Maybe I am getting more mature as I mature, but 20 years ago I would not have told you all the names of my favorite restaurants. No offense, but after you went there you would have told people about it. And, just like the shampoo ads from the 80s — they told two friends and they told two friends and so on and so and so on (Flex? Wella? Something involving a wheat field…) — more people would go there and then we would have to wait for a table and everyone would know about it.
In New York, the game was finding some space, getting a table, avoiding the crowds. Here, I am all about the El Cazador taco truck. I weigh the risk of its corruption by the masses against my fear that it might fail and cease to exist, so I tell people about it and hope that they will do the same and then we will all have beautiful, bouncy hair, no wait, I mean better lunches.
So far I have taken two colleagues out tacoing. In a place with rampant chains, an LCD of bland and sweet and so much less scrabbling over resources you can be more generous with the recommendations.
UK readers, read this blog and seek these places out. Go to the Regency on Page Street and have a fried egg sandwich with fried onions while you still can.
See the place in the picture above? It’s pretty fab, decor-wise. The food is nothing special, standard diner fare. It’s somewhere in the 40s, in the back of an amazing hotel lobby with WPA murals, so it’s a good place to know about if you have the triple misfortune to be in Midtown in the middle of a torrential rainstorm with only an hour for lunch. But, alas, the thing about being more mature is that while I’d like to tell you about it, I can’t remember its name.