This Is Not the Life I Ordered - Why Is It So Hard to Find a Good Meal in the Restaurant Capital of the World?

 Why is it so hard to find a good meal in the restaurant capital of the world? 

I’m not a foodie. I don’t read Pete Wells’s column in the NYT, or whomever it is who is telling New Yorkers where to eat these days. I don’t care for truffles with my fries, or with my anything, frankly. I think kale is spinach without flavor. It’s that brilliant student who gets straight A’s but can’t carry a conversation about anything. I don’t want a cheese I’ve never heard of in my omelet. I don’t want eggs so undercooked because the chef doesn’t want to ‘denature’ them in an omelet that I can’t tell where the eggs end and the cheese begins. I don’t know why the detritus of the fusion era has turned Manhattan’s restaurants into places where just ordering a piece of red snapper requires diners to Google the ingredients to see if there’s anything that will kill celiacs, tree nut allergics, or pescatarians who don’t distinguish between chicken broth and human blood. I don’t want my food to be vertical, but spread across the plate like separate continents after the breakup of Pangea. And I don’t want to pay for a mini-meal that will have me clamoring for a slice of $1 pizza two hours later because that’s all I can afford after another unsatisfying six forkfulls plus 20% tip that didn’t do its job: filling up my stomach and stimulating my palate.

I just want something good to eat. And I want to be full. 

In most of Manhattan below 110th Street and now at least half of Brooklyn, that’s hard. 

You see, I’m a Midwestern guy who loves almost everything about New York City. It’s not just ethnically diverse, but members of these diverse ethnic groups actually mingle together socially and professionally. The people dress better here. They look better. They’re smarter. They work out, they work hard, and they are here because this is one of the few places in the world where one’s personality and special abilities can be seamlessly integrated into something called a  career. Or, at the very least, you can live here for a long time hoping that will happen one day without feeling like a dreamer. But one thing I don’t like about the city, particularly the parts I know, is the food. I miss hearty, largely portioned, affordable, simple food. And in an era of rock star chefs, boutique boites, hedge fund fare, and supermodel appetites, it’s sometimes really hard for a guy to find something to eat!

The other day I had a craving for a good meal that wouldn’t clog my arteries but not leave me hungry. Of course, I could have gone to Queens or Inwood, but I wasn’t up for destination dining. I wanted something reasonably in the center of things. Oh, and I didn’t want to cook it myself. I crossed off Mexican and soul food too because, even though I live in Harlem and that always hits the spot, I don’t want my blood pressure hitting the roof. And sushi can be fishy -- as much as I love it, it’s that lover that leaves you wanting more, and we didn’t want that that day. Plus, it’s getting cold out. I wanted something hot and savory and filling.

I decided to go for French. A good boeuf bourguignon sounded like the answer. I found myself at a spot I know well on the Upper West Side, a reliably chic, modestly priced, and reasonably authentically French boite in a neighborhood that has one of the highest vaccination rates in the city, the latest item on my list of picky, persnickety points of particularity on my going out to dinner checklist. For some Americans, boeuf bourguignon sounds like a mouthful for what it actually is: beef stew with mashed potatoes. The beef should be tender, the sauce voluptuously French, the carrots and pearl onions a texture compliment to the milky luxuriance of the centerpiece garlic mashed potatoes. And for $28 at the spot I chose, it won’t break the bank, but it sure as heck better taste better than what I can throw into a crockpot.

It didn’t. The beef was overcooked, a blasphemy of French cuisine. The sauce could have come in a McCormick’s packet. The once charmingly international crowd of pretty people and gruff, seasoned New Yorkers reading Le Monde or The New Yorker over snails and moule frites seemed replaced by people I could watch at the Chili’s off Northwestern Highway in Farmington, Michigan. Where was the New York I fell in love with in 2021? And why couldn’t I find something good to eat?

I ended up apologizing but sending it back and ordering the duck confit instead. It tasted just like the fried chicken I was trying to avoid by not ordering soul food takeout uptown. But I ate it because I was starving and because, let’s face it, these are First World problems. Sometimes you just need to eat to live -- and I have a good life. Something to eat is always something good to eat. Or, rather, to paraphrase John Lennon, whatever gets you through the meal.