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

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

A fellow Bushwicker recommended Dora’s Coffee Shop and Creperie just across the borough border in Ridgewood, Queens, and since Bushwick has a notable deficit of…let’s say European food, I was determined to make the two-mile journey down Myrtle Avenue and check the place out. Ridgewood is only a different neighborhood politically — it’s just a continuation of Bushwick to the northeast, the main difference being half of it didn’t burn down in the 70s. It also has a significant Polish population, as opposed to Bushwick’s Puerto Rican majority. How this spawned a crepe café, I’m not sure, but no matter, Polish-staffed Dora’s serves up crepes so hot they will melt the end of your plastic fork.

The crepes are cheap, and they make them right there at the counter in front of you. I was there with my whole Miami crew — Yury, Liz, and Luis walked the two miles with me, complaining all the way of the humidity and distance. Everyone but Luis had iced coffee, which we all for some reason found overly sweet even though it was only sweetened by what we each added. I had a cup of regular hot coffee after my ham- mozzarella-mushroom crepe, and it was soldily good joe.

The atmosphere was less than pleasant, not because of what was in there, but because of what wasn’t — it felt too sparse. Maybe it could do with one more row of café tables to make it a bit cozier. Some art on the walls would help, too.

I give it an overall thumbs up, even though the sugar and butter crepe we shared for dessert didn’t have sugar inside and the sugar on top was powdered as opposed to granulated… not a complete disaster. If it weren’t so far, we’d certainly go back often. Since it closes bafflingly early, it’s only a lunchtime place.

Dora’s Coffee Shop and Creperie, 60-50 Myrtle Avenue, Queens

Open until 8pm, 7pm on Sunday

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

Mario thought it would be nice to leave downtown behind and trek to the Upper East Side to visit Cafe Sabarsky, in the Neue Gallery Museum for German and Austrian Art. An espresso is $5, he explained, but it’s worth it for the atmosphere.

After a minor express train mishap that had us switching platforms at 125th Street, we got off the 4 train at 86th and walked west to Fifth Avenue. On the corner sits the squat, imposing museum, and just opening the huge iron door is enough to work up an appetite.

Neither of us had the patience for Austrian art at that moment — we were starving and culture was the last thing on our minds. The café itself is in a small room at the corner of the building, inside the lobby. I say small, but that’s only compared to the building, which is huge considering it was once some insanely rich family’s home. The room is clad floor to ceiling in ornate wood paneling, and packed with small marble-topped tables. Most had two old ladies each, sitting properly, sipping their coffees, nibbling their cakes. One woman, in an outfit that would look ridiculous anywhere outside of the UES, sat reading Die Welt alone at her table. They were the Ladies Who Lunch, and we were there to emulate them.

The service was as one should expect: gracious but to the point, and it’s appreciated. Who wants a goofy, sloppy waitress telling you about her day as if you care, anyhow? We first ordered lunch, which was very good for that area of Europe — not my favorite cuisine, but certainly edible. Come on, get that out of the way, bring the dessert! We were recommended some of the waitress’ favorites, none of which we ultimately chose…if the server tells you what’s good, listen to him. The chocolate-apricot cake I got could have been moister, and was maybe just a bit too subtle for my mood just then. Mario’s rhubarb-something-or-other cake was also just okay.

We ordered espressos, and they were good. I considered getting the kaffe créme, which is espresso with a bit of hot cream drizzled in, but I decided to stay simple, even above Mario’s recommendations. I guess I was in an independent mood that day.

And just in case you were wondering, yes, the staff speaks German.

Café Sabarsky, 1048 Fifth Avenue, Manhattan

Mon and Wed 9am-6pm | Thu-Sun 9am-9pm

Two photos above from the Cafe Sabarsky website.

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

It could be motor oil if it weren’t so thin.

The late 70s were a depressing time in New York, by almost anyone’s account. That’s why when Dean and DeLuca opened in the up-and-coming SoHo district, it must have been a bellwether moment for those New Yorkers who wanted more than what they could get at the corner store in those days. The market has always conjured not just images of luxury in food, but luxury in food shopping — a significant achievement.

But it’s now 30 years later, and we’re all a lot more sophisticated as a society. I remember the first time I walked into Dean and DeLuca a couple years ago — I shrugged. Okay, it’s nice. But I had seen better as a teenager in stripmalls in suburban South Florida. Sure I’d love to having something similar in Bushwick, don’t get me wrong — but as blow-your-mind, overwhelm-your-senses gourmet food scenes go these days, Dean and DeLuca doesn’t slice the speck quite so thin anymore.

So no surprise for me when I go to their café on University Place and get stared at like I’m a waste of time, have my total mumbled to me and my change all but tossed into my hand, and god forbid I or Mario ask a question — you’d think we were the most annoying people on the planet. Their sandwiches are consistently dry; I usually stop eating something bad after two tries, but for some reason I gave the mavens of gourmet three separate chances. The ginger cookie is really good — chewy and well, maybe a bit too much extra sugar on top but dunked in a latte it’s awesome. Too bad the lattes suck. The drip coffee is a bitter abomination and the espresso…

The espresso needs its own paragraph. It is the worst espresso I have had so far in New York City. The Archive in Bushwick, whose espresso is the absolute pits, at least has a pathetic attempt at crema on top. Dean and DeLuca’s product is served to you in a thin paper cup with the lid on — a good thing for the help because by the time you pull it off and realize the contents are jet black with no crema whatsoever, you are safely in the seating area on the other side of the wall. The only good result of gulping down such a horrific beverage is that I got a facial muscle workout from all the wincing I was doing. It’s one frickin ounce of liquid, and I still couldn’t bring myself to finish it.

Otherwise, the place is pretty okay for what it is — a nice old Village space for hanging out with your computer, especially if you’re a student at a nearby university. The ceiling is an awesome sight, and the floors are a beautiful, crumbly old mosaic. And any café is incomplete without marble-topped bistro tables. The location is perfect. It’s just too bad about the, uh, products and service.

Dean and DeLuca, 75 University Place, Manhattan

Mon-Fri 7am-10pm | Sat 8am-10pm | Sun 8am-8pm

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