Two Pints and a Cream Top
It's a combination that'll really get you thinking
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.
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 right on Franklin 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.
Gotta try the Guinness at connollys in rockaway beach!!
The tension between worth it and worth the hype is such a sharp way to frame dining out. A place can nail everthing food-wise and still leave you wondering if dropping that much makes sense when you could literally fly to Paris for less. That bit about strategic tweaks instead of dramatic New Year overhauls really landed because most people burn out trying to reinvent their whole life instead of just doing more of what already works. Also the cream top at Maru being worth navigating that chaos says a lot, because usually when a place gets that packed it's impossible to enjoy anything.