I almost always miss the goat. She will smile and shake her head, and so I will order the pernil to go.

October 15th, 2013, 8pm

It was 15.6°C. The breeze was light.

A few streets up and over from the office, I smile and shake my head entering the double doors of the freight elevator. When I moved to New York four years ago, there was a pervasive sense that all of the interesting was disappearing - prettied up for the city’s tourists. I mean residents. I mean tourists.

This particular food space doesn’t have a menu gimmick to make it a destination, and feels real or at least honest in a way the slicked-up public spaces cannot. It is six dollars well spent on a plate of meat, rice, and beans with a courtesy lettuce garnish in the Garment District. Always with the orange hot sauce, that’s partly why you are here.

The other part is to be a few dozen feet away from the street in a quiet industrial hallway, where all the noises have a source you can easily identify. People sit on the stools and enjoy their plates. No one looks at their phone. The tip container is covered in tin foil, but clearly marked. I overtip for access to this open secret, as long as it lasts. As long as I last in a city that, unlike all the others, continues to intrigue. We both have issues with commitment.

Wanting to stay, I bring the big sunglasses back down as a shield and exit into catcalls and near-swipes by the uncoordinated riders of sponsored blue bikes with rounded edges provided by the city for all of us to “explore.”

Allan, Abhishek, David Wade, Craig and 2 others said thanks.

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Kristen Taylor

drinker of raw milk, founder/editor of @saucymag, call me @kthread

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