By Marco Shalma

Every week I walk this city like it’s my personal tasting room. I eat what real New Yorkers eat. I slip into family kitchens, neighborhood counters, and the kind of spots you only find by listening to the soundtrack of a working stove. Some plates warm you. Some plates hurt you. And some places… well, they remind you that New York is a place where hype can rob you blind. My job is simple: taste it all, filter it, and hand you the truth so you know where to spend and where to save your patience.

Let’s start with the good stuff. When I need comfort—real comfort—I go to Dona Maty in East Harlem. This is a family-run spot, extra authentic, zero pretense. You walk in, and you know instantly you’re in the hands of people who cook from the gut, not from a branding deck. I always grab a bag of the Japanese peanuts and a pineapple Jarritos before my order hits the counter. Trust me, it completes the experience. Their chorizo-papa quesadilla? The chorizo is homemade, the potatoes are soft without being mush, and the tortilla has that perfect griddled snap. The kind of flavor that sits you down for a second and says, “Relax, you’re home.” Do yourself a favor: try both salsas. Don’t pick a side. They work together.

Then I had a different kind of hit, one that wasn’t a plate but still fed the soul. I took my daughter to Kitchen Arts & Letters to get her a copy of Kitchen Confidential. If you’ve never been, it’s one of the last true culinary bookstores left in this city. A place that still believes in knowledge, obsession, and curiosity. Watching a kid pick up Bourdain for the first time feels like handing over a map you wish you had at her age. This store is a New York institution, whether you cook or not.

I also walked into Posh Pop Bakery fully expecting disappointment because I’m not vegan and I don’t pretend to be. But the cookie I had? Shockingly good. Dense, warm, satisfying. None of that weird chalky “be kind to your body” aftertaste. They’re carrying the vegan dessert movement on their back.

Now, the part that annoyed me. I love Buba Burekas, I really do. But let me explain something. A bureka is a flaky, savory pastry made from layers of filo dough, filled with things like cheese, potato, spinach—you know, comfort food. Not a science project. The one I had this week came stuffed with kimchi. Kimchi. I don’t need fusion therapy in my breakfast pastry. It was too crispy, too experimental, too expensive. A bureka should hold you, not challenge your identity.

And finally, Bryant Park during the holidays. Let me start by saying I love vendors. I support small businesses more than anyone in this city. But the economics behind this market are a disaster. The city and the parks department charge these vendors enormous fees to be there. Those vendors are forced to raise prices to survive. And then we, the public, get hit with $25 sandwiches and $55 snacks in tiny portions. Add in shoulder-to-shoulder crowds and an atmosphere that feels like Times Square went to private school, and I’m out. You can enjoy it without me.

That’s the week. A beautiful quesadilla, a meaningful bookstore moment, a vegan cookie miracle, a bureka identity crisis, and a holiday market I’m proudly skipping.

I eat this city, so you don’t waste your time, money, or appetite. I’ll see you in them streets.