By Marco Shalma

You don’t understand Dominican New York until you’ve walked through Washington Heights at breakfast. Steam rising from vented lids. Plantains frying somewhere behind a narrow counter. Radios humming bachata like the whole block is waking up together. Dominican food didn’t ease its way into this city. It arrived proud, loud, and absolutely certain it belonged here. And the city — for once — didn’t argue.

Mangu carried that first wave. When Dominican migrants began arriving in large numbers in the 1960s and 70s, many landing in Upper Manhattan, they brought the morning ritual with them: boiled green plantains mashed with a little water, a little oil, and enough determination to start the day. It’s a dish rooted in survival and stamina, introduced during the island’s long history of plantain cultivation and shaped by the African diaspora. In New York, mangu worked overtime. Nurses finishing night shifts. Taxi drivers clocking in. Kids trying to get through school. A plate with los tres golpes — salami, queso frito, and eggs — kept families steady. And if you know, you know.

Then came the chimi, the late-night king. A Dominican street burger that showed up in New York with the same swagger it had in Santo Domingo: cabbage slaw, seasoned beef or pork, secret sauces that nobody measures the same way twice. In the Heights, the Bronx, Corona, and Inwood, the chimi trucks kept entire blocks lit after midnight. They weren’t selling fast food. They were selling a slice of home that tasted right even when the night didn’t.

Sancocho is the dish that tells the real story. Seven-meat versions back on the island. Shorter, tighter variations in New York kitchens where space was tight and money even tighter. What stayed was the meaning: community stew, big-pot energy, a recipe built for families who needed warmth and togetherness. You’d see pots on the stove in apartments where five different accents blended in the hallway. New York turned sancocho into a weekend promise.

And the pastelito — that perfect pocket of seasoned meat, cheese, or guava tucked inside crisp dough — became the Dominican hustle in pastry form. Quick, cheap, celebratory. You’d see them stacked on bakery counters from Dyckman to Fordham, fueling people on their way to jobs, classes, or whoever needed a small lift in the middle of the day.

You want to taste the city’s Dominican backbone today? Hit Malecon for mangu that reminds you why the dish made it this far. Visit La Casa del Mofongo for chimis that bring real uptown energy. And stop at Empanadas Monumental for pastelitos done with the confidence of cooks who know their work stands on a century of tradition.

Now you know: Dominican New York didn’t borrow space. It carved its own block and fed the city until the city tasted a little more like them.

Like this? Explore more from: