I love New York (that should totally be a slogan) and recently attended a conference in Queens (trees!) but spent a remarkable proportion of the trip eating—95%, I’d estimate. Eating is usually the point when I go to the city. The beauty of traveling alone is that you can walk past a dozen couples waiting at Momofuku and get a seat for one at the counter where you can slurp ramen with other solo foodies. The guy next to me picks up his bowl to drink the last drop of broth.
“I’m so glad you did that,” I say “because I’m so going there.”
At Ippudo there’s a half hour wait, but hold on, there’s one seat at the counter. When the waitress comes, I tell her I’ll have the pork buns, of course.
“And you, sir?” she says turning to the guy next to me. He looks confused.
“Oh, we’re not together,” I say. “Unless he’s paying.”
He is not.
I watch the chefs pan-fry slices of unctuous pork and nestle them into cloud buns, then eat with abandon.
Mostly though, I look to the sky.
While in Central Park watching runners exhaust themselves, I make do with a Belgian waffle with chocolate from Wafels & Dinges that runs a food truck at Columbus Circle on the edge of the park and one inside the park by the zoo. If you think two identical trucks within a few blocks is excessive, you’d be wrong; by the time you finish one waffle you need another. If you think I’m exaggerating, you’d be wrong again.