Somewhere between Naïve and Jaded

Since moving to New York in 2002, I’ve adored dining at all types of restaurants.  From that great tacqueria near Columbia University to a surprise birthday dinner at Sushi Yasuda, I’d like to think that I’ve enjoyed a varied and diverse sampling of restaurants.  Moreover, what makes this an exciting city for chowing down is that it’s constantly in flux.  When I first arrived, I was wide-eyed—an ingenue.  I was dazzled by every opulent design choice and each dish plated with superfluous garnish.  I zealously followed chefs and restaurateurs.  I crushed on kitchen staff and got flustered when I’d spot chefs at the greenmarket.  And then something changed.

At some point, I started to sense patterns and pick up on formulas that many restaurants and restaurateurs and restaurants “groups” were using.  Suddenly, it seemed like I’d seen everything before.  AvroKo designed, Petraske cocktails, pork belly, local, sustainable, mâche and really, really thick hot chocolate… it all kinda blended.  I was officially jaded.  I excitedly moved to Brooklyn from my SoHo loft—my restaurant malaise extending to a general weariness of all of Manhattan.

I took a break from the new, hot places—skipping over Bar Milano, Irving Mill, Del Posto, A Voce, and surely a slew of others whose name and chef and signature dish I purposely did not commit to memory.  I started frequenting the family-run restaurants around my apartment: La Locanda, Barosa, Fanny, and Piazzetta, where either the service is always too slow, the lighting is awful, or the decor is dreadful.  What they lacked in ambiance, they made up in serious soul or seriously good food like daily, homemade pasta.  The owners are there every night and kids from the neighborhood wait the tables.

And then, again, something weird happened—one of those oft written about restaurants opened in my hood, across the street from one of the oldies but goodies.  And this new place serves the same thing the old place serves.  The difference is that this new place, Motorino, has received a ton of press due to an “accomplished” chef and a well-renovated space.  For a while, I refused to go, insisting on my old place across the way for pizza—served by Italians, not a Belgian.  But after a few months I caved—I wanted to see what all the fuss was about.  I just did.  I felt left out and started to miss the pomp and production of the silly formula restaurants.

The pizza at Motorino was really good, too.  I’ve been back more than a half dozen times.  And I realized that, yes, the whole foodie fuss might be ridiculous—pizza wars! who invented foam?! the best chocolate chip cookie!—but so what?  The point is, that in New York, there really is a place for all of it.  And it’s all pretty fun in its own silly way.  You can chose to participate as much or as little as you want, and within that participation, you can decide just how nit-picky you want to be.  So in the New Year, I am trying to find a new voice—a voice that’s neither constant ebullience nor forever uninspired, but somewhere in between.  I want to enjoy dining out, and if that means sometimes just playing into the restaurateur’s gimmicks, so be it. Heck, I remember my 18th birthday at Tao being ammmmmmmazing!