Cafehop.com — Café hopping in New York City

This is dumb, I know: Mario and I debated the morality of spending money in an Israeli-owned chain. Whether or not one agrees with our view on the Israeli-Palestinian issue, it’s obvious that wherever the Aroma location on Houston sends its profits, some of that money surely ends up in the coffers of the Israeli government — an organization we believe causes much harm to a people it is actively displacing. We eventually decided that since the parent corporation is in Israel that this might be set up like a franchise, with a flat franchise fee, meaning that whether or not we patronized the shop, the same amount was being sent to the fatherland. Justification can clearly be a mother of invention.

To our chagrin, the espresso is superb, and keeps us coming back if we’re in the neighborhood. I took Luis just last week. Mario himself lives across the street. There’s no way we’re going to be able to ignore this place, seductively wrapped in lusty red tilework and modern black and white accents.

One problem is the service can be rather incompetent. Mario tells me that they screw up his orders all the time, and that Friday night to Saturday night — for obvious reasons, the most competent managers are not working — it gets markedly worse. The last time I was there the cashier left Luis’ espresso off the order, only charging me for a mocha. It was a busy night, and when my order came up and the espresso was missing, the counter guy shrugged and said “she didn’t charge you for it.” You know, instead of apologizing to me and making me an espresso shot right then, which would have cost the company possibly 15 cents including labor, but bought a lot of goodwill. I’m amazed at how so many stores do not understand this.

Anyway, the mochas (and hot chocolates, I assume) are made by placing a few chunks of milk chocolate in the bottom of the cup and then pouring the appropriate hot liquids over it. It’s an attractive presentation and is cute in theory, but in practice you have to stir it for 5 minutes straight to get all the chocolate to dissolve. Not fun.

The food seems good, I had a “bureka treat”: phyllo dough “bread” surrounding hard-boiled egg, tomatoes, pickles, and tahini.

Overall, the product itself is good, but the service is bad not because of any bad attitudes but because of a total lack of competence. I’m sure it’s a problem that will be remedied eventually. The Israeli occupation of Soho is one that otherwise seems to be going well.

Aroma, 145 Greene St (Houston entrance), Manhattan

7am-11pm daily

On a super cozy corner of the West Village sits Doma, a small but popular café. My first visit here was with my friend Tony, about a year ago. I have come back several times since for good coffee, good company, and good atmosphere. They have all kinds of pastries: you could be “good” and just have an almond croissant, or you could be evil and have a rich, dense lemon bar. I usually get a cookie, a regular coffee and grab one of the tables — quickly, they fill up fast.

The last time I was here was with Mario, and it was hot enough out that we needed a pit stop. It was cool inside and not too crowded — we got espressos and I got a peanut butter cookie. You pay for your items at the counter and carefully walk them to a table, if you can get one; we got one. It’s sort of libraryish in there, so I’m never sure if any amount of talking is too much talking… but thinking back, it seems like we were the only ones talking at all. Everyone else was toying with a laptop or reading. The atmosphere is kind of like a rustic old elementary school classroom, but one you don’t have terrible flashbacks in; I don’t feel schooled.

The coffee here is always good, but this was the first time I had the espresso, and while it was pulled long, it was still very flavorful and not terribly bitter. The cookie was like hard-packed mud in texture — so much peanut butter was in the dough that it flaked apart in chunks. Really sweet and spot-hitting. When we had had enough feeling like the only people talking, we left. I think I might have even said, “Okay, I think we’ve annoyed these people long enough.”

Doma, 17 Perry Street, Manhattan

daily 7:30am-12am

It was a whirlwind day: we started at the Whole Foods and were working our way to the NYU student center cafeteria which Mario said had great views of Washington Square and the city. But along the way, we got sidetracked by La Lanterna di Vittorio — what idiot decided to go down MacDougal, street of irresistable delights?

I felt as if we were entering someone’s apartment, except that all it has is a giant counter with amazing pastries, various coffee machines, and beverage glasses. Toward the back is a patio covered with a massive iron structure that supports a single shred of canvas. Aside from the sort of gaudy iron tables, it has a nice ambience among the twisting vines and trees. There’s also something cozy about relaxing in the space behind clusters of old buildings.

Our waitress was very nice, but a bit…well, she was incompetent. She chattered too much, made fun of my making fun of the giant size of the menus, took way too long to bring out my raspberry tart which turned out not to be the raspberry thing I wanted (I had seen it in the pastry case upon walking in), brought our espressos after I had finished the tart, and then took another 10 minutes to get us two small glasses of water we requested. And when she brought the coffee, she mentioned that we should ask for money off for the wait! Mario reminded me that in Italy, one eats one’s pastry before coffee anyhow, so I should be grateful for the opportunity to be civilized.

Besides all that, the tart was excellent: the preserves base wasn’t too sweet and the fresh raspberries on top were perfect, unblemished and firm. The espresso was pretty good, nothing to write home about but hit the spot.

Despite the weird service — I hesitate to call it bad — I think I’ll come back, because the pastry case looks great and I really want to have that other raspberry thing I saw and didn’t get.

We eventually did get to the NYU cafeteria, and it did have amazing views.

La Lanterna di Vittorio, 129 MacDougal Street, Manhattan

Fri-Sat: 10am-4am | Sun-Thu: 10am-3am

When I think of Israel, I don’t think of chocolate. Max Brenner aims to change that with a blitz of new stores in the New York area. Two are already open: one in the East Village, and one on Broadway around the corner from Union Square. The atmosphere is chain-like — it looks like a fancy Starbucks, which doesn’t exactly make me feel like hanging out. But then I think it’s geared more toward people looking for a meal, not someone with a laptop who wants to nurse a coffee, as evidenced by the cluster of tall bistro tables shoved in the corner almost as an afterthought.

We ordered our standard — two double espressos. Disappointingly, they came served in two giant paper cups, a trend I will never understand or accept or forgive. They were a hair worse than okay, meaning not passable. And since we were, after all, in a chocolate shop, we got a warm chocolate cake thingy, which came in the most ridiculously huge and wasteful cardboard packaging — we were sitting right there at a table, give us a damn plate! Once we figured out how to remove the idiotic box, I cut into the cake, took a bite, and shrugged. No big deal. I mentioned it sort of tasted like ham, but not in a totally bad way, if that makes any sense. Mario thought it was fine.

I’m not surprised about the coffee. We’re talking about a chain from a country where the national coffee drink is Sanka shaken up into a gallon of milk. Ugh. But the chocolate should have been trans-frickin-scendant for all the buzz given this place, and the Willy Wonka décor. Not to mention the 2-inch cake was $7.00. A resounding “feh.”

Max Brenner, 841 Broadway, Manhattan

Mon-Thu: 8am-11pm | Fri-Sat: 8am-1am | Sun: 9am-11pm

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

Now that I’m done laboring on my house, I have free time once again. Last Thursday Mario and I met up for our weekly coffee outing, and this week he wanted to venture east.

The first thing to note, of course, is that Ninth Street Espresso is not on 9th Street, it’s on 13th. The first time I passed it I was worried because I thought I was further south than I actually was. The original is on 13th between Crazy and Dead. Mario and I walked in as we passed by after mistakenly eating at the crumbling, filthy Blue 9 Burger on 3rd. This was Blue 9’s polar opposite: monochrome, clean, bright, and comfortable.

They serve their espresso triple ristretto — you get a little cup 1/3 full with thick, reddish dark coffee. I find this is the way I prefer my espresso. It’s less bitter because it doesn’t extract too much from the beans. Mario disagrees, but what does he know — besides, he’s a terrorist.

We also got a little chocolate petit four thing, and it was gooood. With this, Mario agrees. Even though this place is close to Union Square, it’s not crowded, and conversation can be made in a normal voice.

Ninth Street Espresso, 136 E 13th Street, Manhattan

7am-8pm daily

The lesson here might be to start with low expectations. Mario took me to the Alessi store in Soho to show me just how undrinkable the espresso at their in-store café, Joe, was. The wispy shred of boy (how do his organs fit in a six-inch-wide torso!?) that manned (I use this word loosely) the machine made art of twirling back and forth from his coffee contraption to the counter where he assembled our coffee setup, and placed our tiny espresso spoons just so. I particularly liked the spoons.

The café is not comfortable — it’s too ultramodern and slick and bright and smooth to be able to chill out and drink your joe. As a store selling weird-looking Italian kitchen items and objets, the aesthetic is great. As we sat, backs rigid, on the shiny recessed benches and drank our coffee — which turned out, despite Mario’s previous experience, to be pretty good — another mop-headed attendant waited to recover our empty cups. When Mario explained he still had a little left, Mophead lectured him on the importance of drinking freshly-pulled espresso in three hot gulps. I wasn’t looking but I’m sure Mario made a face.

This is not a place to visit unless it’s bitterly cold outside and you’re within 100 feet. Or maybe if you absolutely have to have coffee and you can’t wait another 2 minutes to find another café. The espresso is fine but no better than any other decent place, the atmosphere rates our first “depressing,” and please, I do not need to be talked down to by the help.

Joe, the Art of Coffee at Alessi, 130 Greene Street, Manhattan

Mon-Fri 7am-7pm | Sat 8am-7pm | Sun 8am-6pm