It's Been 46 Days Since My Last Restaurant Reservation
And it hasn't stopped me from dining well
It’s been 46 days since my last restaurant reservation. I told my friends I was writing this piece, and they questioned the validity of that statement. It’s not a technicality. It’s real, it’s true. And it’s not because I’ve been traveling, exclusively cooking at home, or taking on some new-age eating mantras.
As a Resy super-user, this is unequivocally out-of-character behavior. I’m known as the person who always has a res up his sleeve. The one pitching a late lunch at Chez Ma Tante every couple of weeks, or checking whether anyone’s up for a Misi hit on the 25th. But for the past month and a half, my account has been completely idle.
It started as a self-imposed challenge, but mostly, I was following my intuition. Every fiber of my being wants to exist in a lighthearted, free-spirited way — especially right now, in peak New York City spring. I want to keep my plans as open as possible. Take life day by day. Hop on a Citi Bike and ride to wherever sounds good. I want to do exactly what I want, when I want. New York is at its best when you leave room for spontaneity — when you depart home with a loose plan and get carried away by the day. So I’ve been leaving as much room as possible.
Reservations don’t inherently upend that kind of living. But for me, they had started to feel like looming commitments. One day, I opened Resy and saw 26 upcoming reservations on my slate, with no real intention of using any of them. The beauty of a reservation is that it gives you something to look forward to — something to anticipate. But these were nothing to me besides dates and times on a screen. Tables I was holding, simply because I could. I could feel the stockpile subtly stifling my spontaneity and creativity.
A lot can happen in 46 days. Time often feels like it’s flying — but then I reflect on periods like this, and I change my tune. It’s not that major life events have been unfolding — just lots of small things adding up to feel like a lot.
I’ve seen so many friends. I’ve taken photos (for Bar Susanne, which is opening this week in Williamsburg). I went dancing (at a hazy club with carpeted floors). And then dancing again (under a canopy in Gowanus). I bought a tuxedo. I went through a breakup. Acquired a fiddle leaf fig (it’s dying). I went on a stroll with saloon and won a gift card to a kimono shop.
And despite not reserving a single table, I ate remarkably well.
There’s a fallacy that eating at the best restaurants in New York requires a reservation and weeks — or even months — of planning. That the places booked solid must inherently be better than the ones that aren’t. But the past 46 days have challenged that idea completely. It’s been a stretch with one restaurant hit after another, both new and tried-and-true. Perhaps the best month and a half of dining I’ve had in years — without a single reservation. Here’s what went down.
I met Tom for beers at Hartley’s, and afterward, we strutted over to The Fly to smash a roast chicken, Caesar salad, and fries. It was packed and buzzing at 10:00 pm, but two glistening bar seats were somehow waiting for us. The Fly’s half chicken is $19, as god and nature intended.
Tess is a seasoned Via Carota patron and was genuinely appalled that I had never been. As soon as I took my first bite of an olive oil-soaked artichoke dipped in aioli, I was sold. The pea and prosciutto salad was revelatory. Jody and Rita walk the room with exactly the confidence and grace you’d expect of veteran owners. Afterward, we slid into a pair of bar seats at Dean’s for a pint — as good a room as people are saying, and a G that would land itself on this list.
I went to Bánh Anh Em with Aaron, and we ordered with a gusto unbeknownst to mankind. I hate parsing restaurant menus on my phone, but at Bánh Anh Em, it bothers me less because their photos bring unfamiliar dishes to life. No matter what you order, the food will be excellent, and fun to eat — but the bánh cuốn Hà Nội is unmissable, in my opinion.
A week later, I met Jon at Cho Dang Gol after work, and yet again, I rattled off a few too many dishes to the server. Any day is improved by sitting in that humble, bustling K-town dining room eating banchan. And few things bring me as much joy as carting home a gochujang-stained carryout container.
On a rainy Friday night with no plans, I walked to Sailor with a burger and fries on my mind. It was a cold, gray, melancholy evening, and a seat in the dimly lit, wood-paneled barroom was exactly what I needed. The thick lamb burger — with a slab of feta and a wheel of red onion — is deeply satisfying, and should absolutely be on your burger radar.
My parents came to town for a very last-minute, very short stint. But we made it count. After a lunch run to Radio Bakery, we landed at Sukh for dinner. A papaya salad was included in the initial order, but required a reload midway through the meal because one wasn’t enough. The next day, we went to La Rina — usually quite dependable, but a mushy pasta let-down this time around.
Forma, however, has never let me down. Not once. The pipette ragù remains the perfect pasta at the perfect price. The pappardelle bolognese gets ordered once in a while and holds its own. I am always enamored by the hunk of rosemary focaccia that lands alongside the ripping-hot pasta.
After finishing a photo gig in Williamsburg, I called Hannah to excitedly tell her how it had gone. She happened to be on her way to The Snail with Emma and extended the invite. I walked north on Driggs and through McCarren Park, and slid right into a chocolate brown leather booth. The Snail opened to pandemonium, but has since settled into a lovely neighborhood hang. Chips with Jamón is a dish too good to fail; The Snail’s version somehow excels further. Their smashburger is the item that draws the most praise — and while not revolutionary, it really hits a certain griddly, double-cheesy spot.
The other day I got off the train at Astor Place and within 10 minutes I had my name down at both Soothr and Stars. I wasn’t sure how wait times would shake out, but 20 minutes later, I was eating khao soi and what I am certain is the best beef pad see ew in town. Stars texted me about a table while I was mid-bite of duck panag curry — I’ll be back for a glass of wine another time.
I took the G to the 7 to Jackson Heights and met Miles at Angel. They’ve moved up the road to a bigger space, losing only a small amount of charm along the way. The meal wasn’t quite as transcendent as the post-LGA hit, but the butter chicken was even better than my jet-lagged self remembered. Still, a table full of curries early on an early Sunday evening is never a bad move.
I ate a Chrissy’s pie at the Citi Bike station directly outside the shop. Fresh hot pizza, barely a minute out of the oven. More to come on this.
Writing off reservations entirely is obviously a bit extreme. I don’t intend on keeping this streak alive forever. But this recalibration has done wonders for me. It’s pushed me to actually think about what cuisine, what kind of night, what energy sounds good right now — not three weeks out.
Like everything, the right balance lies somewhere between. Making reservations you’re genuinely excited about. Circling them on the calendar. Texting your friends the morning of: “My body, mind, and soul are ready for Eyval.” Planning ahead with a few great tables when friends or family come to town. Booking a table for a fourth date, when you absolutely need to have a time and place set in stone.
But otherwise, let the city unfold. Experience it day by day and don’t take the endless possibilities for granted. Walk out your door and trust that no matter where you end up — with a bit of direction, and a little blind confidence, it’ll be somewhere good. That you’ll find a smiling host who’ll squeeze you in.
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spontaneity 4ever
and you won the raffle!!