As a New Yorker, I am entitled to a cynicism about this city that you, I'm afraid, are not. It’s like a bitey pet that you love but don’t like, yet have an obligation to defend.
With that disclaimer out of the way, here is a candid account of my go-to spots whenever I visit. Most of them I love for whatever is wrong with them, and I will be upfront about it as I go. That, despite how it sounds, is what makes New York so wonderful.
My last visit was so endearing that this place makes the cut almost for one interaction alone. A deaf man sat down next to me, and the waitress pulled up a chair with a pen and paper and patiently went through the entire menu with him. After he left, all that remained on the table was a Post-it note reading "The soup today is sweet corn", and beneath it, in another hand, "Yes please". I was there for coffee, so cannot speak for the soup, but in this characterful, wood-panelled sanctuary, time is allowed to slow.
Smithereens is a reminder that in New York, securing a table is a sport. Notifications are on, waiters are flirted with, and names are tried at the door on the off chance that a "John Smith" is dining tonight. Here, the effort is worth it, for creative, clean seafood and very, very strong cocktails. The white negroni looks innocent. I can confirm it is not. Sit at the bar to watch the chefs work their magic, and if you manage to work yours, extra tasters may come your way.
A real institution, and a place that makes Midtown less inhospitable. Keens was founded in 1885, and to complement the gravitas of white tablecloths and polished silver, the ceiling is covered entirely in clay pipes, one of them Theodore Roosevelt's. Patrons once left their fragile pipes at the restaurant rather than risk breaking them on the journey home, and the Pipe Club's membership grew to more than 90,000. The steaks do not disappoint, but the prices might, so close your eyes and let every bite make it worth it.
A fair trek on the subway from Midtown, but you will be met by a genuinely immersive dose of Italy. To this day, white-aproned shopkeepers lean out of their doorways, shouting in Italian to others in identical positions. The charming part of the neighbourhood runs to three streets or so, stuffed with delis, cafés, restaurants, barbers and clashing classical music drifting from open windows. A fresh mozzarella and cannoli crawl from deli to deli is likely to earn you the respect of the locals, and seal your fate of needing to return.
New York is known for few large parks, so this garden is a welcome relative of its Central cousin. One that is far quieter, more deliberate, and with an incredible array of plants. It is a short walk from Arthur Avenue, so pair it with your Italian experience above.
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Fish Market Financial District · Bar and restaurant
A dive bar to dive into head first, if you can find the door. Fish Market sits in a dead corner of FiDi, with no door handle and a flaking sign that tells you exactly what to expect inside: a bar with screens, stools and an owner who follows a "one for you, one for me" policy. And Mama in the back, cooking unbelievable seafood and Asian dishes.
A beautiful little wine bar on the corner of a leafy street, with a cluster of tables outside to add to the charm. I love it for feeling like a slice of Europe, but go at an off-hour: Friday night, for example, will be a failed mission. The West Village has become devastatingly trendy, but catch it without the crowds and you will see why.
I must confess a vested interest in this one, though it is entirely earned. A childhood friend and her partner opened this temple to matcha last year, with their own volcanic-rock water-filtration system and spotlit workstations that bring ceremony back to the tradition. The space itself is a moment of pause: they worked with a studio in France to hand-pick every piece of furniture and every finish. It is somewhere you want to live, not just visit, so go as many times as your stay allows.
I am aware I might lose some people with this one, but if you would like to visit a room filled with 140 tons of unsterilised dirt, this is for you. Walter De Maria's installation has been quietly surprising visitors since 1977. The smell of the soil brings a strange sense of calm, like a barren garden hidden in the bustle of SoHo. You will leave feeling lighter, though it is hard to explain why.
With the West Village now so intimidatingly fashionable, I have begun a joyous love affair with the East. It is less self-conscious, less expensive and arguably more rewarding if you like to eat. Carnitas Ramirez is a must for non-vegetarians: a tiny restaurant whose window wall opens onto the street in summer, serving tacos with no part of the animal wasted.
For self-proclaimed pickle connoisseurs like me, this is the spot. I find a proper New York pickle impossible to come by outside the USA, so this shop draws a sigh of relief on every visit: the art is still receiving due attention.
Do not let the name deceive you. This vintage furniture shop is filled with gems at all prices, and the stock changes constantly. It is a less enjoyable experience if you have limited luggage space, as you will reliably find something that "has to come home with you".
My favourite spot on a warm evening. The garden out back is built around an old tree, with a raised deck and floor cushions to nestle into over a bottle of wine. It is as friendly for a solo visit with a book as for a long catch-up with a friend.
A place to put your headphones in, your game face on, and carve out several hours for thrifting. A huge warehouse filled with pieces of every style at great prices. I pulled a Thom Browne shirt from here for $15, originally hundreds, and it still earns a place in my weekly rotation years later.
