Before moving to New York as an art school freshman in 1986, I figured out that where you ate was more important than what you ate. This download came to me at maybe 16 years old, while combing the pages of Interview and Details as if they were scriptures to abide in building my future New York life. In the mid-80s, Details was akin to what Nylon is now but with a much lower budget, highlighting the high jinks of the downtown denizens preoccupied with pushing the envelope. Stephen Saban’s robust nightlife breakdown! Cookie Mueller’s art scene column!
Being seen in a scene was the primary form of nourishment certain restaurants served—sort of a debauched 80s version of La Côte Basque in Feud: Capote vs. The Swans. I feasted on images of Andy Warhol, Grace Jones, and Jean-Michel Basquiat holding court at now legacy institutions like Odeon, Indochine, and Mr. Chow’s, before setting off to their wee-hour shenanigans. Ever the entertainment journalist (though I didn’t know it at the time), I was determined to investigate how the megawatt circuitry thrumming through these hotspots illuminated their loyal subjects, and how proximity to that light might somehow spark a miraculous opportunity to level up my less fortunate life. To make things happen, you had to be in the room where things happened.
There was no such thing as Resy; if you could cobble together an outfit that looked expensive enough to tip decently, beat your face to shit, and walked with attitude, you could easily gain entrée into any room you wanted, and I did. My biggest obstacle was being truly broke—I couldn’t even afford the NYU meal plan option. The paltry sum I’d saved for school by working myriad menial jobs was gone—to art supplies—by November. I was forced to forsake steak and fries at Odeon and Indochine for a single glass of red or a vodka tonic that slid into whatever remnants of free bar snacks, white rice, ramen noodles, and/or stolen candy from the Gristedes on 6th Avenue lined my belly.
If you could cobble together an outfit that looked expensive enough to tip decently, beat your face to shit, and walked with attitude, you could easily gain entrée into any room you wanted, and I did.
One Odeon evening, my roommate Lisa returned to our banquette facing the bar from the downstairs ladies' room, tossed her impossibly long black hair, and discreetly whispered “I’m fluttering!” through her MAC Russian Red-coated lips into my ear. “Go, go now,” she insisted, shooing me along. Lo and behold, Sting was holding court at a center table, busting my attempt at a covert gaze as I walked past. I, too, fluttered, sensing my molecules somehow alter. That single drink might’ve emptied my wallet, but I dined off of that Sting sighting for months. He was no longer in the pages of a magazine, or elevated above me on a stage, but instead a mere mortal, in the same room. Except he could afford the steak.
In my quest to subsist on the meagerest of means, I stumbled upon Dojo on St. Mark’s after an afternoon combing the racks at Love Saves the Day for cheap club gear where, for the manageable sum of $2.95, you could score the Soy Burger Dinner. A patty of golden putty served on a bed of brown rice, it came with a side salad slathered with a creamy carrot ginger dressing so tasty, a recent Facebook post I made in its honor garnered a CVS receipt-length list of affectionate recollections in the comments. Dojo fast became my meal plan—I probably ate there three times a week. Reasonable facsimiles of the Soy Burger Dinner could be ordered at neighboring Yaffa Cafe and Around The Clock, but at a considerably higher price point. Five bucks was a big deal when you only made $3 an hour at work study.
To boost my income, I got in on a coat check ring orchestrated by some girls on the 7th floor of my dorm. We’d vie for the privilege of running patron’s furs up and down a narrow staircase in an upscale restaurant on East 72nd or 79th Street—I can’t remember which—for a dollar tip per. It was my very first exposure to fine dining. One night I cleared a sawbuck, justifying a cab back to my dorm after my shift was over. For a fleeting moment, I could imagine how it felt to be financially secure.
My biggest obstacle was being truly broke—I couldn’t even afford the NYU meal plan option. The paltry sum I’d saved for school by working myriad menial jobs was gone—to art supplies—by November.
Despite my strong grades, my old-school Middle Eastern dad pulled me aside the August before my sophomore year said I was “just going to get married anyway” and withdrew all financial support for college a few weeks before I was due back. I begged for and scored a scholarship but he came from a land and a time where women existed to cook, clean, and give birth, not to make great art. My roommates had already secured an apartment in Fort Greene and were counting on my part of the rent (decades before the high rises and Target and Miss Ada, when cabs dared not cross the Manhattan Bridge). I had no choice but to let everyone down, especially myself, and return home.
It would take until my Saturn return for me to make my way back to New York, where I always felt most at home. I’d spent the interim years using my creativity to promote the work of artists and musicians and discovered, in actuality, that the spotlight of fame and renown was plugged in by people like me. Upon my return to the city, my restaurant raison d’etre shifted from “leaving no crumbs” to finding affordable great food for great food’s sake, and they became rooms where the big deals in my life happened. After a couple of years in Park Slope (where I’d often spot Steve Buscemi in line at La Bagel Delight), my soon-to-be husband and I shacked up in a Carroll Gardens brownstone floor-through we found in the back of the Village Voice. This was back in ‘99 when Smith Street was coming into its own with small tasty cafés run by independent restauranteurs like Patois, Banania Cafe, and Uncle Pho—I still long for their curry-tinged sliced steak and fries.
On the topic of pho, Republic in Union Square became my defacto Manhattan cafeteria for years, affordably sustaining me with delicious bowls of upscale pho for $12.95. My favorite was the spicy coconut chicken—a tangy broth enhanced with kaffir lime leaves, galangal, and lemongrass that carried the burn of a pepper I have yet to identify. I hit it so hard for so long; it was a convenient mid-point meeting place for friends and, eventually, to grab something quick before Lamaze class.
I was forced to forsake steak and fries at Odeon and Indochine for a single glass of red or a vodka tonic that slid into whatever remnants of free bar snacks, white rice, ramen noodles, and/or stolen candy from the Gristedes on 6th Avenue lined my belly.
After laboring with our first kid on a cold December night, all I wanted as my reward was that damn soup. My husband dutifully had it delivered to the ambulance bay and I was into my first few slurps when a lactation nurse slapped the spoon out of my hand, cruelly insisting the spicy concoction would hurt my child. I dissolved into tears when it was thrown away. That child, along with his younger sister, would eventually eat at Republic once or twice a month for more than ten years until the place folded, scoring commemorative t-shirts from a generous host who appreciated our consistent patronage. His favorite dish was the spicy coconut chicken. That bitch nurse is still on my shitlist.
Becoming a regular at a New York restaurant is like finding a home away from home; you invest in the people and the vibe and it, in turn, invests in you. If you develop a rapport, the owners and staff eventually become your friends; one date night I came belly-to-belly with a pregnant server who eventually became a dear friend and the top realtor who sold my apartment. Another dear friend, who happens to manage one of my favorite pizza spots, helped me translate an Italian reservation gone wrong. But true hospitality is more than well-timed service and decent food—it’s about rewarding the loyalty of your patrons. I ordered the very first (now ultra famous) Lucali’s pizza because I lived around the corner and pushed a stroller past it every day, monitoring its progress for months. It wasn’t long before we brought our dad there for Fathers’ Day and had to compete against Keri Russell and her family for the same table. Needless to say, she won. Business is business. I’ve since cut out gluten, which is a good thing because my loyal patronage is no match for the paparazzi Taylor Swift brings to the place. Turns out its thrum drew me in before the place ever even lit up.
Becoming a regular at a New York restaurant is like finding a home away from home; you invest in the people and the vibe and it, in turn, invests in you. If you develop a rapport, the owners and staff eventually become your friends.
Today, building a life in New York without the trampoline of fame or generational wealth beneath you has become all but impossible. We managed for 25 years before the pandemic trapped our family of four into 1000 square feet; then were confronted by the reality of our children’s looming college tuition, and it sparked a wave of fiscal responsibility. To afford it, we now sleep somewhere very quiet over an hour away, and dine out anonymously, for we are still considered strangers in this strange land.
Upon learning of our departure from Brooklyn, a couple of lovely gentlemen who run a chain of delicious Thai restaurants rewarded our decades-long loyalty by generously comping one of our last meals. Gowanus, the adjacent neighborhood once nicknamed “Venice” for its fluorescent green canal, will soon resemble Dubai, and Sauronic towers are rising all over our beloved borough. Thousands of new diners are sure to extend restaurant waitlists into something ridiculous. At least, for now, we can dine among friends whenever we make the trek to the city, the place we still consider home.
I bet many people who came to or came of age in NYC during the 1980s and 90s can track their lives through restaurants. Though our stories are probably not as well told and written as this resonant essay. If you don’t mind, here’s my low-budget early 80s version. https://medium.com/new-york-voice/cheap-eats-in-pre-foodie-nyc-ab15248e1af5
Thank you for reminding me of the nourishing, mouth-pleasing, wallet-friendly dining at Republic. A New Yorker who ended up on the West Coast for most of my adult life, Republic was a must-visit throughout the '90s and early aughts.