Cafehop.com — Café hopping in New York City

This story begins about two years ago, when Luis and I first moved to New York. We were in a sublet in the East Village and were beginning to explore the city, to decide in which neighborhoods we would like to find apartments. We spent one completely frigid day in Tribeca — I particularly remember my feet hurting badly from the cold, made all the worse by the neighborhood’s stone slab sidewalks.

Desperate to find some place warm (and even open, in the desolate section we were in), we were relieved to find Pécan, a gorgeous brick-and-glass-walled café at the flatirony corner of Franklin, Varick, and West Broadway. Sleek cafeteria-style community seating makes sure everyone is always in each other’s business — this is always an idea good in theory but terrible in practice, especially because people tend to leave one seat between parties and then a couple can’t sit with each other if it’s busy. Despite this minor problem and the overall modern aesthetic, the place actually comes off as quite cozy.

We ordered hot chocolates, and they were merely okay, considering that they were nearly $5 each. We enjoyed them much more than we normally would: the warmth was giving us more pleasure than the flavor.

Since that cold day, I returned with Mario on one of our outings. We sat at one of those long tables and annoyed those sitting near us with all our chatter as they tried to work on their laptops. We enjoyed our $4 espressos, if I recall, even if the staff is a bit snotty.

Though Tribeca is New York’s big-bucksiest neighborhood, it is still a bit rough around some remaining edges, and because of the types of commercial spaces there (cavernous and industrial), limited in café options. Pécan is still going strong and will likely be around at least until there is some more competition.

Pécan, 130 Franklin St, Manhattan

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

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

Cookie image yoinked from gothamist — I couldn’t be bothered to take a picture of this dump myself.

There’s a reason we call this place Shitty Bakery. Mario’s office used to be around the corner, so it was a convenient place for us to meet when I lived on 23rd. There is rarely anywhere to sit and the obscenely high ceilings – or is it the annoyingly small tables? — give City Bakery an uncomfortable atmosphere. The coffee is solidly mediocre, the staff is impatient, and the ordering setup is confusing and a bit stressful. I hear the salad bar is $13/lb — that’s some expensive grilled asparagus. In fact, everything is expensive, especially their admittedly magnificent chocolate chip cookies. These cookies are the only reason to come to this dark, automatish place crammed to the gills with students pretending to study. They’re chewy and crispy at the same time, have just enough (read: a ton) chocolate chips, and are pretty big — but they are $3, so with a coffee don’t expect to leave here without dropping $6-7. I can get lunch for that if I’m creative. Big bucks to eat in the shadow of the ever-present siodewalk scaffolding.

The cookie — a “Good Thing” — saves this place from a “Not Good at All” rating. Ugh, even their website is annoying.

City Bakery, 3 W 18th Street, Manhattan

This sweet cluttered bakery in Nolita is everything French — even the service is, shall we say, laissez faire.

I knew that even though my feet may require amputation from pounding 30-plus blocks of frozen sidewalks (I have to remember to wear two pairs of socks!), it was worth finding this place where they cram the patrons into what should rightfully be the trash room. Don’t get me wrong — it’s a profoundly charming trash room. Glazed red brick walls, austere busts of unknown (to me) Frenchmen, and a jumble of tables and chairs make for a really nice place to sit. Unruly but plain and therefore dignified plants guard the alley-view windows.

The snotty waiter took our order — Mario had his usual espresso, but I spied a café au lait at the top of the menu and went for that. In between a regular coffee and a latte, it’s for times when you just can’t decide. I also ordered an almond croissant.

This dense, oven-fresh almond croissant might be one of the top ten best pieces of pastry I have ever consumed. The light pressure exerted to tear it in half (to share with Mario) forced the butter that saturated the pastry to well up in the indentation left by my thumb. It left my fingers pleasantly slick and marzipan-scented. This is such a “Good Thing.”

I would have ordered another coffee, which was very good, but the waiter was too busy not waiting on us. As it got later we both had to get back to work and chased him down for our check.

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Ceci Cela Patisserie, 55 Spring Street (also 166 Chambers Street), Manhattan

Mon-Sat 7am-10pm | Sunday 8am-8pm

The reason I go to Caffe Reggio is, unfortunately, not the coffee. Or the service. Also, the furniture…not so comfy. No, I go because my friends ask to meet me there. But I like going. The location is great, right on MacDougal and 3rd in the old heart of the Village. The coffee (they only have espresso — if you’re looking for regular coffee, you get an americano) is passable, nothing to write home…or a great review…about. And you might die of old age waiting for someone to wait on you — at least your back will hurt from the springy wire-backed chairs by the time you consume what you ordered and pay.

But look up from your meh beverage: Reggio’s interiors are a time capsule from at least 1927, though it’s possible the sagging tin ceilings, among other ancient bits and pieces, could have been there from whatever long-forgotten business previously occupied the storefront. Dark, heavy, and ornate wood benches, marble-topped tables weathered by the forearms of a million java-juiced patrons over the decades, and dim lighting evocative of old gas lamps make the place feel frozen in time.

Reggio inside (from the café’s website)

But what’s with the creepily bottomless sugar bowl — can that hold an entire five-pound Domino bag? Yet it’s reassuring at the same time — at Reggio I’ll never run out of sugar, like I do when I have to rely on unreliably-filled tabletop sweetener boxes.

But the centerpiece of Reggio’s decor is its magnificent and massive old espresso machine, sadly no longer in use. A Herald Tribune snippet from 1945 wants us to “look again, what’s that nickel-plated monster lording over the room? That’s the espresso machine, that’s the business-getting partner of the firm…[it] represents the life savings of Dominic Parisi, it’s his pride, his occupation…” Ol’ Dominic’s macchina must have made some killer espresso in its day — good enough to keep the “firm” around long after the founder’s own crema faded.

Dominic Parisi and his espresso machine (from the café’s website)

The greatest thing about Caffe Reggio is I know that when I pound the table and speak a political opinion far too loudly for the comfort of my neighbors, that I am following in the footsteps of a long line of fiery Greenwich Villagers of eras long past.

Overall rating is just “Okay,” but the place has to be seen and experienced at least once. My recommendation is get a latte — the milk will hide the mediocrity of the espresso. And sit up straight.

Caffe Reggio, 119 MacDougal, Manhattan