It is often the case in dive joints that taste surpasses décor—and Café Habana is a testament to this unspoken rule. Though the six-table establishment is definitely nicer (and more festive) than your average hole-in-the-wall, the cramped quarters are in no way reminiscent of, say, a ritzy dining experience at La Bernadin. But you know what? It’s okay.

No really, it’s okay. From a college student’s skint pockets, style, décor, and Michelin stars are no real draw at this point. Besides, Café Habana’s most lauded dish is in no way a posh entrée. I mean, what Cuban food is, right? Their famous grilled corn on a stick is the kind of food you need to eat in the open air, preferably on a picnic table at a raucous family barbeque, but because it’s New York City, I’ll settle for a bench.

Luckily, in Nolita, especially on the residential corner of Prince Street that the Café resides, lots of cute benches are found. I settled on a nice red one with my elbows out and my tower of napkins beside me, ready to get messy. And I wasn’t disappointed. I got messy alright. Their grilled corn left crumbs all over the floor, grease on my face, and kernels in my incisors. After tearing through three cobs of corn (yes, three; I can eat), I was in no way presentable to the public. I’d gone through two toothpicks, a glass of fresh-pressed limeade, and dozens upon dozens of paper napkins. With a smile on my face and a ball of starch in my gut, I had to thank Tyler Florence for recommending the joint.

Now, I know that Tyler Florence is no Mario Batali, but I’d always admired the kind of guilty pleasure cuisine he’d perfected on his show, Tyler’s Ultimate. After presenting Café Habana’s corn as the best thing he’s ever eaten on a stick, I was starting to respect the guy. The whole dish kind of sounds like a culinary no-no—but it works surprisingly well. Dairy on corn with mayonnaise and citrus? It’s almost as divisive as seafood and dairy (a very polarizing debate amongst food cultures). Yet, somehow, against the laws of our taste buds, it all works. The corn is slathered in butter and mayonnaise, rolled in crumbly queso fresco, sprinkled generously with cayenne pepper, and then grilled to perfection. A stick inserted—which in no way helps keep your hands clean— adds novelty to the whole experience, and lime wedges accompany the grilled corn.

At just $2 a pop, I was inordinately satisfied. And while the Yelp reviews of Café Habana were a little discouraging with mentions of hour-long waits and increasing prices, I had lucked upon the usually bustling Café at an off-peak hour.  I must admit, though, the very appealing beverage selection was grossly overpriced, but every eatery with a coveted liquor license in Manhattan has the annoying habit of inflating cocktail prices. Because Café Habana is a pretty hopping nighttime establishment, the “Los Cocteles” (Cocktails) and “For the Hangover” (Morning Cocktails) menus had an impressive variety, with the option of adding mango, guava, or strawberry puree to spice up any drink.

Now, I’ve never had borscht, but I do like to say “borscht.” That’s about as intimate of a relationship I’ve ever had with borscht. I know next to nothing on the subject. Borscht is magenta. It’s a beet soup. It’s Ukranian. It’s served both hot and cold. And that’s about the extent of my knowledge. But when Ted Allen, Queer Eye staple and author of The Food You Want to Eat, says the best thing he’s ever eaten in a bowl is Veselka’s borscht, I haul ass to the East Village.

Ted Allen isn’t alone. New York Magazine declared Veselka’s beet soup the best borscht in the city, and Veselka already has a lot of recognition. Not only was it featured in Nick & Norah’s Infinite Playlist, immortalized in the City of Fallen Angels, and memorialized in several songs, but Veselka also has a host of celebrity clientele singing its praises. Anyone from Justin Long, Jon Stewart, Julianne Moore to Debra Messing has considered Veselka a late-night main-stay. And of course, it really is an East Village staple. This 24-hour Ukrainian diner has been receiving regular praise since its founding in 1954. Not to mention, its cool factor shot up exponentially when The New York Dolls and The Ramones considered Veselka one of their regular haunts after their gigs in the 70s and 80s.

So, of course, I get to Veselka, and you know what? It’s just a diner. I’m from Jersey, okay? I, out of anyone, know diners, but Veselka’s menu has some hidden gems. Though I was there for the borscht, I can see how easy it would be to go on a carb-centric binge. Potato pierogies; potato pancakes; mashed potatoes. I had my blinders on though, and steered clear of the Ukranian classics like goulash, bigos, and stuffed cabbage. I was here for the borscht, and I ordered the borscht. I got the borscht, and I ate the borscht. Borscht. Borscht. Borscht. Borscht. Borscht. Say it five times fast; it’s my new favorite word.

And how about that borscht, huh? Deep magenta. Meaty. Rich. Piping hot. And perfect. At $5.95 for a large bowl, it’s a relative steal too. Veselka’s got borscht down to a formula. Making 5,000 gallons of the soup every week, it’s obviously a crowd favorite, but it’s more difficult than most believe to have such excellent quality control on a product so widely consumed. It’s fast becoming my own late-night staple, too—something hot, cheap, and meaty for those horrible, brown slushy-snow treks in Manhattan. Warms you inside and out. Magenta magic.

I’m not, however, a fan of Veselka’s cold borscht. Made with beets, buttermilk, dill, hardboiled eggs, and cucumbers, I was a little put off by the cloying sweetness of the beet/buttermilk combination. Still, no matter what I order, it comes with a never-ending cup of coffee and a healthy dose of people-watching. I always make sure to keep an eye on the door in case Jon Stewart decides to traipse in for some borscht.

When Frank Bruni talks, you listen. As the former chief restaurant critic of The New York Times, Bruni has eaten enough on-the-house chef specialties and overpriced, esoteric French-fusion-farm-to-table-blah-blah-blah dishes at three-, four-, and five-star establishments to blow the Average Joe’s palate out of the water. This is why when Frank Bruni mentions his favorite sandwich and favorite brunch dish, you ask no questions, share no excuses, and haul ass to get to such a mythical sandwich.

And so, this is how I found myself—boots soaked, hair astray, parka drenched—in the doorway of Bar Boulud sometime in mid-March, trekking the odious, brown snow-slush covered streets of Manhattan for a croque monsieur. I, being the unsuspecting (read: moronic) bridge-and-tunnel tourist, was a tad underdressed for the fancy eatery and was punished for it by receiving a visible sneer from the almost comically snobby French maître’d. Though the café looked rather empty in its midday lull, my lack of brunch reservation granted me only a seat at the bar, which I, personally, did not mind, but I could’ve sworn I saw a perverse satisfaction cross the maître’d’s face for a just split-second.

Nevertheless, all was forgotten when my meal arrived—hot and stinky. Yes, very hot and stinky, just the way I like my croque monsieur, all bubbly with layer after layer of freshly grated, perfectly aged Gruyère. Although a croque monsieur is basically no more than a glorified ham and cheese sandwich, it somehow finds itself to be the simplest, most satisfying method of consuming two thousand calories between bread. Besides, when Daniel Boulud—yes, as in the three Michelin-starred Daniel Boulud—makes a croque monsieur, you can be certain that the sum is greater than its humble parts. And what about those parts, huh? Freshly baked sourdough bread. House-cured ham from Bar Boulud’s world-renowned, critically acclaimed charcuterie experts. Decadent (and generously applied) béchamel. Gruyère on top of Gruyère, sealed with more béchamel, and then yet again speckled with Gruyère. Assembled, aged overnight, baked, and then broiled.

Of course, the end product was golden brown with crispy edges, a crunchy bottom, and an oozy, melted center. Every bite was absolutely glorious and perfectly contrasted by a small salad of mesclun and microgreens, dressed in extremely acidic vinaigrette. This was the type of sandwich (and establishment) where eating with a fork and knife was absolutely necessary, but I didn’t really mind. After all, the knife-fork requirement allowed me to mix in some salad with my largely apportioned bites, all while keeping my fingers free of cheesy grease.

Overall, at $16 a pop for just one sandwich, was Bar Boulud’s croque monsieur worth it, especially on a student’s budget? Unequivocally, I answer with a resounding “yes.” Frank Bruni was right. This was undoubtedly the best sandwich I’d ever eaten. And likewise, it was the best brunch I’d ever had as well. I would return again for the same meal in a heartbeat—braving the weather, the maître’d, and the price tag for just one bite. Though I’ve had many a croque monsieur in my life, including half a dozen alone at La Bonne Soup (also in Manhattan) and even one from Thomas Keller’s (widely regarded as the best chef in America) Bouchon in Las Vegas, I still find Daniel Boulud’s version the most delectable.

I would say, all in all, the only disappointment I suffered that day at Bar Boulud was not ordering seconds—this time topped with a fried egg, as in a croque madame. A buddy of mine ordered the croque madame, and I nearly shed a tear when the runny orange yolk oozed over the ham and cheese. I’m a sucker for anything with a runny yolk in it; it’s my greatest weakness. Alas, at $19 for a croque madame (yes, that’s $3 for an egg), my wallet stopped me before my stomach could protest any further.

And so, coming from this hypercritical eater, I announce that the Best Sandwich That Ever Was and the Best Thing I Ever Ate for Bunch are one in the same. For a sandwich that will clog your arteries but allow you to finally die happy, go to Bar Boulud.

The Best Thing I Ever Ate Edition

I have a confession to make: I’m obsessed with the show, The Best Thing I Ever Ate. Actually, I’m obsessed with the Food Network—period. Not-so-secretly, I want to be Mario Batali and Ina Garten’s love child. But as I have no relation to any of the venerable Food Network faces (especially not to that hack, Sandra Lee), I must settle and watch them speak once a week on Tuesday nights about their favorite foods. Let me explain the show’s format. Each episode has a theme, such as “The Best Thing I Ever Ate: Totally Fried” or “The Best Thing I Ever Ate: On a Stick.” Familiar Food Network faces like Ted Allen, Alton Brown, or Sunny Anderson present their favorite foods. They then hyperbolically speak about these dishes with agonizingly detailed descriptions complete with lip-smacking and tummy-rubbing, until they finally eat the food. We, the audience, salivate on sight—a la Pavlov’s dogs.

I know that right now the show sounds like torture, especially compared to the collegiate diet of soggy Subway sandwiches and Cup Noodles. Truth be told, there is a small sadomasochistic element present in watching the Food Network when one is hungry. Still, I can’t help myself. The Best Thing I Ever Ate is fast becoming The Best Thing I Ever Saw.

So, sure enough, I had to taste some of this stuff for myself. One can only watch so much deliciousness before said deliciousness must enter one’s tummy—and so began my days of hooky last year, taking the train into Manhattan for some good eats. Usually, my goal was to answer three questions: 1) Exactly how accurate was [insert Food Network chef here]’s description? 2) Did the Yelp page’s reviews lead me astray? 3) WWABD? What would Anthony Bourdain, my one true soul mate, do?

On a quest, my first Best Thing I Ever Ate taste test was from the “Between Bread” episode. Both Aaron Sanchez and Anne Burrell had chosen Nicky’s Vietnamese Sandwiches. Aaron enthusiastically displayed the tasty craftsmanship of the Classic Banh Mi, while Anne took on the Porkchop Banh Mi. And what did I do once I entered the tiny, two-table East Village joint? I ordered both. One classic, one porkchop, both with extra cilantro and extra Sriracha—just the way I like my banh mi.

Here’s my verdict-- all I had to say was “meh.” Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a snob. The sandwiches were completely satisfying, and worth a try if I’m in the neighborhood. But for all Aaron and Anne’s build up of the sandwiches, I couldn’t help feel a little disappointed. The classic was just a straight-up unoriginal classic with Vietnamese ham, roasted ground pork, pate, cilantro, pickled daikon, carrot, and cucumber slaw on a French baguette. The Porkchop was slightly better, slightly meatier, with the famous Vietnamese pork chop, the same slaw, and the same baguette. Both were relatively cheap (for New York, at least) with both sandwiches costing around $5.00.

For me, the problem is basically that similar banh mi sold at similar Vietnamese joints in nearby Chinatown proved equal in flavor—and usually faster in service and more varied in menu, to boot. Plus, add in the fact that I was infinitely spoiled, as I have recently traveled to Vietnam where my typical second-dinner consisted of street cart banh mi at a mere 50 cents a pop down Saigon’s alleys. I felt almost cheated for venturing all the way out to Alphabet City for an as-seen-on-TV sandwich, which was supposedly advertised as otherworldy, but failed. I wondered, were all the glowing Yelp reviews from unsuspecting Americans just trying banh mi for the first time? Perhaps that is why Nicky’s Vietnamese Sandwiches’s Yelp ratings are over-inflated. After all, banh mi is like pizza and sex, in that, even when it’s bad, it’s still pretty good. And when it’s really good, it’s freaking excellent. This banh mi, though? The baguette was a little too chewy. The pickled slaw was slightly overpickled and quickly losing some of its crunch. The accompanying drinks, bubble tea, Vietnamese drip coffee, and lychee soda, were overpriced and of mediocre quality. Finally, the nail in the coffin was, alas, when three separate parties ordered after me but received their meals first. That always kills me. Still, would I return to Nicky’s, even with all my unfulfilled expectations? Well, probably. After all, banh mi is still banh mi, right? Sex is still sex—even overpriced, overhyped, slightly over-pickled sex.

Tired of Oak N' Shields? Had mongo a few too many times? Check out these finds in college town and the commons...

The Connection

Aphrodisiac  - $19.99

821 Danby Road

Now I know Valentine’s Day passed but an aphrodisiac is the perfect thing to share with your loved one, or even the ones you love! This mix of a ten-inch heart shaped brownie, ben and jerry’s vanilla ice cream, whipped cream, and a chocolate rose will have you happy that The Connection specializes in delivery. Especially when you call back the third time asking for another.

Jack’s Grill

Grilled chicken dinner - $10.99

120 Dryden Road

Though they like to be known for their burgers, another item on the menu you should check out are Jack’s grilled chicken dinner. A nice alternative to burgers and a healthy alternative to breaded chicken tenders for we all seem to be health conscious these days.

That Burrito Place

Chicken burrito - $6.48

319 College Ave

From the mouths of babes, well actually, the mouths of the guys behind the counter, the chicken burrito is the best thing off the menu. If you don’t have time to go all the way to the one in the commons just stop by the one in collegetown for a quick burrito fix.

Taste of Thai

Pad See Eew - $9.95

216 E. State Street

Up for a night in the commons, or tired from a long day of shopping? Stop by at Taste of Thai right in the middle of the commons and have some yummy Pad Thai! I recommend the Pad See Eew. It’s a little different from your traditional pad thai, but just as delish! Especially when you get it with chicken. Even add some fried rice to your order to make it the best meal it can be!

Author: Ariella Weintraub