Minetta Tavern
I regret almost everything, except spending $38 on a burger
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 omelets. “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.