By Marco Shalma.
Every week, I walk through New York like a man doing field research on the city’s soul. The restaurants change. The neighborhoods shift. The hype cycles spin like malfunctioning slot machines. But the mission stays the same. I eat so you know where to spend your money and where to roll your eyes. This week gave me comfort, precision, nostalgia, heat exhaustion, and a deep dive into the past that reminded me why this city still matters.
Let’s start with something glorious. Oda House in the East Village. If khachapuri were a religion, this would be its pilgrimage site. The adjaruli arrives looking like it’s about to walk off the table. Molten cheese bubbling with confidence, yolk shimmering like a promise, bread warm enough to justify every carb-based decision you’ve ever made. Old-world comfort meets New York appetite. It isn’t subtle. It isn’t trying to impress you. It’s here to heal you.
Then there’s Bar Goto on the Lower East Side, a rare cocktail bar that remembers what a cocktail bar is supposed to be. No vapor clouds. No cocktails served in bathtubs. No edible flowers doing unnecessary overtime. Instead you get clean Japanese technique and flavors that stand up straight. Every drink feels intentional. Focused. Grown. The miso wings land at the table like a threat. If more bars acted like this, Manhattan’s nightlife wouldn’t feel like an escape room.
Now let’s talk Queens royalty. Arepa Lady in Jackson Heights, a place built on legacy, grit, and a level of cheese-to-arepa ratio that should be studied in universities. You take your first bite and suddenly your shoulders drop. That soft, buttery masa, the stretch of melted cheese, the sweetness that sneaks in at the end. This isn’t fast food. This is a cultural inheritance. Family-made. Story-driven. Zero gimmicks. Queens doesn’t miss.
And then we arrive at Superiority Burger in the East Village, because love is complicated. The food is fantastic. The burger is a flavor bomb. The sides come out with personality. But the space… the space feels like someone dared them to fit a restaurant into a shoebox. You don’t dine here. You survive it. I’m sweating before the plate hits the table. I respect them deeply, but I’m also begging them to discover ventilation.
Finally, the non-eating pick: the New York Public Library’s culinary archives. I fell down a rabbit hole of menus from restaurants long dead, maps from food eras the city barely remembers, and stories of chefs who shaped this place long before we learned to say “food scene.” This is New York at its purest. A city built by hands, hunger, immigration, rebellion, and ambition. You don’t just learn history here. You taste it.
That’s the week. A Georgian masterpiece. A disciplined cocktail bar. Queens royalty. A culinary sauna. And a reminder from NYPL that New York has always been a chaotic, delicious miracle.
See you in them streets.
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