The places I return to — physically, spiritually, and otherwise.
New York City is changing, faster than ever, it seems. But these are a few of the places I return to — sometimes physically, sometimes just in memory. Some are holdouts. Some are chains. Some are ridiculous. All of them are real to me. A combination of old and new in a city that’s constantly shifting identities.
Nathan’s Famous (Coney Island)
I’ve been going to Nathan’s for as long as I can remember. My paternal grandmother lived in Coney Island, and a visit always held the promise of a stop at the flagship location on Surf Avenue. As far as I’m concerned, the Fourth of July isn’t complete without the Nathan’s Hot Dog Eating Contest broadcast — and yes, I’ve watched every year, even when I’ve lived abroad. I even met Joey Chestnut once — at a Kroger in Cincinnati, of all places. (He was lovely. Very polite. Iron stomach.)
Are the hot dogs overpriced? Absolutely. But they’re also delicious. I stopped eating pork hot dogs decades ago — too pale, too rubbery, too weird — so the fact that Nathan’s uses all-beef kosher-style dogs (are they technically kosher? unclear) has always worked in my favor. The crinkle-cut fries are elite. The cheese fries? Divine. This place is a relic, a tourist trap, a national institution masquerading as a corner stand — and I love it. Get the lemonade.
Chocolate Chip Walnut. Oatmeal Raisin. And my favorite — the perennial Black and White Chocolate Chip. Decadent. Delectable. Delightful. No shade to Dominique Ansel, but I’ve never cared for the gooey treacliness of cronuts or the greasy pats of salted butter masquerading as cookies. Levain gets it right: hefty, crisp at the edges, chewy without being molten.
Ansel’s Double Chocolate Pecan is quite good, and I’ll give credit where it’s due. But if you want a cookie fit for a queen? Go no further. Levain is the indulgence I crave when I want something truly celebratory — and now, sadly, one I can’t quite afford. I’m weirdly fine with that. Some cookies should be reserved for special occasions.
Yes, it’s touristy now. Sure, the ticket system makes me a little anxious every time. But Katz’s is still Katz’s. The question of pastrami or corned beef remains evergreen. Some people pretend there’s a right answer. There isn’t. It matters less which option you choose than how you prepare it: get it in its original fatty state, falling apart on rye with grainy mustard — it may be painfully overpriced for many nowadays, but it remains one of the most satisfying things you can eat in this city.
You don’t need the “I’ll have what she’s having” table to feel something here. Just the fluorescent hum, the clatter of trays, the guy at the counter who slices you a sample without being asked. Katz’s has personality, and a sense of humor: the last time I was there, someone had hung a framed photo of Al Goldstein eating pastrami next to the ladies’ room. I nearly choked laughing. Whoever did that? God bless.
Katz’s is one of the few places in Manhattan that still feels like it operates on its own rules. Not faster, not fancier — just there, pulsing with a very specific kind of New York energy. A sandwich, a Dr. Brown’s, fries or maybe a knish if you’re feeling bold. It’s chaos, salt, and permanence.
I know what it represents: a sanitized burger chain posing as nostalgia, the poster child for gentrification served in a paper boat tray. Jeremiah Moss would spit on my crinkle fries. And yet — I’ve been there, more than once. Midtown. Astor Place. Flatbush Avenue in Brooklyn. Discreetly shoving my Shake Shack bag into a zippered reusable tote for the commute home.
I recently discovered the Shack Stack: a quarter-pound of 100% Angus beef with American cheese, topped with a crispy-fried portobello crown, lettuce, tomato, and ShackSauce on a toasted potato bun. Hands down, one of the best burgers I’ve ever had. I can’t deny it. Sometimes, you’re too tired to resist the tide. And a $9 burger tastes like a massage feels.
I love Serendipity 3 in large part because of the Warhol connection. It’s sugary, campy, a little over the top — exactly the kind of place that made sense in Andy’s orbit. Legend has it he adored the Frrrozen Hot Chocolate and the lemon icebox cake. My favorites? The “Summer Bries” sandwich, once available only at the original East 60th Street location but now relegated to the Times Square spin-off: sliced turkey, melted Brie, sliced apples, alfalfa sprouts, raisin pumpernickel, and Thousand Island dressing. It shouldn’t work. It absolutely does. Perfect for the wandering palate — mine included.
The frozen drinks are as absurd as they are wonderful. The Frrrozen Hot Chocolate is the classic, but I’ll take the Frrrozen Hot Strawberry White Chocolate any day. Serendipity is like a dreamscape of unique desserts and elevated American fare. I can’t afford it right now, but I’ve made peace with that. Some places, like Serendipity, should exist just outside your daily reality. They’re not for errands. They’re for occasions. They make you feel like you’ve stepped sideways into a pastel-colored dream fueled by sugar and style.
I first learned about Jollibee from the late, great Anthony Bourdain — which feels both extremely Filipino and extremely New York: a white guy with impeccable taste blessing the masses with a new brand of fried chicken and rice. In 2016, I made the pilgrimage to Woodside, Queens, home of the city’s first Jollibee.
That mascot alone — bee, bowtie, irrepressible joy — was enough to earn my loyalty. But the real magic? Chickenjoy fried chicken, sweet Jolly Spaghetti, and the crisp, golden Peach Mango Pie. I still don’t understand why they took halo-halo off the menu. I mourn it like I mourn the McDonald’s chicken fajita. (Yes, I’m dating myself. I don’t care.)
There are candy stores, and then there’s Economy Candy. No minimalist displays. No artisanal branding. Just bins, buckets, and chaos. It’s what childhood felt like — if childhood came with 2,000 kinds of sugar and walls nearly collapsing under the weight of nostalgia.
Licorice laces. Chocolate coins. Pez dispensers. Turkish taffy. Sour belts. International treats like Canadian Coffee Crisp, Japanese Kit Kats, and Milka bars (oh man, the Milka bars). The smell alone is half-sweet, half-industrial, and it sticks with you for hours. I’ve walked in with $5 and walked out with a sensory overload and at least one item I forgot I loved. Every time I’m in there, I rediscover Chuckles. It’s tied to a private joke, but I feel compelled to buy a pack anyway.
It’s cluttered. It’s dusty. It’s everything a candy store should be. A place where joy is crammed onto every surface and no one is too old for sugar. Long live this storied institution.
Taim: bright, clean, unexpectedly satisfying. I discovered this place in 2014 through a coworker and walked out converted. The falafel — crisp, herbaceous, soft inside — is some of the best I’ve had outside the Middle East. The cauliflower shawarma pita has the power to uplift. But my personal recommendation: The Sabich Pita. It’s not quite Sabich Frishman in Tel Aviv, but it’s the best I’ve had in the U.S. And get the fries, with any of the delicious sauces.
What I love about Taim is how quietly confident it is. No trend-chasing. No overwrought packaging. Just good food made well and served fast. It’s healthy without being smug, casual without being forgettable.
In a city that sometimes confuses excess with quality, Taim is a reminder that simple can still slap.
Tucked under the Q train on Avenue U in Brooklyn, the Donut Shoppe — also known as Shaikh’s Place — is a relic of old New York charm. Its unassuming exterior hides the warmth inside, where the scent of freshly fried dough greets you at the door. The glazed donuts — crisp on the outside, pillowy on the inside — have a cult following, and the cheap coffee is a comforting constant in a city that never stops inflating its prices.
Cash only. The sandwiches and tacos are pretty good too. Open 24 hours, it’s the kind of spot where night owls and early risers cross paths over paper Anthora cups and quiet conversation about Yankees vs. Mets. Back in 1999, I was commuting from Bergen Beach and caught my bus right across the street. The Donut Shoppe was there then, and it’s still there now. Some places don’t need a rebrand.
There’s no reason this place should work. Maybe that’s the real reason people have accused it of being a front for a criminal enterprise. It’s a sleek, aggressively branded temple to rice pudding — a dessert that sounds like something you’d be served at some sad hospital or institution. And yet, Rice to Riches is irresistible. Futuristic fonts. Wall-to-wall snark. A menu that reads like someone dared them to make rice pudding sexy.
Coconut Coma. Sex, Drugs, and Rocky Road. Oreo “Gasm.” You get the idea. The pudding itself? Shockingly good. Thick, creamy, borderline obscene in its richness. Dessert as performance art. There’s something deliciously unserious about walking into a place that treats rice pudding like haute couture for the stomach. Sometimes indulgence needs to be ridiculous.
I don’t know how much longer I’ll be here. But I know these places helped shape my life in this city — and when I think of “home,” these are some of the flavors I’ll remember.
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