Cafehop.com — Café hopping in New York City

One of my favorite places in all of New York City is French Roast in the Village on Sixth Avenue. My love affair with this café began a couple years ago when I was here visiting family at Thanksgiving. Luis and I stopped in for a sandwich and some coffee, and there, among the old French advertisements, weathered marble table tops, and deco chandeliers, we decided it would be our goal to move to New York.

I have been here countless times since, for late morning coffee, an afternoon croque monsieur, or a 1am dinner with wine. The atmosphere is perfect, though I admit to a bit of an obsession with the classic Parisian café theme — it relaxes me, and has that feeling like it’s smoke-filled, but of course is not. It’s (oh this is so lame) like I imagine an actual old Paris café or bistro to be. My only comparison from experience would be the 24-hour cafés of Buenos Aires — close enough, considering they (like nearly everything else in that city) were themselves modeled off those of 19th century Paris.

It’s always service with a smile here, and they never rush you from your table — I once spent 5 hours here with a visiting friend. The only complaint is the coffee cups are small, which wouldn’t be a problem if they filled them more often. Unfortunately, the lunchtime sandwiches, like the croque monsieur (definitely a Good Thing, best I have had), are not available after 10pm or so, when they bring out the dinner menu. Small quibbles.

Good coffee, decent espresso, great food, service, atmosphere — there’s nothing this place is missing. And it’s open 24 hours! Now you have no excuse but to visit.

French Roast, 78 W 11th Street, Manhattan

Open 24 Hours

Continuing our aimless wanderings in the West Village yesterday, we came upon an unassuming place that at first glance seemed to be called Tea, but it turns out that was just a sign advertising that the place sold tea. Grounded, as the place is called, has a tiny storefront that feeds a huge warehouse-like space inside. Actually, forget warehouse-like, it’s a warehouse. When you walk in, to the left is a long counter with cookies and cakes, the register, and the giant Rancilio espresso machine. Standard. A courteous staff took our orders and money, and we went to grab a seat at the bar, which in this (rare) case struck me as a more comfortable spot than the tables.

I went to retrieve our espressos, and expressed relief to the girl at the counter that she was giving me one completely white set of cup and saucer, as Mario is offended by the less-dignified sight of quirkily-colored dishware. I took the one with the green saucer. I’m kooky like that.

Kooky, left; dignified, right.

The espresso was solidly good, nothing sensational but totally drinkable. The chocolate-chunk banana bread was awesome, really dense with bananas and not overloaded with chocolate. The bar did end up being a great place to sit, though even speaking with low voices we felt like we were disturbing the other patrons who were busy furrowing their brows at their computer screens or scrawling in notepads. Something about the jumbly, haphazard decoration of the place, including a few plants of tropical origin fed by the giant skylight, made this place really comfortable. As we walked out, Mario remarked that the place reminded him of something he might see in Brooklyn. I’m with him on that, though how would he know — the born-and-bred Manhattanite might be in Brooklyn once a decade.

Grounded, 28 Jane Street, Manhattan

Mon-Fri 7am-8pm| Sat-Sun 7:30am-8pm

It started out as a weird day: we had resolved to do a West Village outdoor café tour, but for some reason we couldn’t find any. A friend of mine calls the WV the “Bermuda Triangle” for the ease in which one can get lost wandering its streets. Am I going North or South, up or down? Today, we kept missing all the places we knew existed, couldn’t recall their exact locations.

Finally, after 30 minutes of walking around and around, we were hot and sticky and opted for an attractive little Mexican themed café called Condesa. The waiter gave us a menu with some pricey items on it, yet when we asked if it was okay to just order coffee, he enthusiastically said “of course!” He took our orders and came back within seconds with two glasses of cold water — just what we needed right that second.

The interiors were rustic yet modern; I think it was an attempt at a contemporary Mexican look and it seemed to work. I particularly liked the art.

My regular coffee was a solidly good cup, and a large one at that. Mario says the espresso was good — from my seat it looked like it had some heavy crema on top. I would have liked to have ordered one for myself, but the waiter never came back…so when we finally saw him again I was ready to move on. We paid and took off.

Cafe Condesa, 183 W 10th Street, Manhattan

Too cool for you.

This afternoon Yury IMed me: “Wanna go to the Archive?”

me: k

We make our way from the house, on the fringes of Bushwick’s Bodega Belt, past the huge parking lots, parks, and housing projects that serve as the borderlands between my hood and the spooky industrial areas beyond. This part of East Williamsburg is lazily called Bushwick, or “West Bushwick” by the geographically challenged (Bushwick is SOUTH of East Williamsburg). It’s fine; it’s more my neighborhood than Bedford Avenue ever will be theirs.

It doesn’t take long after crossing Flushing to realize you are in yet another one of New York’s unique ethnic enclaves: everyone is vaguely ugly, thin, and pale, with hairy, bony forearms and pants too tight for their concave asses. They amble around the vacant lots and filthy warehouses on their wobbly chicken legs — thighs not much thicker than their calves. But their clothes and hair are fabulous.

In an eerily intact line of old brick tenements on Bogart and Grattan Streets is The Archive, a coffee and DVD rental shop (hipsters like to rent their DVDs in person. why? dunno). I have been here probably 10 times now, and each time I’m far short of impressed. The drip coffee is good, and that’s pretty much all I’ve had except for an okay chai and some iced tea. The employees are usually very nice, but a few of them are jerks visibly annoyed by my presence at the counter, oppressing them with my requests for their wage slave labor. Or maybe my hair isn’t shaggy enough…even though I cut it myself…

The furniture is cool, I like their front wall banquette, even though the shag cover is totally vile, matted and crusted with filth. It has really big windows that would be pleasant if they weren’t swathed in wire mesh. You can plug in your computer, but don’t try to do any substantial work here — the wireless connection is slower than molasses. My Verizon card is faster, let’s put it that way. All this, and the prices go up seemingly every week. Oh, and the music sucks. Sucks.

Believe it or not, they have good bagels. Just authentic enough to be chewy but not authentic enough to hurt your gums. They have good oatmeal-chocolate chip cookies, too. I haven’t had the espresso…wait a second, brb

back — yeah, it sucks. The asshole currently running the counter pulled it way too long — it fills half a small cup of coffee. Tastes like crap. He slammed it down on the counter — “here you go brah, catchya later.” *shudder*

Okay, if you live in the immediate hood, it’s the only place to go. Wyckoff Starr is friendlier, cuter, tastier, but it’s in a total wasteland. Maybe one day soon some benevolent, far-sighted entrepreneur will save us Deep Bushwickers from the indignity of being scowled at by Kansan immigrant poseurs as we order a latte.

Bashful Yury struggles to work at The Archive.

The Archive, 49 Bogart Street, Brooklyn

Mon-Fri 7am-11pm, Sat-Sun 10am-11pm