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“In mercurial New York, tradition, dominant elsewhere and at other times, has always been slippery.” —Luc Sante, from the foreword to Low Life This means everything changes all the time here. And that some of it veers toward nostalgia, Sante says, usually borne of the remembered childhood of whoever has any degree of wealth and power at the time. What this means to you is that at some point some asshole who grew up listening to Pete Wentz is going to have the means to open a clothing store, perfumery, or restaurant. And younger people, visiting from Chagrin Falls, Ohio, or Grand Forks, Nebraska, or Colorado Springs, Colorado, may find wonder or an odd comfort in it. Wait. There’s already a Pete Wentz-owned bar in New York. As well as a Justin Timberlake restaurant. And a Gavin DeGraw bar, too. If you’re coming to New York, avoid those places. Also, skip anything you can find somewhere else. Tradition, after all, dictates change. And if you miss out on something great now, it may never be around again. Like the Schlitz Inn in the Bronx—a seedy Bavarian hut that produced delicious schnitzel-fried grub—or Pearl Palace in lower Manhattan, whose only modest goal was to make Pakistani cabbies recall their childhood meals fondly. Museums, clubs, landmarks, “fash-ion,” —those are all fine. But New York is the perfect place to eat other people’s nostalgia. Especially when that nostalgia involves a chef who misses some tiny place thousands of miles away and all he can do is replicate a simulacrum of his happiness and longing through the food he cooks. This thought has probably been expressed in a few hundred different books. But never in, as far as we know, a guide. So before we just jizz out a list of places where you must eat, here’s a quick FAQ about NYC: WHERE SHOULD I PARK? Shut up and fuck off. If you drive here, it is going to end problematically for you. We’re not trying to sound tough. Driving here 95 percent of the time really causes that much (unnecessary) anger and emotion, which will probably make you lose your appetite. WHAT ABOUT BRUNCH, I DON’T SEE IT LISTED ANYWHERE IN THIS GUIDE? Brunch is for cowards. Call the meal breakfast or lunch. White people expe-riencing the pain of being hungover is depressing to witness. LITTLE ITALY HAS SOME KILLER RESTAURANTS, RIGHT? No, it doesn’t. Even the area’s last decent bar, Mare Chiaro (aka Tony’s Nut House), was co-opted by shitbags.
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