hit restaurant doesn’t hit? What do you do when the spot you thought was great lets you down on a return visit? Do you give it another shot? Move on entirely?

It’s an issue I run into often. A place I gushed over online lets me down on visit number two. Or a long-standing favorite has an uncharacteristic off night. It’s easy to second-guess yourself. Maybe my expectations for the follow-up were too high. Maybe it was never that good to begin with. Usually, though, I’m grounded enough in my own reality to know when I’m not crazy — that something has shifted — even if it’s hard to pinpoint what.

I walked into Bong on Friday night, prepared to write a full-ass review about the best new restaurant in New York. Back in July, when I visited during their soft-ish opening phase, the place completely rocked me. The atmosphere made me feel like I was part of something special — a restaurant with a bold new perspective: free-spirited, but dialed in. The Cambodian food was powerful, yet refined. Bong’s whole fried fish changed my entire outlook on eating whole fish at restaurants (from skeptic to lover!). I was ready to tell you this was a Flood’s Worldwide-worthy spot worth planning a trip around. But visit number two at Bong was… just alright.

Once you know you like a restaurant’s concept — and at Bong, I certainly did — the evaluation shifts and simplifies. Now the question is: how do the food, service, and vibe stack up against last time?

Consistency with the food matters most. The execution needs to be on or around the same level as before. If you loved a dish once, it better still be a winner. For restaurants that overhaul the menu frequently ~changing with the seasons,~ since the culinary experience is shifting, there’s more leeway. But like musical artists changing their sound with a new album cycle, the production value needs to stay high. You don’t have to love every new dish, but you should like most.

I’m more forgiving about service lapses. Ideally, the service only gets sharper and friendlier as you become a regular. There are dozens of potential reasons for an off-night of service: staff turnover, no-shows, slammed shifts. I can generally roll with the punches and trust it’ll get sorted over time. I once had an abysmal service experience on my tenth-ish visit to Cervo’s, but the prawns were still crisp and doused in garlic oil — making it easy to look past.

It’s trickier to maintain a steady vibe. I respect the hell out of the places that do. As a restaurant gains popularity, the feeling inside inevitably changes. The once-hidden neighborhood gem fills up with LED lights and fussy diners. There’s only so much a restaurant can do to control its crowd. But the ambiance is certainly within their control. Is the room as perfectly dim? Is the playlist still good? Does it feel as nice to be in that room? I walked into Eyval one time, and the lights in the usually pitch-black dining room were all the way up, and I almost lost my mind.

Round two at Bong wasn’t a bad time — it just didn’t hit like before. The new fall menu had more flops than winners. The whole fried dorade — last visit’s showstopper — wasn’t as crisp, and its Thai basil and lettuce accompaniments were limp. The vibe was still rocking — neon green walls, funky art, and a chaotic, high-energy flow of the operation — but the music volume spiked and dropped with every song change, almost comically. It just wasn’t nearly as dialed.

And look, I’m empathetic. It’s so hard to get it all right. And even harder to get it right all the time. But the reality is, Bong is open for dinner three nights a week — they have no excuse not to be on when they’re on.

If it were my first visit, I probably wouldn’t go back. But now that I have two data points to work with, I’m faced with this age-old question: what to do when a hit doesn’t hit?

My immediate first move is to reset with the most dependable spots I know. Meals I’m certain will deliver. On Saturday, papaya salad and pad see ew at SUKH. Earlier today, burgers at Red Hook Tavern. Shit that’ll put me in a level-headed, positive frame of mind. Then, I reevaluate.

In this case, Bong absolutely gets another chance. The first visit was so mind-bendingly good that it earned that grace. I’m not gonna race — I’ll give it time to settle, find its rhythm. But I’ll be back. And I think [I hope] those lapses will smooth out. I know how good they can be.

Not every restaurant gets the luxury of a revisit after a flop. Price certainly matters. I’m far more tolerant of a rough day at the neighborhood Lebanese takeout spot than the $100 wine bar. Location matters too — the Ridgewood hit that falters probably won’t get me to make that trek again. The place on my block is going to eventually get another opportunity, likely on a stormy night.

Ultimately, the recommendations I share on Flood’s are rooted in this philosophy: I’m not just chasing one-off great meals — I’m looking for dependability. The places that stay good visit after visit, or at least give me reason to believe they will. There’s nothing I love more than getting a text from a friend about a banger of a meal they had through a recommendation of mine. Or an internet stranger sending a DM about their Montreal itinerary built off Flood’s Worldwide. It’s the best. I take that shit seriously.

At the end of the day, it’s consistency — not perfection — that matters. My favorites, musically and culinarily, have shown they can bring it again and again. Even the greats have off nights or the inexplicably bad track, but those should be the exception, not the rule. Maybe it’s unreasonable to expect these living art forms to be stable or enduring. Maybe their brilliance is meant to be fleeting — brief flashes of something extraordinary.

But when a hit does hit, and keeps hitting — when a band or a restaurant manages to capture that magic twice, three times, ten times — that’s when it transcends trend or timing. That’s when it becomes something truly special.

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Misi’s signature dish is somewhat hidden on the menu. You’d think, with how emblematic that perfectly piped zigzag of whipped ricotta sitting atop crusty bread is, that it would be the very first item listed — or at least labeled as something easily identifiable, like, I don’t know, “ricotta toast.” But it’s not.

The dish that, I’d imagine, every single table orders, moves around within the antipasti section of Misi’s streamlined menu. Sometimes it’s placed second, occasionally second-to-last — always somewhere in the middle. I always have to take a careful scan of the menu to spot it.

In the spring and summer, it’s listed as “charred marinated peppers.” In the fall and winter, “trumpet mushrooms sott’olio.” “Whipped ricotta crostini” rounds out the description, as if the pillowy cheese on toast were a complement to the bowl of vegetables, and not the other way around.

There’s a quiet confidence in downplaying your best seller — in knowing what you’ve got and not feeling the need to flaunt it. Misi excels in that kind of restraint, which runs deeper than its menu layout; it’s baked into the entire experience.

My first visit to Misi was in February 2022. Mitch, Maverick, Tom, and I settled into a four-top along the left-hand wall of the sleek dining room, decked in Italian hand-cast brick. Tom and Mav had a view of the open kitchen, while Mitch and I looked onto the glass-enclosed pasta-making workshop, which sat idle after a presumably busy morning of prep. We were all a little dolled up — collared shirts, wristwatches. This was a special one we were checking off, a restaurant we’d all been hearing nothing but praise about.

Three vegetables, five pastas, and two gelatos later, I was completely enamored. At the time, I had about six months of New York dining under my belt, and Misi leapt straight to the top of my list. The experience was as close to perfect as I’d had dining in New York. It felt great to be in that room. The service was tight and polished — prompt but never frantic, personal but with a relaxed energy. Every dish was precise — clean presentations and hearty portions that didn’t require careful rationing. The pacing was ideal; the coursing made sense. There’s an intentional absence of secondi, but I didn’t find myself missing the meat or fish — vegetables and pasta were more than enough. It was the first time I was truly blown away by simplicity. Every component of every dish felt like a higher-quality version of something I already knew.

There were a few culinary revelations that day, and the whipped ricotta crostini was, surprisingly, one of them. Surprisingly, because, like most prolific dishes, I was prepared to be underwhelmed. But I left a true believer. The squiggle of silky-smooth cheese sits tall, about an inch above the surface of the toast. As you bite in, it’s cloud-like — light, airy, creamy, and tangy, yet thick enough to hold its shape. Olive oil hits your lips, flakes of sea salt add gentle texture. Then you reach the crisp surface of the Shewolf sourdough, fried in olive oil. There’s a crunch, but it’s not sharp in a way that’ll tear up the roof of your mouth.

The second bite was even better. An olive oil-soaked trumpet mushroom, seasoned with a hint of rosemary, was applied to the corner opposite the first bite. The mushroom settles into the cheese like a heavy head sinking into a pillow. Introducing umami into the bite is heavenly beyond belief. And it clicked why the veg is listed first: the mushroom is supposed to go on top. This will remain a top New York City dish for as long as Misi is around.

The first taste of tortelli was, similarly, absurdly memorable. It’s a dish that’ll never leave the ten-pasta rotation — and for good reason. The spinach-and-mascarpone-stuffed rings are a treat: swimming in brown butter, blanketed by ricotta salata, an indulgent sweet-and-savory burst. I wouldn’t want a dish this rich for myself, but if you’re a table that’s sharing (and every good table should be), it needs to be ordered. I’ll never forget Maverick’s earnest exclamation: “Woah, it’s like an Italian gusher.”

To say I left excited about Misi would be an understatement; I was singing its praises to anyone who’d listen. I rattled it off confidently among my favorite restaurants in the city.

My subsequent visits hit just as hard. I brought Mom and Dad. I sat at the bar on my birthday. My brother and I slid into a pair of seats at the kitchen counter on a random summer day. Tom and I ran it back, this time with Emma and Hannah. I wanted everyone I knew and loved to experience pasta at its best. There are plenty of good Italian restaurants in New York, but no one was running an operation quite like Misi.

Across those dinners, it became clear that restraint was what I was drawn to. Misi knows where to leave blank space. They know when to subtract — nothing about the restaurant feels overdone. Quanto basta is their mantra, meaning “as much as necessary.” It’s reflected in everything about the place.

There’s restraint in the design of the room: minimal, uncluttered; hexagonal gray-tiled floors; earthy, natural tones; warm light cast from hand-blown glass bulbs. There’s no artwork, because the surroundings are stimulating enough. The open kitchen stretches the entire length of the right wall — a spectacle itself. The front entrance faces west, with floor-to-ceiling windows offering a glimpse of the Manhattan skyline and the Williamsburg Bridge. Golden hour light floods the room in early evening; the blinds are gently drawn as the glow fades over the East River.

And there’s certainly restraint in the food.

Misi’s rigatoni comes in a red sauce that punches well beyond its description. The short, tubular noodles curve ever so slightly, coated in a deeply savory 30-clove pomodoro, dusted in pecorino, and delicately garnished with basil. I know it’s hard to order a dish that sounds like something that could be whipped up at home in a matter of minutes — but the sauce’s complexity and the tender bite of the pasta are unfathomable to even the most functional home chef. It’s simple, yes. But anything more added to this dish would surely result in less. It’s balanced and wonderful. As much as necessary.

Fettuccine glistens with a sheen of buffalo butter, topped by a mound of sharp parmigiano extra vecchio and a generous sprinkle of cracked black pepper. It’s another dish that flexes its ingredients — not the quantity or rarity of them, but their quality. More complex-tasting cheese and punchier pepper than you’ll find anywhere else.

Misi is one of the few places where the antipasti feels like more than an opening act. The preparations are simple, but painstakingly considered. Halved, slow-roasted tomatoes sit pulp-side up, drizzled in hot honey, finished with fresh basil, coriander, and fennel seed. Grilled romano beans are tossed in a garlic vinaigrette with punchy chilies. Leeks are marinated in Calabrian chili oil, then braised, and finished with a liberal sprinkle of pistachios. This section of the menu changes more dynamically than the pastas — the vegetables shift with the seasons, as do their preparations.

There are a few menu mainstays I don’t care for. The chickpea pappardelle is one that servers always try to talk you into, insisting it’s “so much better than it sounds.” But texturally, the pasta has a graininess that turns me off and quickly goes mushy. The linguine with anchovy, garlic, and parsley tastes unbalanced — acidic and funky beyond the point of interest. Otherwise, I don’t think there’s a miss on the menu.

Misi is synonymous with the vegetable and pasta duo, but gelato is the third component to the experience — and it’s worthy of a mention. It’s a classic slate of flavors that might not initially excite: Fior di latte, espresso, pistachio, chocolate, a few others. But once again, it’s the execution that matters most — exceptionally creamy, soft, and loaded with generous chunks of whatever flavor you choose. In my personal hierarchy, pistachio has the edge, but mint stracciatella trails tightly behind.

You’re probably wondering where this story goes wrong. And while there’s no dramatic turn to the tale, over my past few visits, I’ve felt a subtle shift.

For a while, Misi felt like a restaurant chasing something — every visit as sharp and deliberate as the first. It seemed immune to the inevitable fade of a restaurant’s early momentum. When I first went, three years past its 2018 opening, Misi still carried the energy of a place with something to prove. By year three, most restaurants have figured out who they are and how they run, but haven’t yet slipped into complacency. 2022 Misi felt like it was gunning for stars, rankings, and accolades. There were hardly any missteps. Everything felt dialed.

In 2025, in year seven, Misi feels more content. More relaxed. It doesn’t seem to be striving for anything beyond what it already is, but rather settling into the calm of mastery. It remains a tremendous restaurant with a near-perfect menu, and quanto basta certainly persists. But the press has simmered down, and the stars never came. Yet through it all, they’re paying the rent, and it’s still a tough table every night of the week.

I wonder if that calm comes at a cost. Is it complacency, or just confidence? Is it settling, or self-assurance? Maybe it’s just the natural rhythm of a restaurant’s life — the same way people trade ambition and hustle for stability and balance. What at times feels like a loss of the magic might just be the transition from newness to permanence — from hot to established, from exciting to enduring. A restaurant can’t stay young forever. Maybe it’s allowed to mature. Still, Misi today feels less like a spontaneous, anything-could-happen affair and more like a well-oiled machine.

Or maybe, just maybe, it’s me who’s changed.

Maybe the diner I was in 2022 — starry-eyed about New York and eager to experience everything the city had to offer — wouldn’t have been so particular or hyper-observant. Maybe the bucatini that came out warm-but-not-hot wouldn’t have raised any concerns.

I’ve had so many formative meals since that first visit. I’ve learned what separates good from great, and more importantly, what excites me: the precision, the intention, the human touch. I’ve felt the high of tight, buzzing rooms where the owner pours your wine, and the dishes linger not just for their flavor but for their warmth. Maybe what excites me about restaurants now is a little different than what excited me then.

Regardless of which of the above is true, there are a few things I know for sure.

I will always look forward to settling into that glowing room on Kent Avenue. I’ll always watch from the corner of my eye as the chefs make their final toss of the chitarra in bright red sauce. And I’ll always be hunting for that damn whipped ricotta on the menu.

This was a restaurant write-up from Mr. Flood’s Party. Subscribe for free and get Flood’s delivered every week. If you feel inclined, consider becoming a paid subscriber and supporting the creative process.

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Protein-Maxxing NYC

The post-workout meal remains the most confounding dining dilemma I’ve faced in New York. For years, my Google search history has been filled with desperate variations of “high-protein meal East Village” and “clean eats Fort Greene.” It’s taken a while, but I do feel like I’m starting to figure it out.

It’s been challenging for several reasons. But mostly because the criteria for what I want to eat after a workout is so vastly different than my usual desires. I’m looking for something substantial, healthy, protein-forward, and relatively cheap. And I want to be able to walk in sweaty, eat quickly, or take it to-go. It’s a meal that’s about health and function first, taste and quality second. It’s the only time I’ll ever prioritize my restaurant selections this way. Sure, I could, and often do cook something at home. But let’s imagine the fridge is empty besides a block of feta that’s been in there for weeks, and perhaps a lemon.

The easy answer is to settle for a slop-bowl — an amalgamation of food that melds into one cohesive mass. Post-workout Chipotle, Cava, Sweetgreen, and such. It’s not a horrible solution — macronutrient-balanced, highly customizable to be as healthy or unhealthy as you’d like. I am not better than a slop bowl — I’ll crush Naya from time to time. Springbone gets the job done, too. But after, say, 6:00 pm, something feels so grim about setting food in these fluorescently-lit, soulless establishments.

Anyway, here are a few spots I often turn to after a sweltering hot vinyasa class or a lap around Prospect Park:

• Chicken Stop Fort Greene, Brooklyn

  • $14 is what it’ll run you for a half chicken, steamed vegetables, green sauce, and 2 dense pitas. I can waltz into Chicken Stop drenched in sweat, and be on my merry way 5 minutes later with a hefty bag in hand.

• Eva’s x Cinco de Mayo Greenwich Village, New York

  • The enduring haunt for bodybuilders and police officers alike, Eva’s Cinco de Mayo is a macro-temple in Greenwich Village. This is a no-oil, no-added-sugar, no-bullshit kind of place. The food is painfully simple, and deeply unsexy — but remarkably functional. Their housemade sauces are pretty good, and you’ll need them.

• Darna Falafel Cobble Hill, Brooklyn

  • Darna is a tiny falafel shop in Cobble Hill with a sprawling menu that I never look at. I have tunnel vision for the kifta wrap sandwich — it’s all I’ll ever need. Packed with spiced chicken, fries, and creamy, spicy sauce — it’s not the cleanest of eats, but it’s so tasty and like $12. The salad it’s served with, romaine, black olives, chickpeas, and bottled Italian dressing, is virtually useless, though.

• al Badawi Brooklyn Heights, Brooklyn

  • al Badawi is a place you could certainly plan a night around, but it’s equally casual, approachable, and welcoming to me in gym clothes. The shawarma platter is a godsend and packs in so much food. The side salad, unlike the one at Darna, is bright, fresh, and flavorful. The homemade pita is served with olive oil and za’atar. It’s somewhere you should sit down, though, because I’ve noticed the carryout/delivery quality is way, way different.

• Quinoa Kitchen Williamsburg, Brooklyn

  • On the surface, Quinoa Kitchen sounds predictably healthy and somewhat generic. And it is! But their Wild Salmon bowl with lemon-dill vinaigrette is a tried and true winner.

• Casa Adela East Village, New York

  • If you’re lucky enough to live in the general vicinity of Adela, please take advantage. Brilliant, flavorful, juicy pollo asado. A side of rice and beans. Maybe some plantains. A classic that always hits.

• Clover Smoothies Boerum Hill, Brooklyn

  • A good option when you need something tight, light, and incredibly efficient. Smoothies are something you can and should make at home, but in a crunch, this place is really good.

• THISBOWL Noho, New York

  • YOU ALREADY KNOW. LONG LIVE THE OG BOWL.

• ACRE Greenpoint, Brooklyn

  • ACRE is the most delicious, most put-together place on this list — one I happily eat at even when I haven’t broken a sweat. But it also plays so well in the healthy, clean-eats category. A little pricier, but worth it for the quality and flavor of the bentos and sandos.

• Gold Star Beer Counter Prospect Heights, Brooklyn

  • Let’s be honest, a crisp pilsner post-workout hits harder than anything else, macros be damned.

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Recently Added

The newest additions to Flood’s Worldwide

Los Burritos Juarez Fort Greene, Brooklyn
Myrtle Ave isn’t a street I ever expected to go viral. It’s a fairly standard throughfare in Fort Greene — hardly scenic, far from charming. But with Los Burritos Juarez setting up shop a stone’s throw from the polarizing chopped sandwiches at Farmer in the Deli, it’s suddenly become a highly trafficked, highly videoed stretch of the neighborhood. It goes to show: wrap anything in a tortilla and people will come in droves.

Juarez has been making the digital rounds for their hand-rolled-to-order flour tortillas, filled with one of four stewy options: guajillo-marinated pork; brisket & yukons in tomatillo salsa; pasilla–morita mole braised chicken; or pinto beans with chihuahua cheese. The tortilla is heated on the flattop until barely crisp — it’s thick enough to support the saucy fillings, with an unmistakable chew.

Everybody’s seeking the truth about this place — I don’t think I’ve ever posted an IG story that got more “What did you think?” replies.

I think it’s a winner. Damn good burritos — craveable, even. It’d be hard to be a hater. The chicken mole is the best of the bunch — shreds of juicy chicken in a rich, nutty sauce. The two salsas on offer — one red, one green — add depth and spice to each bite of the foil-wrapped beauty. Brisket and potato is my runner-up. But even the simple, creamy bean and cheese hits hard, which is always a good sign.

Are they worth trekking across town and standing in line for? Probably not. But Juarez is a spot that fills a glaring fast-casual void in the neighborhood, which I’m quite stoked about. And… this feels like a concept primed for a West Village expansion in ‘26. So maybe they’ll be coming to you.

Alba Detroit, Michigan
There’s a collection of cafés I’ve been meaning to check out in Detroit. But driving downtown from the suburbs just for a coffee has always felt like a lot. One morning, I packed my bag and headed down I-75 toward Alba, planning to start my day there before bouncing around to a few other spots in the city.

Alba took over the beloved Astro Coffee’s space in Corktown a year after its closure in ’22. In Detroit terms, those are the biggest shoes imaginable to fill. You can’t truly replace an institution, but you can do it justice — and Alba does.

The café is bright, plant-filled, and thoughtfully designed — small, but comfortable. The classic espresso drinks are excellent, all made with Alba’s house-roasted beans. The specialties, like the sweet, cinnamony café de olla, are truly a treat. To round it out, there’s a mean soufflé egg sandwich slathered in spicy mayo on pillowy brioche. Pairs nicely with a strong, rich coffee.

Even though I planned for Alba to be a stop on the itinerary, I ended up spending the entire morning in the warm, welcoming space. It’s a place worth venturing to on its own — it shot straight to the top of my Metro Detroit café list.

These hits, and many more, are included in Flood’s Worldwide:

Best Dishes

Some of the best things I ate (or drank) recently

Falafel Pita — PAOLINA Williamsburg, Brooklyn
The best (and only) thing on the menu at PAOLINA is the falafel pita. It’s $14. When you’re doing one thing and one thing only, you’d better have it dialed. And I’m happy to report this sandwich is locked in.

Each component of this hefty pita is best-in-class. The falafel is freshly fried to order — perfectly crunchy yet airy. The vegetables are crisp, adding freshness and a bit of brine. The spreads and sauces are balanced — creamy, smoky, spicy. And the pita itself is freshly baked — chewy, but sturdy. The result is a near-idyllic falafel sandwich. I don’t think you could draw it up any better.

Thai Tartlet — Luthun East Village, New York
Singling out a top dish from a multi-course tasting menu is usually tough. At the wildly interesting, unconventional Luthun in the East Village, it’s even harder — the globally-inspired dishes are all over the damn place, yet still, miraculously, cohesive.

Reflecting on the ten or so dishes, the Thai Tartlet edges out the rest. Crispy eggplant is packed into a buttery tart shell, layered with strips of bright papaya and caramelized sambal. The tartlet comes with a cup of zesty, spicy coconut milk broth meant to be sipped between bites. This punchy broth was the first of a few holy shit moments throughout the dinner.

As the night progressed, it was the sauces, broths, and stocks that continued to shine the brightest. They’re what Chef Nahid Ahmed has built his career on — and they’re the backbone of Luthun’s identity.

Flood’s Hi-Fi

Artists and records for moving and grooving

Natalia Lafourcade — Hasta la Raíz (album)
It’s been ten years since the release of this warm, velvety Latin pop-rock record from Mexican singer-songwriter Natalia Lafourcade, and it sounds as lush and comforting as ever. It rocks, it grooves, it sways. A smooth listen around the house and a lovely companion for a road trip.

Floating Points, Pharoah Sanders & The London Symphony Orchestra — Promises (album)
A 46-minute introspective, dreamy journey — electronically rooted, lifted by the London Symphony Orchestra’s strings, and taken to another dimension by Pharoah Sanders’ sensual saxophone. This record feels special because it is special — a shockingly beautiful piece of immersive art. It deserves your full attention: turn the lights off, lie on the floor, and listen.

Avalon Emerson — 9000 Dreams (live set)
I caught this dance music masterclass live Under the K Bridge last summer, and I’m thrilled to have found the full recording on SoundCloud. Like so many of Avalon’s sets, it has serious range — a very fun listen that’ll get you moving.

Up Next

Places on my radar

1. Cafe Lily Bensonhurt, Brooklyn — A Korean/Uzbek restaurant in Bensonhurst sounds like a damn good time. Good find from . Can’t wait to check it.

2. DOLORES Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn — The tacos look good, the drinks look strong, the vibe looks right!!

3. Claud x Cafe Mutton — Anyone got an extra ticket for tomorrow…?

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We have a guest today. writes right on Franklin, one of my favorite restaurant-focused newsletters on Substack. roF is a constant source of inspiration for me, and Olivia’s taste and recommendations are unbeatable. She’s a lovely writer with impressive attention to detail and strong, carefully-considered opinions.

Olivia and I met last fall, and have been scheming about writing together ever since. After a spirited conversation about restaurants we both wanted to try, our first meal together was a pilgrimage to Lucali — the Brooklyn pizza haunt that has ascended to global fame.

I brought her in to help tell the tale of our visit (and recent revisit), and share the truth about the New York City pizza institution.

Her words are in italics, mine are not!

The Truth About Lucali

OW: The South Brooklyn restaurant first opened in 2006 and was quickly on the tip of everyone’s tongues. A reliable neighborhood spot quickly became regarded as the best pizza in the city. Over the years, it continued to receive incredible press, celebrity visits, and eager customers.

Now, seldom can you pass by without seeing a camera crew, a line of guests waiting just to put their name down for dinner service (5 hours ahead of time), and someone filming on their iPhone. All things considered, especially given my disagreements with spots that hit a trend cycle, Lucali was not in the running to become a regularly attended spot of mine. I’d never been, though, and didn’t really know anyone who had been either. The enduring fandom made me curious in a way I couldn’t quite resist, despite it not being particularly close to anything, and their reservation system being, well, an ordeal.

LB: Landing a table at Lucali was something I wanted to get right, but more importantly, something I didn’t want to get wrong. So I did my homework, scouring Reddit threads to understand the process.

Turns out, the ritual for getting into Lucali is similar to securing a spot on the tennis court at Fort Greene Park: arrive early, give your name to the keeper of the physical signup sheet, and return later when it’s your time to play. All this to say, in New York, to do what you love — play tennis; eat wood-fired pizza — you’ll need to structure your day around it.

I brought a lawn chair and set up shop on the sidewalk of Henry Street, like a suburban Italian grandpa manning his front porch. It’s impossible not to look a little silly waiting in line, so I figured I’d embrace it and make myself comfortable.

It was a perfect fall day in Carroll Gardens. The trees had mostly shed; the leaves that remained were amber and crisp. A parade of nannies walking their kids home from school passed the line by, serving light judgment about our choice of afternoon activity.

Around 4:00 pm, the line crept forward, and the hostess started jotting down names. As I neared her perch, she motioned toward me, and I stepped up to the plate.

She was curt, and I understand why — she’s dealt with dumb questions, Taskrabbit line-standers, and general nonsense every day (except Tuesday) for years. I tried to be careful, direct, and respectful with my words, as I worried that one false move — one wrong question — could result in a permanent blacklisting before I ever got to set foot inside.

I ask for a table for two at 8:00 pm. My wish is granted. “BYOB. Cash only. You’ll have the table for one hour. All members of your party need to be here to be seated. Be back 15 minutes before your time — it’s an estimate, not a guarantee.”

I’d be lying to you if I said I didn’t feel a small thrill and a mild sense of achievement from my execution here. All together, it turned out to be an hour out of my day — a burden, sure, but far from an ordeal.

As I strolled back to Lucali, just hours after my line-standing expedition, I felt a mild sense of deja vu.

OW: Each time we arrived at Lucali for our designated dinner slot (I really like the idea of an in-person reservation system, should we all revert to that?), we were seated once the busy staff had time to point us to our table. The room is dark, and on a warm day, quite humid. Large tables may host family gatherings or friend outings, though I can’t tell you what it looks like to try and get a table of 10 into that dining room without getting laughed at and shooed away. Other than that, a slew of two-tops complete a very small dining room. It’s a simple space: candles illuminate tables and jars of sauce; the open kitchen has a warm tinge to it.

The most important thing I noticed during that first visit: the direction your chair faces, matters.

LB: Uh, let the record show, I gave Olivia the good view.

OW: Just millimeters outside of my periphery were tourists who had journeyed far deeper into Brooklyn than they had intended. The presence of tourists wasn’t unexpected — everyone gets to have pizza. More shocking was that everyone seemed to have their phones out the entire meal — or at least that was the case every time I looked around the dining room. Flash was on, videos were being recorded.

This is the magic of Lucali, though; it’s a spectacle. That’s why it’s featured on TikToks AND Netflix shows AND YouTube series. It’s an institution, and I can’t blame anyone for wanting to document the fruits of their labor, having landed a coveted table.

Facing the kitchen, though, you can see that the best parts of Lucali are the things you just might miss. The kitchen houses two men, barely concealed by a counter, who are slinging dough around all night. They’ll smile at you every time you make eye contact, as if to say “watch this” as they roll out pizza dough with empty wine bottles. A bowl of raw vegetables sits in front of them, an indicator that a humble bell pepper or head of garlic could be the very thing that makes your dinner memorable.

To be eating pizza as you look over the dining room is to be confused, though not at all surprised, by the company. To be eating pizza as your new friends in the kitchen smile at you, is to understand that 20 years of success can be attributed to the marriage of the tourist spectacle, and the undeniable importance of an enduring neighborhood locale.

LB: The dining room really is filled with an interesting crowd — a tapestry of people that only exists here, at Lucali. Across the way, I see the couple from Los Angeles who were behind me in line. They allocated one of their 4 vacation days toward trying the “top-rated pizza place in New York.” There’s a table of four, all wearing heavy winter puffer jackets on this unseasonably warm day. I wonder to myself which tropical climate they are visiting from.

I respect the aptitude and ambition of these NYC visitors. Carroll Gardens is not a neighborhood you’ll venture to by accident. Lucali is not a dinner you’ll stumble into.

But there are also locals here, who blend in seamlessly and cause less ruckus. Families huddled around a 6-top, celebrating Grandma’s birthday. Marco from down the street peeks his head in to pick up his carryout pie. At the end of the day, Lucali is a place for everybody, because pizza is a meal for everybody.

No matter who’s in the room, it would be hard to make it through dinner here without overhearing some chatter about Portnoy’s 9.3 rating, “El Pres said this is THE spot, man.” You’ll hear murmurs that Beyoncé and Jay-Z like to eat here. Less talked about is the knife fight between owner Mark Iacono and mobster Benny Geritano in 2011. The Lucali lore runs deep, and frankly, I believe all of it.

The room is perfectly quirky, like a neighborhood restaurant on the outskirts of Rome. There’s some tacky decor that looks like someone did a speed run through an antique store. The speakers are bumping oldies tunes that you’ll surely recognize. Other things feel so calculated: The room is perfectly dim. The jars of sauce with strips of tape reading “Lucali” affixed are all facing outward, glowing under flickering candlelight. The green and brown striped awning is kept in pristine condition, helping to maintain a low-profile feeling, even though the operation is an undeniable scene.

Lucali is a BYOB establishment, which is unheard of, really. With their level of popularity — with the amount of money they’ve made — they could surely spring for a liquor license and sell $10 beers and $18 glasses of wine, and no one would bat an eye.

But they don’t. You can slide into Carroll Grocery & Deli and grab a 6-pack for the occasion, and crack it open without hesitation.

Some of it feels like a schtick — rolling out the dough with wine bottles; “My Girl” playing — but they’re deeply committed to the bit. Lucali has found a bunch of things that work for them, and they’ve stuck to them.

OW: For example: three items on the menu, but there is no menu. There’s a special pasta, a pie (one size), and a calzone (two sizes). The server will recite the list of available toppings tableside — if you miss an ingredient she’s rattled off, you’re not getting a repeat. They’ll ask if you’re ready to order as soon as they’ve finished telling you what’s on the menu. In most restaurants, that seems solidly against the rules. Here, a guest who has been before will have an answer before anyone has visited their table at all.

Your decision-making time is brief — servers will continue to check on you routinely as they weave their way through the chairs in the dining room. Eventually, you’ll have to go with your gut or sacrifice moments of your 60-minute table allotment agonizing over an order. The options are limited, anyway.

Once you’ve ordered, the food will come when it comes. Pizza typically arrives first. It will be hot enough to burn the roof of your mouth, and even on a pizza stand, it will take over the entire table. The small serving spatula is a nice touch, but ultimately unhelpful. It feels impossible not to go in for a slice immediately with both hands and eat the too-hot slice before it can reach your plate.

The crust is thin and crunchy. Sauce and cheese levels are light enough not to weigh down its support system, but certainly don’t leave anything to be desired. Enormous sprigs of fresh basil will sit at the center of your pie, regardless of what you order, for you to tear at and sprinkle on each slice.

LB: The Lucali pie is lighter than you’d expect, and the slices are crushable. When folded, the crust doesn’t bend — it cracks. There’s a floury dustiness on the bottom that adds just a little texture. The red sauce is tangy, but doesn’t lean too bright, sweet, or garlicy. The low-moisture mozzarella is freshly-grated, which, even after a few minutes to cool, won’t amalgamate or turn plasticy. Shards of buffalo mozzarella are carefully placed, hovering above the base layer of cheese. After being fired, the pie is finished with dusting of nutty Grana Padano. The quantity of fresh basil they’re going through at Lucali is probably absurd — every basil leaf is vibrant green and remarkably fragrant.

Adding no toppings to the Lucali pie might feel boring, but it’s far from a radical maneuver. Simplicity is the name of the game, and the quality of the ingredients that adorn the “plain” pie, are all excellent.

OW: Our first time at Lucali, almost exactly one year ago, we ordered a full pie covered in hot peppers. I’m a freak for any sort of hot-pepper topping, be it on a sandwich, a pizza, a salad, you name it. I loved it on the dainty Lucali slice but it was hot, like my nose was running spicy. Returning a year later, we went a different route, and boy did we nail it. We left half the pie plain, the other half, sliced garlic and mushrooms. The garlic was a holy shit moment — thin enough slices that the topping was almost indecipherable on the dimly lit pie. They added body to the pizza that it doesn’t necessarily need but, now that I’ve had it, I couldn’t go without. The mushrooms were delicious, but the power of the garlic on that slice would’ve worked wonders regardless of what else we had included.

LB: The list of choices for your pie is pretty tight and straightforward. But whatever you do choose, expect it to punch. The hot peppers were ripping hot. The garlic is potent. The mushrooms are umami-packed. With such a simple foundation, trust that whatever additions you make won’t get lost in the mix — you’ll taste it, and it’ll taste like it should.

OW: Lucali is a place where you can’t really fuck up the order, and coming from me, that’s a generous take. You can, however, do an extra good job. If you’re a party of 2 or 3, one pie will suffice, assuming you’ll add a calzone in there. For two people, the pizza and calzone will be plenty, you’ll likely have some leftovers. For a party of three, throw the special pasta in there — why not.

LB: Even though I haven’t had it, there’s absolutely no way that spicy three-cheese fusilli is bad. But I’m aligned, it’s only something that makes sense for more than two.

OW: The calzone seems like the most skippable of the three-item menu — a dish that hearkens back to my middle school days at the suburban, inedibly greasy pizza shop I loved, where all I ever wanted was an enormous, cheesy calzone. Since becoming a legal adult, and certainly since moving to New York, procuring a calzone has never once crossed my mind.

At Lucali, they’re laughing at you for thinking you’re too sophisticated for cheesy bread. Leaving it out of your order means you’re missing out on one of the most unexpected bites in your NYC tenure.

Of the two menu items you’ve ordered, your calzone will arrive third. First, the pizza. Second, a shallow white pasta bowl, full of red sauce. Shaved cheese covers a quarter of the bowl, a spoon rests in the middle. Surely, that’s more sauce than you’d need for one measly calzone — well, maybe. But also, maybe not. When the calzone arrives, it’s cut into four large pieces, an envelope of pizza dough filled with mozzarella and seasoned ricotta oozing out of its container. You have the option to add fillings, as you do with the pizza. Our first time, we went with a straight-up, plain cheese calzone. This time, we added shallots and bell peppers — maybe a weird call, but it was amazing. The smell alone could knock you out.

I’ve never been all that inclined by super cheesy dishes, but I could never go without this calzone. It tastes like the best childhood treat you could think of, brought up about 14 levels. Each cheesy bite is supported by a crust, moments away from collapsing once you’ve spooned red sauce on top. It’s heaven. Really.

LB: I used to look forward to middle-school calzone days in a big way. It was always circled on the calendar. Calzone carries a “heavy” reputation, and this thing is no exception — it’s packed with cheese. It’s the right amount of cheese — a remarkably well-made, nicely-ratioed calzone — but still a lot of cheese. Lucali’s usage of fresh ricotta as the primary filling does lighten the load and keeps the pocket from puddling in grease.

Just like the pie, the calzone doesn’t need any additions, but the bell pepper layered in there did something for me…

If that thing landed on the table without the sauce, though, it wouldn’t hit nearly as hard. I’ll stand by it. It’s a necessary complement to cut through the richness of the creamy, cheesy creation.

Here’s the truth about Lucali:

It’s fucking good.

LB: Lucali is one of the most worthy institutions to visit in New York. It’s easy for things to get blown out of proportion — and for the difficulty of getting a table somewhere to cloud judgment on whether it’s actually any good.

But Lucali rocks. There are no tricks — nothing to hide behind on the three-item menu. A restaurant doesn’t stay this busy for this long without serving something special. It’s a concept that’s built to last forever, and I hope it does.

OW: Despite the drama about the line, the incessant press coverage, and its now global expansion to affluent hotspots (hello St. Barth), Lucali is, at its core, a perfect neighborhood restaurant. They’ve kept it simple — so simple in fact, it could almost be a bit. It’s not, though, they’re a well-oiled machine feeding Brooklyn with perfect pies, whether you’re with three generations of your family, or friends on a pizza crawl. They don’t care who you are — so long as you follow their rules, and enjoy yourself.

This was a restaurant write-up from Mr. Flood’s Party (and right on Franklin). Subscribe for free and get Flood’s delivered every week. If you feel inclined, consider becoming a paid subscriber and supporting the creative process.

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How To Get Your Spark Back

“What restaurants are you excited about right now?”

For the first time in a long time, someone asked me this routine New York City dining question — and I didn’t have an answer.

With a minute to check my map, I could name a few: Bartolo’s pintxos situation is intriguing, and people I trust have been hyping it up. I’m pumped for Il Leone to get rolling in Park Slope. I still need to try the other half of the menu at Bong. But even with those in the queue, the well feels drier than usual.

And apparently, I’m not the only one feeling this way.

Lately, I’ve been hearing the same story from friends, reading similar sentiments in group chats and newsletters. People are calling it a restaurant rut. New openings aren’t hitting like they used to. With prices rising, portions shrinking, and weeks of anticipation often ending in deflating, uninspired experiences, the opportunity cost of a mediocre meal feels higher than ever. All this to say: dining fatigue is real.

What’s interesting is that we now have more exposure to restaurants than ever. Every opening gets blitzed with coverage (although most of it seems to be regurgitated excerpts from press packages). Vertical videos showcase every dish on the menu before spots even open. There’s an endless churn of best-of lists, travel guides, and hyper-specific rankings. In theory, all this should make it easier to pick a place for dinner. In practice, it’s actually harder to make good dining decisions.

Similar to how LinkedIn-stalking the person you’re about to go on a date with ruins any excitement you might have felt (she went to Bucknell, ugh), being able to wrap your head around a restaurant before you ever step inside kills the thrill of discovery. The quiet allure, the charm of the unknown, are all but gone. We know too much about each other, and we know too much about our restaurants.

What’s becoming more essential — especially as the noise grows louder — is discernment. Thoughtful takes, sharp opinions, and perspectives grounded in experience. Good taste feels like a more valuable commodity than ever. Having trusted voices in your circle — more personal and particular than the Eaters and Infatuations — is the most important asset you can have when trying to eat well in this city. It’s one of the biggest reasons I’m on Substack — people here care deeply, and they take taste seriously. I rely on so many writers and sources to help me cut through the noise and surface spots that are actually worth it. , , , and , have all recently steered me toward great meals I might not have found otherwise. Just to name a few.

Of course, all of the above is a bit dramatic. It’s easy to pick apart the scene — the hype cycles, the algorithm-chasing, the $34 pastas. But even in a rut, New York still has the best dining scene in the country by a wide margin. When the new spots aren’t hitting, there are still countless tried and true dining experiences that amaze me.

So if your excitement about new restaurants is currently running low, just know you’re not alone. I put together a protocol that’s worked wonders for me — a handful of tangible moves I’ve made over the past few weeks that helped me get my spark back. Places and patterns that reminded me why I love this city, and the deep dining scene it offers.

How To Get Your Spark Back

Take a field trip

• Pick an unfamiliar neighborhood, rally some friends, and make an afternoon of it. Ride the R train down to Bay Ridge and have a lamb-forward lunch at Yemenat. Head to Astoria for buttery, grilled scallops at Abuqir and warm, syrupy knafeh at Al-Sham. Choose somewhere slightly inconvenient — outside your usual orbit — and enjoy the journey.

Visit a single-item restaurant

• Sometimes, it’s the decision-making that wears you down. Not everyone can be as good at ordering as and . Go eat somewhere where there’s no choice to make. Paolina only has one thing on the menu — a stellar falafel sandwich, packed with fresh, crunchy veg and best doused in smoky hot sauce. At Kisa, all you need to choose is your main dish (get the stir-fried squid) — the full Baek Ban spread does the rest.

  

Dine solo, notice the details

• A solo meal is the easiest way to get me back in a restaurant groove. When I’m on my own, I tend to notice even more details than usual. Last week, I cozied into the corner of Cafe Kestrel’s five-seat bar, admiring the mismatched frames of the artwork, watching the technique of the server stirring my Negroni, and eavesdropping on the date-night chatter of the couples to my left and right. Details are what make restaurants so special, and dining solo gives you the space to focus on them.

  

Book a big table and assemble a crew

• I’m talking a grand feast at Eyval — a 6-top where you’ll order one of everything (and double up on the eggplant kashk bademjan). A Friday night mixed grill situation at Kiki’s. A backyard table at St. Anselm — hanger steaks all-around, pan-fried mashed potatoes, and bottles of chilled red.

Attend a dinner party

• And talk to some strangers! I love meeting new people who are passionate (and opinionated) about food. At Studio Bumi, you’ll eat vibrant Indonesian dishes in a room full of curious, welcoming people. Club Crumbs is the most refreshing night you’ll have in NYC — a carefully curated and considered dinner party in ’s incredibly tasteful West Village apartment.

  

Eat a lunch combo

• Usually, my in-office lunch move is an uninspiring yet functional Naya bowl. But last week, I took a proper lunch break and carved my way through Midtown to Cho Dang Gol. As I settled in, I was delighted to find a $20 lunch combo: banchan (with refills!), kimchi stew, spicy chicken, and a hefty bowl of steaming rice. I ate so much. And still left with a carryout container packed to the brim, stained red by gochujang. For a brief moment in time, I felt like the smartest man in Midtown.

  

Chill out on the bakeries

• There’s a new one opening every damn week. You don’t need to go. You’re gonna stand in a gnarly line… for another cinnamon roll. It’s quick-hitting dopamine. A sugar rush. Fleeting and hollow. Just relax.

Go somewhere you know you love

• It’s easy for time to slide away in New York. I’ll look up and realize I haven’t been to ‘ol reliable in over a year. For me, that’s Misi — perfect pastas and vegetables, tight service, a light-flooded room. A place that’s never let me down, and always feels well worth it.

Dive headfirst into a bowl of noodle soup

• Self-explanatory. I always feel nourished and inspired after eating noodle soup. It can be any kind. Raku’s spicy tan tan is a long-standing favorite. Don Udon is a recent hit I’ve been loving. Di An Di still has the best pho in town. Even a humble, straightforward bowl of beef noodle soup from Super Taste will light you up.

  

Stop trying to order the most popular items

• You should still get a restaurant’s signature dish if it’s your first time, but stop using aggregators to build your entire order. Read the menu, think about what sounds good to you, and ask your server for recs if you really need help. If I see one more person glancing back and forth between the menu and Beli to crowdsource the order, I’m gonna lose it.

Take a sandwich to the park

• Walk into Court Street Grocers, stare at the colorful menu of sandwich options until something speaks to your soul. Order it. Receive your blue and white checkered-wrapped beauty and head to the park. Crushing a turkey sandwich on a seeded hero roll in the great outdoors makes me feel like I’m on cloud nine.

  

Make a list of the spots you’d miss if you left NYC

• Whether you’re gonna be a NYC-lifer or not, slow it down and think about it. What would you crave if you lived on the opposite coast or overseas? For me, it’s Cervo’s, Le French Diner, Kafana, Hart’s — the spots that make New York feel like New York. It’s easy to take them for granted when they’re down the street. But you’ve gotta make the most of them while you’re here.

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11's: Brooklyn Wine-ish Bars to Spend 100-ish Dollars At

For a while now, I’ve been fixated on the category commonly referred to as “wine bars.” What started as a designation for, well, wine-focused bars — places to drop by for a bottle and a few snacks — has become a catchall for restaurants that defy easy categorization.

That’s what we’re talking about today: the difficult-to-articulate restaurants that have somehow landed in the wine bar category, despite being at least as much about food as wine. Small in stature, chef-driven, seasonal cooking, wine-forward, bistro-esque. Not necessarily French, but definitely a little Euro.

I have a tumultuous relationship with this class of restaurants. When they’re good, they can offer some of the city’s most memorable dining experiences — places that captivate you with thoughtful cooking and whisk you away with warm hospitality. When they’re bad, they can feel like fleece jobs — overpriced food, dainty portions, and half-assed service.

These days, $100 per person seems to be the baseline for dinner in New York. This, of course, is not true at my beloved Yemen Cafe, where you’ll be fed like royalty for a much smaller sum. But at wine bars — especially those where you’re seeking a buzzing ambiance, a drink (maybe two), and a proper meal — it’s going to reliably run you a Benjamin.

It’s not a small amount of money. And I’m not someone who brushes off a shitty, unfulfilling experience easily (see: Most Disappointing Meals of 2024). I want that money to be well-spent. I want the meal to feel worth it.

I’m always looking for thoughtful restaurants where the food, service, and ambiance come together with cohesion — where there’s a clear vision and something unique about the offering. I want service that’s polished, flashes of hospitality that make me feel taken care of, and a touch of spontaneity to pair with reliability. When it all comes together, $100-ish feels like a fair value.

And so I got analytical with it. I ranked 11 of these “wine-ish bars” across 8 categories: Ambiance, Service, Small Plates, Large Plates, Beverages, Desserts, Value, and Repeatability. I promise I won’t bore you with math, but each category has a corresponding weight, resulting in a formula of 50% food + beverage, 50% everything else.

My goal was to see — using my personal values — which of these spots is the most “worth it.” It cuts through any bias of liking a restaurant for how it fits my aesthetic, and gets down to the core of what the restaurant is actually offering.

Below are the results, from worst to first. Highly subjective, but ultimately, a pretty honest answer to the question: Where should I spend 100-ish dollars at a wine-ish bar in Brooklyn?

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11's: Brooklyn Wine-ish Bars to Spend 100-ish Dollars At

11] Popina Columbia Street Waterfront District, Brooklyn

• What it does well: Popina is approachable — reservations are easily had, and walk-ins are always doable (there’s a reason for this). It’s chilled out, easy-going, and there’s a happy hour with solid value.

• Where it struggles: Besides the hot chicken milanese, the food is largely forgettable. Their menu is pasta-centric, yet all the pastas fell flat — undercooked noodles, broken sauces. The room is generic and vibeless. The service is a means to an end. It was an uninspired meal in almost every way.

• Why you should go here: I probably wouldn’t send you here.

  

10] Margot Fort Greene, Brooklyn

• What it does well: The bright, breezy room that sits behind a royal blue facade on Lafayette Avenue always catches my eye. I’ve never had a bad dish here.

• Where it struggles: I haven’t had any truly great dishes. Margot feels safe — it’s missing a sense of identity and a clear vision, which comes through in the food and energy. It feels like a restaurant that could be anywhere in the U.S. There’s a pervasive standoffishness — from the hosts, servers, and their overall digital presence — that strikes me the wrong way.

• Why you should go here: If they’re hosting an interesting pop-up dinner, it’s a great room to eat someone else’s food.

  

09] Bar Bête Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn

• What it does well: Bar Bête serves some of the best small plates in all the land. The chicken liver parfait with pistachio and Italian plum jam is luxurious and wonderful. The tuna toast is zesty, spicy, and stellar. It’s also one of the more fairly priced places on this list.

• Where it struggles: Twice now, I’ve been shockingly let down by the larger plates — rubbery duck with a flimsy skin; overcooked wagyu; fried skate wing that was almost entirely breading. I’ve never experienced such hot starts to a meal, only to be let down in the back half. Bete’s iconic yellow cake with dark chocolate frosting and sea salt has many die-hard fans, but I found that thing dry as hell.

• Why you should go here: For a glass of wine (or two), and whatever small plates speak to you. Bar Bête feels neighborhood bistro-y, and more like the true-to-form wine bar in a way that allows for a snacky dinner that won’t get side-eye from a server.

  

08] Ops Bushwick, Brooklyn

• What it does well: Ops has been serving consistently great pizza in a brick-clad, woody, comfortable room in Bushwick for nearly a decade. The wine is always a treat, and their quirky, aperitivo-forward cocktails hit the spot. Ops remains one of the more slept-on pizza restaurants in the city.

• Where it struggles: I don’t have any major complaints about Ops. The small plates are super simple — things like butter beans, charcuterie, and a pile of radicchio dressed in oil and vinegar. Not bad, but not noteworthy. Their desserts aren’t anything special, either.

• Why you should go here: To get a night in Bushwick rolling with crisp sourdough pies and fizzy fernet & sodas in a room that could warm the coldest of souls.

  

07] Ingas Bar Brooklyn Heights, Brooklyn

• What it does well: One of my favorite rooms in all of New York — Ingas is a candle-lit oasis on a quiet corner of Brooklyn Heights. It’s sophisticated, but far from stuffy. Ingas carries a tight, easy-to-navigate menu — the focal point being a bang-up burger & fries, which is always why it comes to mind for me. And why it’s so repeatable.

• Where it struggles: Besides the burger, the food is thoughtful and well-executed, but never mindblowing. I always walk out spending a little more than I would have thought or hoped, which I suppose is a function of doing business in Brooklyn Heights. I’ve watched as the burger price has crept dollar by dollar from $20 to $25 over the past year.

• Why you should go here: To eat a burger, fries, and gem salad in their humming bar room, taking in the infectious buzz of the patrons, and the basslines.

  

06] Fradei Fort Greene, Brooklyn

• What it does well: Fradei might be the most charming restaurant in New York, with just 15 seats in its rustic, intimate, ever-so-slightly subterranean dining room. The hospitality is warm as can be — the owner, Clement, touches every table and masterfully controls the room. When Fradei’s food hits, it really hits. Few places execute crudos, carpaccios, and salads this well.

• Where it struggles: The tight menu changes often, and it’s not a place where I’ve found myself loving everything, every time. A taleggio and beef cheek stuffed caramelle was one of the best pasta dishes of my life, immediately followed by a smoky, acidic pork collar that was completely out of balance. There’s not much value to be found here — one of the more expensive spots on this list, dinner here edges closer to $150/pp.

• Why you should go here: To celebrate something special with a touch of intimacy. It’s a place to go when you want to be looked after and cooked for. It’s also a great place to take your parents to show them something very New York, which is to say a mind-bendingly small restaurant.

  

05] Sailor Fort Greene, Brooklyn

• What it does well: I’ve gone on and on about all the reasons I’m a fan of Sailor. It’s the most well-designed restaurant in the entire city. The larger plates — like golden roast chicken, buttery sea bass, and tender bavette steak — are all masterfully done. Sailor adds layers of approachability with its $9 glass of house wine, as well as by leaving half the seats every night for walk-ins.

• Where it struggles: At times, I’ve experienced a cold, almost bitter level of hospitality here. Service is curt, direct, and even inconsistent for the level of sophistication the restaurant aspires to have. Pacing from the kitchen can be completely out of whack, with painfully long gaps between courses.

• Why you should go here: To eat at the best restaurant in Fort Greene, bar none. For a swanky brunch centered around a silly-delicious French toast and a legendary April Bloomfield lamb burger. To crush a half chicken and fries at the sturdy wooden bar on a rainy Wednesday night.

  

04] Four Horsemen Williamsburg, Brooklyn

• What it does well: The ambiance at Four Horsemen is unlike anywhere else in the city. It’s a timeless design — engineered to look and sound great from every angle. The food is objectively very good across the board, but I always find myself most impressed by the smaller plates — crunchy salads, delicate crudos, and tender vegetables.

• Where it struggles: Getting a table here, unless you know people, is quite the challenge. Hard to knock a place for it, but it does hamper repeatability. I’ve had brutal service experiences here — met with absolutely no warmth, and treated like an afterthought. Friends with industry ties often describe their royal treatment, which only adds to this frustration. There are times when the dining room feels full of Euro tourists checking their Michelin boxes off; you might need to step over enormous Miu Miu bags to get to your seat. It’s expensive, sometimes comically so.

• Why you should go here: To eat at the most special feeling restaurant on this list. It’s impossible not to feel great in that room. The floor for a meal at Four Horsemen is super high — I’ve never met someone who straight-up didn’t like it here. If you want a guaranteed hit, this is a great choice.

  

03] Cafe Kestrel Red Hook, Brooklyn

• What it does well: Whimsical and wonderful, Kestrel feels like a vortex to an alternate universe. The food is always great — rustic yet precise, comforting, and interesting. The charm of the petite dining room, whether you’re seated on top of your neighbors at the 5-seat bar or cozied into a corner 2-top, is magical. The service is sharp, witty, and never breaks character.

• Where it struggles: I don’t think it does. Kestrel is about as well-rounded as a restaurant gets. There’s no possible combination of dishes that’ll leave you disappointed. It’s pricey, especially for a place so off the beaten path, but I’ve always left feeling like I got my money’s worth.

• Why you should go here: To go somewhere excellent that your friends probably haven’t been to. For a solo dinner at the bar, especially if you’re in the mood for a roast chicken in a date, caper, lemon sauce (with a side of creamy, peppery mac and cheese).

  

02] Hart’s Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn

• What it does well: Hart’s is exactly how you’d draw up a perfect neighborhood restaurant. Beyond the slate-blue facade is an oddly shaped, but remarkably cozy and endearing, 30-seat dining room, where all thirty of those people are having a great time. It’s a place that’s been around for 9 years, but feels truly timeless. The ever-changing, hyper-seasonal menu composed of simple yet brilliant dishes never disappoints. It’s one of the rare cases where dessert is absolutely necessary.

• Where it struggles: There are occasionally dishes that rely too heavily on olive oils and aiolis to carry the flavor. It’s one of the least formal dining experiences on the list — chatty staff that’ll get lost in conversation with tables, so not the best if you want an upscale service experience. The wine list is great, but tight (this isn’t a knock for me, but I’m sure it is for some).

• Why you should go here: For any reason at all. For no reason at all. Especially for events, special menus (latke night!), and changing of the seasons ( turned me onto this methodology).

  

01] Place des Fêtes Clinton Hill, Brooklyn

• What it does well: Very few restaurants have a service methodology as good as Place des Fêtes. It’s a warm, inviting, and unpretentious place that always leaves me in a better mood than I entered. I’ve never been poured a glass of wine or been made a cocktail that I didn’t enjoy. The food is always excellent, especially the simple pastas, and perfect preparations of meat and fish. It’s a dialed operation, but with enough casualness that makes it a fun place to eat. With modest planning, it’s an easy place to get a table.

• Where it struggles: Portions can be shockingly small — some dishes are even too dainty to split. There are a few price traps on the menu, often the specials that’ll feature a sneaky luxurious ingredient. Wine is expensive, with only a few bottles coming in under $100.

• Why you should go here: For something special. Birthdays, anniversaries, promotions. Although it’s casual, PdF still feels celebratory and elevated, mostly because the service is so attentive and kind.

  

Up Next

A Manhattan edition of this list… Drop a comment with a restaurant that fits in this category that you’d like to see in the mix. Demo? King? Ha’s??

Thanks for being here, thanks for reading. If you feel inclined, you can support my creative process by upgrading to a paid Flood’s subscription. You’ll also gain access to Flood’s Worldwide — all my favorite places from around the world in a concise list and Google Map.

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This Is Flood’s

Flood’s is humming lately — plenty of new subscribers, readers, and friends in the mix. If you’ve recently found your way here, welcome in. If you’ve been here for a while, thanks so much for hanging around. I recognize there’s some Flood’s terminology that might be confusing at first. Maybe you don’t even remember subscribing and have no clue what’s going on. We’re gonna fix that today.

I put together this resource — an orientation, or re-orientation — to help you get up to speed and get the most out of your Flood’s subscription.

I’m admittedly not the biggest fan of Spotify’s “This Is …” playlists. It’s an assortment of tunes from a single artist, generally the top thirty or so most popular songs based on a mysterious algorithm. It has terrible flow when listened to in order. And it’s somehow even worse when shuffled.

But they do serve a purpose. It’s a solid intro to an unfamiliar artist. Offering more depth than the five songs listed on an artist’s homepage. That’s the role this piece is here to play — an introduction to who I am, what this is, and the vibe we’re operating with.

Anyway. This is Flood’s.

What is Flood’s?

Mr. Flood’s Party is a creative platform by me, Lorenzo Bongiovanni. Flood’s started as an Instagram account in early 2023, expanded to this newsletter last summer, and also functions as a creative consulting studio in tandem.

Flood’s is where I channel my constant stream of thoughts about dining, hospitality, travel, and music into something tangible: crisp photography and thoughtful writing about my favorite places and spaces. Flood’s is an expression of how I see and think about the world.

Flood’s stands for quality over quantity; substance over flash. It’s a platform that delivers value by guiding you toward perfect hangs, and shifting the way you think about food, culture, and space.

What’s up with the name?

The name comes from an old bar in Ann Arbor, MI, called Mr. Flood’s Party. My Grandpa Larry briefly owned Flood’s in the early '80s. It was a hippie hangout on West Liberty Street, with cheap drinks and live music seven nights a week. I attended the University of Michigan about 30 years post-Floods — so the name ties a bunch of threads of my life together.

For more on this, check out Welcome to Flood’s.

Who is Flood’s for?

Flood’s is certainly for those who appreciate a great dining experience. For people who want to make the most of their travels. And for those who love a perfect scene. This could mean different things to different people! For me, that’s a well-made cortado at a sunny café, or a crisp light beer on an outdoor patio.

But I really believe this is a platform for everyone. Flood’s is about food, travel, photography, and music — things we can all find joy and beauty in. My writing is voicey and personal; my photos are meant to evoke a mood. Together, I hope they make for an enjoyable read, even if not directly relevant to your interests or where you’re located.

And it shows: Flood’s has subscribers across 40 U.S. States and 50 countries. A lot of readers are based in New York, but the reach is boundless. I’m incredibly proud of this.

What does subscribing get me?

Subscribers get regular Flood’s posts delivered to their inbox and the Substack app. A lot of love goes into each one.

Every new post is free to read. Subscriptions help the publication continue to grow.

What about a paid subscription?

First and foremost, by upgrading to a paid subscription, you’re supporting my creative process and my deep collection of freely accessible writing and photography. I’m incredibly grateful for every paid sub and treat each one as a major encouragement to continue writing, posting, and sharing my work with the world.

Paid subscribers also get access to Flood’s Worldwide — an evolving list of my favorite places around the globe. Flood’s Worldwide is the most valuable resource I offer — no reading between the lines, just all the hits in one place.

There’s even more in the works for paid subscribers — benefits will always be incremental to the weekly newsletter.

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Where to start

A great entry point is The 2025 Flood’s Awards — it’s full of highlights, great meals, special memories, and my favorite photos from last year. In Rotation: NYC, Fall 2025 features the places and spaces I’m visiting the most in New York City — another nice piece to get you started.

Following along on Instagram is also a great move. I post tons of stories, quick hits, and photos a little closer to real-time. All the mid-to-longer form writing lives here, on Substack.

Flood’s formats

• Restaurant Write-Ups are the most popular pieces I write. I try to capture how a place makes me feel, going deep into the details of ambiance to create vivid recollections. My personal favorites write-ups include Le French Diner and Bernie’s in New York, and Choza in Mexico City.

• On Draft is my “newsletter.” Easy to parse, the format highlights a few places that have been Recently Added to The Flood’s Worldwide Map, with great photos to support the story.

• Away Game features live dispatches from unfamiliar places. Notes, stories, and reflections on the thrill of discovery around the world.

• Culture includes lists, like 11’s: Places to Take a Friend You’re Trying to Convince to Move to NYC, and essays, like The Art of the Pub.

My goals

Flood’s has always had two main intentions: personal growth and delivering value.

Flood’s exists to:

• Continue sharpening my writing and photography skills.

• Build a network of restaurateurs, creatives, and cool people who care about food.

• Shift the way readers think about restaurants and the world around them — less box-checking, more intention.

• Guide readers toward great hangs and memorable meals (and help dodge bad ones).

• Inspire and be inspired.

About the author

I’m — a photographer, writer, and creative consultant based in New York City. I work as a finance professional by day, and created Mr. Flood’s Party as a creative outlet and side hustle.

I’ve lived in New York since 2021, after three years in Chicago. No matter where I’m based, I love to travel and stay on the move.

I have recently been featured in FOUND NY, amuse-bouche, and the latest edition of Off-Menu Magazine, available here.

If you’d like to get in touch, welcometofloods@gmail.com, or reach out via Instagram.

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