Choptank pic via Metromix.com
“Surprise” is a slippery word. When you’re 10 years old, “surprise!” means a happy circumstance—say, a visit from a cash-dispensing grandparent—is about to enter your life. By the time you hit adulthood, “surprise” tends to mean something ominous is about to rock your day, your week, your life. Unless you’re that rare fan of surprise parties, in which case the word once again takes on, ever so briefly, the wondrous magic of toddlerhood.
All that to say: This week I had three small restaurant surprises—and they were all good ones. Go figure.
First: A last-minute, reservationless visit to Maialino at the Gramercy Hotel yielded, within seconds, a great table in the bar area. My friend got there first, and I expected to find him milling around waiting for a table. But when I arrived he was already seated and being attended to by a central-casting Danny Meyer employee: smiley, well-versed, efficient (without being cloying, smug, nasty). Among our dinner picks that night: melty, meaty lasagna Bolognese, addictive pork-cheek arancini (risotto balls), and all manner of salumi and cheeses, including a young, fresh sheep’s-milk Crema di Lopez from Lazio, which I’d never had before. It’s a little annoying that Maialino doesn’t serve the full dinner menu at the bar—but for a soothing, spot-on meal in a rustic, country-licious room, it’s hard to do better. UPDATE: Maialino is now serving the entire dining room menu (except for the roasted suckling pig) at the bar.
Second: Met a friend at Choptank, the new Chesapeake Bay-inspired West Village restaurant. We walked in at 9pm (again, reservation-less) and immediately found two free stools at the hopping raw bar. But the surprise wasn’t just that we stumbled into the only two seats open in the entire room. It was that I ordered the oyster po’boy—normally not advised north of Louisiana—and was very glad I did: The fried oysters were juicy, hot, and not over-battered; the ranch dressing in perfect balance with the pickle slaw; the roll buttery and fresh. That expert East Coast-ified po’boy, along with a side of Old Bay-dusted potato chips with crab dip, and a Light and Mildly Inclement cocktail (Appleton Estate rum, ginger beer, and lime), added up to another stress-free, mood-lifting impromptu dinner.
Third: I was at Penn Station earlier this week, waiting for an Amtrak train to Boston that was, unbelievably, about to leave on time—in a snowstorm no less. But that wasn’t even the biggest surprise. The eye-opener came when I was wandering around the train terminal trying to find something to grab for lunch. Couldn’t deal with the skanky-looking fast-food chains, or the dubious sushi stand—and couldn’t skip food altogether for the next five hours. Then I noticed a crowd jammed into one deli, and I walked up closer to discover that it was Don Pepi, a run-of-the-mill-looking concession stand with a sandwich counter. But I figured there must be a reason Don Pepi had about a dozen people in line (many of whom looked like midtown suits who’d stopped in at Penn Station specifically to buy lunch here). I lined up too, lemming-like, and was soon holding a fat, well-stacked Italian sub. Granted, it was piled with meats from Boar’s Head —they weren’t house-cured by some charcuterie wunderkind—but the sandwich was fresh-tasting and the ingredients were attentively layered on a crunchy-soft roll.
I trundled off to my train, glad I hadn’t opted for Subway, Nathan’s or what have you. Can’t vouch for the rest of the food at D.P., but the sandwich was better than it needed to be. Later I discovered this old New York Times piece about Don Pepi’s owners. Who knew: A real family-owned sandwich shop, hidden behind a generic facade, down in the grim underbelly of Penn Station. Sometimes there really is truth in numbers.