Tag: writing

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I Can’t Afford It, But I Still Love It: Eating in NYC

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.

Collage of New York City restaurants featured in the article

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.

Levain

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.

Katz’s Delicatessen

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.

Shake Shack

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.

Serendipity 3

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.

Jollibee

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.)

Economy Candy

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

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.

Donut Shoppe (Shaikh’s Place)

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.

Rice to Riches

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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Analog Freedom

Or, Why I’ll Never Go Fully Digital (No Matter How Many Apps I Download)

There was a big roll-top desk in our apartment when I was a child. The kind with hidden compartments. It was grandiose and weighed a ton. My mother kept it stocked like a general store for the written word: stacks of notepaper, fountain pens, rubber stamps, fat highlighters, and a roll of postage stamps nestled in one of those round brass dispensers — back when stamps had to be licked. We didn’t have embossers or wax seals, but we had everything else. That desk was a chapel of potential.

Photo by Ylanite Koppens via Pexels

Decades later, I am still devout, still loyal to paper and pen. I’ve spent years in sleek, paperless offices that worship at the altar of efficiency, and yet I’ve always had a notepad next to my keyboard — college-ruled, cluttered with ink and marginalia.

I don’t just write — I equip. My desk is a quiet armory of ink: Uni-ball, Zebra, Paper Mate, Pilot, Pentel, Sharpie. I know their weights and temperaments the way a violinist knows bows. A Schneider Slider glides when I need a ballpoint. A Uni-ball Vision Elite rollerball pen is for when I need to scribble something down quickly. The Pilot G-2 in 1.0? That one’s telling bold truths. Pen choice is never random. Paper is never just paper. These tools — humble, beautiful, cheap — have gotten me out of bad jobs, bad relationships, and bad moods. A single scrap of paper and a decent pen can map a plan, draft an escape, or start a story. I may live in a digital world, but my soul still scribbles. This is a love letter — not just to stationery, but to the physical act of committing thought to page.

I journal in composition notebooks covered in stickers; I’ve used college-ruled paper since the third grade — and I’m never going back. I carry pastel notepads for work, spiral-bound notebooks for world-building and travel plans, folders stuffed with scribbled scraps. My handwriting is sharp and fast, which means I smudge a lot — but that just means the thoughts were moving faster than the ink could dry. Pens are chosen with care: rollerball for journaling, ballpoint for signatures, Pilot G-2s in assorted colors for nearly everything else.

I’ve never trusted the cloud the way I trust a notebook. I print out research. I highlight in pink and yellow. The right rollerball makes the thoughts flood the page; the wrong pen makes me feel like I’ve never had a thought in my life.

This is a love letter to all these tools. Not because I reject technology — I use it, rely on it, even admire it. But it will never replace the feeling of dragging pink highlighter across a printed article, or peeling a cute sticky tab from a Daiso pack to flag a sentence that made me feel something. Pen and paper are cheap, portable, analog freedom. They ask for nothing but attention. And in a world obsessed with optimization, they remind me that slow, smudgy, handwritten thought is still worth honoring.

Pen and paper don’t require a password. They don’t crash. They don’t auto-correct my thoughts. They let me be slow and smudgy and nonlinear. And in that space — somewhere between the click of a Sharpie S-Gel and the curl of a sticky tab — I find something I don’t find anywhere else: my actual voice.

They ask for nothing but attention.
And sometimes, that’s everything.

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The World of the Rich and Reckless: Beverly Hills, 90210 Through the Eyes of a Seven-Year-Old

NOSTALGIA: a wistful or excessively sentimental yearning for return to or of some past period or irrecoverable condition
– Merriam-Webster

Millennials are often accused of being obsessed with childhood nostalgia. But for me, childhood isn’t something to long for—it’s something I survived. Growing up in a far-flung Brooklyn housing project in the early 1990s, I qualified for reduced-cost lunch at school, and my family relied on food stamps and WIC checks. As white residents in a majority-minority neighborhood, we were outsiders in more ways than one, and I stuck out like a sore thumb among my black classmates. To outsiders, the Brooklyn of the era was a scary place, the setting of countless rap songs and crime movies. Both my parents worked constantly, and they frankly had neither the time nor the will to supervise me, in stark contrast to many of my peers who recall growing up with “helicopter parents.” I was a solitary child who spent most of her time reading or watching television.

Home Sweet Hovel

My family didn’t have cable, so the only children’s programming available to me were PBS Kids and Saturday morning cartoons. By the time I was seven, I was still watching childhood favorites such as Sesame Street and Mister Rogers’ Neighborhood, but my palate had already expanded to include shows designed exclusively for adult consumption—gritty dramas like NYPD Blue and, of course, Beverly Hills, 90210.

Early in life, I was drawn to characters with an edge: first, Oscar the Grouch, then Married… with Children’s Peggy Bundy. To me, there was no hard line between children’s programming and “all that other stuff.” If it was on TV, I watched it. By the time I was five, that meant stumbling upon Beverly Hills, 90210, first catching up on the high school years during daytime syndication. It didn’t take long for me to become a hardcore fan, and I devoured the show with a hunger normally reserved for Barbie dolls or a Sherlock Holmes mystery (I read those stories at that age as well).

Sesame Street‘s Oscar the Grouch
Peggy Bundy, as played by Katey Sagal

90210 was undeniably my first favorite television program, but I kept my obsession with it largely a secret. No one on the playground talked about Brandon and Kelly’s on-again, off-again drama, and I knew better than to bring it up. The show was too mature, too sexual, too “grown-up”— far too inappropriate for my peers, whose parents were apparently more discerning than mine. I knew even back then that my media diet wasn’t normal, that the glossy, drama-filled exploits of Brandon, Dylan, Kelly, Donna, and the others weren’t designed for a kid in single digits living in a Brooklyn housing project. But that didn’t stop me from absorbing it.

Beverly Hills, 90210‘s season one cast

The neon-drenched opening credits and impossibly good-looking cast hypnotized me, providing a window into a life beyond my comprehension. These people had mansions, cars, and closets full of outfits that changed every episode. Their lifestyle was foreign to me and their problems—breakups, betrayals, and implausibly complex social hierarchies—were a world away from mine, but I watched them with the same intensity as if I were studying for a spelling test. I wanted so badly to be a “California girl.”

At my early age, I didn’t fully grasp what was happening on screen, but I understood that Beverly Hills, 90210 was about things that were supposed to be important to adults: romance, sex, rebellion, social status. I kept track of every breakup, every betrayal. I knew Dylan McKay was the kind of bad boy older girls fell for—he was my favorite character by far, less so because he was brooding and more because, even then, I could tell Luke Perry was the best actor on the show. The relationships on the show were dramatic, full of teary breakups and passionate makeups—concepts I had no real-world context for, but I filed them away for later, assuming that’s what being a young adult was supposed to look like.

The sex, in particular, went over my head. Even at seven, I could tell sex was everywhere—woven into the dialogue, in the kisses that lingered too long, in the way the camera panned away just before something “bad” happened. I didn’t fully understand what Donna was holding out on or why David was so impatient, but I knew it mattered. I remember sensing the weight of when Brenda lost her virginity to Dylan, even if I couldn’t put it into words. It was the kind of thing that made adults mad and made kids feel like they were learning a secret they weren’t supposed to know.

90210’s season seven cast
Luke Perry and Shannen Doherty on the cover of TV Guide: July 11, 1992. May they both rest in peace.

Looking back, I can’t precisely pinpoint how Beverly Hills, 90210 shaped me, only that it must have. Maybe it planted the first seeds of class consciousness, or maybe it just confirmed what I already knew: that some lives were easier, more privileged, sun-drenched, and dripping in excess. I envied those lives, but the real hook wasn’t the money—it was the longing, the search for belonging. Maybe that’s why I devoured every episode. In its own strange way, 90210 wasn’t just an escape—it was also a window into a world I couldn’t completely understand, but that I aspired to be a part of.

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On the (Job) Hunt

If you work for a living, why do you kill yourself working?
– The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly (Sergio Leone, 1966)

Image generated by AI

Job hunting. It seems like an endless, merciless search for gainful employment. This question posed in Leone’s masterful film feels particularly relevant in today’s job market, where people work longer and harder for less, without even the promise of security or satisfaction. In 2025, the search for a job seems especially brutal. Well-meaning advice from older generations is unfortunately meaningless. The days of walking into an establishment or office and asking for an application are long gone. Welcome to the days of fighting for a job that won’t even pay the bills.

Truthfully, I know few people these days who have what might be called a conventional job. One friend is teaching without a certification at a desperate school in flyover country. Another is walking dogs. We’re all well into our thirties, all with substantial professional experience. As for me, I am currently with multiple staffing agencies but am without employment. It’s frankly a terrifying spot to be in, but I can take comfort that I’m not alone. One swipe on TikTok and I see plenty of fellow millennials struggling to make ends meet.

It’s been over a decade now since I graduated college, and I have yet to use my Cinema Studies degree. I’ve spent the last several years of my life working in the Financial Services industry out of necessity. I have the misfortune of living in the world’s metropolis, New York City, where the cost of living is sky-high. If you ask me, the worst part of being poor in NYC is not having the money to leave.

This past fall, I resigned from my most recent Finance position for personal reasons. I’ve been temping since, and even that comes with its own laundry list of guidelines and expectations. I had temped quite a bit in the previous decade, but the experience differed significantly. These days, competency tests, several interviews, and an extensive reference check are often required even for temporary roles of two to three months. It can be overwhelming, and I can’t imagine how much worse it must be for Gen Z.

Job searching is a balancing act, particularly for people with creative backgrounds and/or aspirations. I am a writer, but I’ve been doing administrative work for years to pay the bills. While this may seem like a normal thing to do, companies these days are seeking out people who really have passion for the work. It’s not enough to be a plain old Administrative Assistant; if you want to land the job, you need to sell yourself as a “career EA,” someone who lives and breathes for providing clerical support.

Personally, I’ve lost myself to overwhelm many times over the past few months. As I sit in the same boat as many others, I’ve started to see a larger trend: more and more, job hunters are not just competing for positions – they’re being asked to reinvent themselves to meet increasingly arbitrary standards. I’ve asked myself whether my lack of passion for Executive Assistant work has worked against me, and I think the answer is, sadly, yes. Because it’s not enough to work hard or have the right experience, and anyone who’s in a similar position will tell you as much. Selling yourself is an art form, and only those who fully commit can succeed in this cutthroat job market.

The expectations get higher and higher, while salaries continue to stagnate, and sometimes slump. It’s not enough to do a great job, you have to be a “rockstar.” It’s not enough to work nine to five, you have to be “flexible.” And now, with return to office mandates increasing, those who want or need remote work are left in the dust. In a world where job descriptions encompass more and more for lower pay, I’m left wondering – when do we get to just be ourselves? Where is there time for rest, recreation, and pursuits outside of what we do for a paycheck? I don’t know. For now, I keep hunting. When the world demands so much of us, what else can we do?

 

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Sneak Preview: “A Night at the Automat”

For many months now, I've been struggling with what to do with this website. I've spent the past ten months working a (no longer new) regular Executive Assistant job while plodding through this novel I've been trying to get written.

What's that, a novel I'm writing? Yes indeed, I've been working on my debut novel, which I'd like to somehow complete within the next three months. I could go on about my writing process, but instead of making a pitch right now, I'm just going to share an excerpt that I'll call A Night at the Automat:
Image generated by AI

I’m constantly hungry but I never enjoy eating. By the time my weekly binge rolls around I’m starved and I stuff myself as soon as I get home. Tonight, Friday night, is no exception.

Amidst the neon-lit labyrinth of Midtown, lies a sanctuary of indulgence, both clandestine and conspicuous: today’s reinvented Automat. Not too far removed from the Horn & Hardarts of the previous century, this place encompasses the modernity and spotlessness, but also the seediness, of those archaic culinary establishments that shuttered long before I was even born. With its bright, eye-catching signage and sleek, minimalist façade, it is an aesthetic oasis amid the concrete shitpile. Inside, rows of gleaming, glass-fronted compartments stand sentinel, each harboring tantalizing treasures veiled in mystery and abject craving.

The Automat is a place I come back to time and time again. On Friday evenings I go to this location in Turtle Bay. It’s on the opposite side of the island from my office, and far enough from anyone I know that I’m comfortable enough to go in. Once I finally make it to 1st Avenue, I like to look out onto the East River and stretch my legs as I pass the United Nations building.

I spend the bulk of each week navigating the sterile corridors of corporate servitude, my hungers suppressed, my desires buttoned up tight. But come nightfall, when the city’s pulse hits a different rhythm and inhibition unravels, I surrender to the siren call of excess. As I hurriedly walk eastward from the office, I pull out a dark grey Uni Qlo hoodie from my handbag and put it on as I walk. As I get closer to my destination, I pull the hood up over my head.

Friday nights have become my bacchanalian pilgrimage, a ritualistic descent into oblivion which commences with a feast. I descend upon the Automat with a feverish hunger, my senses heightened by frenzied anticipation. My resolve begins to crumble like the multiple single servings of tres leches cake I will soon be indulging in.

The items on offer this evening sing to me from their gleaming glass cells, culminating in a symphony of temptation, each morsel a sin waiting to be savored. At long last, I succumb to the allure of comfort and familiarity, looking through the windows at the teensy trays laden with decadent delights: crispy fried chicken tenders, gooey macaroni and cheese, and black slices of chocolate cake beckoning with promises of euphoria.

If I were truly honest, I’d be able to own the fact that it is not merely the act of unbidden consumption that seduces me; it is that the act is one of rebellion that really gets me hot and hungry and oh so bothered. Each bite drowns out the cacophony of self-doubt and guilt, replacing it with a fleeting ecstasy, a momentary reprieve from the suffocating weight of my pathetic existence. In these moments I choose to defy the constraints of societal norms, of decorum, of my personal demons.

Beverages, too, play their part in this hedonistic symphony. I wash down my indulgences with the effervescent kiss of full-calorie cola, the sharp bite of caffeine-laced elixir fueling my nocturnal escapes. Each sip is a balm to my aching soul, a fleeting respite from the relentless march of time. I fill up a 30-ounce cup and then push the tray with my items toward the self-checkout. In addition to the gratis water and condiments, a major perk of the Automat is the self-checkout terminals. I can be here and not interact with a single other person. It feels… safe.

I pay and discreetly place my items into two gallon-sized Ziploc bags that I close and tuck into my purse. The anticipation has gripped me tightly now; hungry, thirsty, sleep-deprived and worn, I call an Uber and head home to stuff myself silly. I feel a tingle in my toes as I ride to my building in a well-maintained royal blue Honda.

Tonight’s menu is comprised of two mac & cheese krokets, one cheeseburger slider, one chicken pot pie, one roast pork bun, two pizza dumplings, one cup of glazed donut holes, and two slices of the tres leches cake. Plus, my Coca-Cola, the supreme beverage of bingers everywhere. I can barely contain my glee as I rush into my apartment like the fool I am.

And so, I feast and falter and fill myself to bursting, trapped in the vicious cycle of deprivation and excess, loathing and longing, never climbing down from the precipice of restraint and release. In the shadows of the city that never sleeps, I am both predator and prey, seeking salvation in the embrace of consumption, only to find myself lost in the labyrinth of my own desires… Every. Single. Time.