If you asked me right this second to pick the best snack in New York City, I’d probably say Momofuku’s pork buns. And legions of loyal bun fanatics would probably agree. And if you’re not already one of them, you might ask, why pork buns, or more specifically, why Momofuku pork buns when there’s cheaper versions available in Chinatown?

I think it comes down to this—tender morsels of melt-in-your-mouth Berkshire pork belly, roasted crisp on the edges and layered with slivers of succulent fat. There’s no substitute for quality, and when something is better than bacon, you just can’t argue. Secondly, these are a particular a twist on the traditional bready Chinese pork bun. The pork is wrapped, taco-like, in sweet, spongey bread, and sparsely dressed with scallions, pickled cucumbers, and tangy hoisin. They come two to an order ($9) so you can share if you’re so inclined—but one is never enough.

Back in the day (and by that I mean 2004) we had to queue up at the sole Momofuku (which means “lucky peach” in Japanese) for our pork buns. Now of course we can get our fix at the other restaurants in chef David Chang’s mini-empire: Momofuku Ssaam Bar and Momofuku Milk Bar. But I was curious about returning to the original Momofuku, and seeing what it had to offer these days.

After a wait of about twenty minutes, we were seated at a long, modern bar, ideal for a party of two (the wait is likely longer for a table).  The appetizers were seasonal specials that may be out of rotation by now—but if they were any indication, Momofuku’s small plates are really, really good. My favorite was a seared diver sea scallop flecked with lime zest and floating in a bed of smoky, chili-spiked corn ($12 for a single scallop—but what a scallop it was). My next pick, a summer squash salad with pickled beets, perfectly dressed with tofu vinaigrette ($12), stood out for its pine-nut brittle topping, which I thought, with a passing horror, was a pile of Bacos.

After these starters, the main courses seemed a bit of a let-down. A bowl of ginger scallion noodles, although nicely flavored and cooked to a just-right springy texture, is, when you come right down to it, just a bowl of noodles. The ramen ($16) was a little more exciting, since at least it featured a lot of stuff: more delicious pork belly, shaved pork shoulder, scallions, fishcake, poached egg, and noodles. The broth was so salty, though, that I couldn’t help but wish for a bowl from nearby Japanese chains Ippudo, or Ramen Setagaya, instead.

Verdict: go for anything with pork and no broth. Try the seasonal specials and check out the ever-changing $30 prix-fixe dinner menu. Also, Momofuku now serves a fried chicken dinner ($100 for two whole chickens, moo shu pancakes, and vegetables) which, if you can handle the online reservation system, and have four buddies to split the cost, looks a helluva lot better than a KFC bucket.

Worshiping at the Altar of Ramen - NYTimes.com
Pork Bun Recipe - Gourmet.com

Momofuku Noodle Bar
171 First Ave., between 10th and 11th street
Lunch: daily 12pm-4pm, Dinner: Sun-Thu 5:30pm-11pm, Fri-Sat 5:30pm-12am

Vinegar Hill is only a mile from Manhattan, but it feels about a hundred years away from anywhere. It’s not just the early-19th century buildings along cobblestoned Hudson Avenue or the Federal-style Commandant’s mansion, perched on a hill above the Navy Yard, that transport you to another time. It’s the lack of cars and people, the and the blank, paint-chipped storefronts, that evoke a place that’s been sealed off; by housing projects and the BQE on one end, and by a vast humming Con Ed plant and pungent sewage treatment plant fumes on the other.

(corner of Hudson Ave. and Evans Street with Con Ed towers)

(doorway on Hudson Ave.)

(Looking East into the Navy Yard from Hudson Ave.)

Freeman’s chef Jean Adamson, willing to bet a few people will venture east of Dumbo, installed Vinegar Hill House in a former butcher’s shop about a year ago. I have to wonder what the locals must think of it. They might be dreading an onslaught of a certain breed of bearded, plaid-shirted hipster, harbingers of gentrification to come. But the place exists so quietly (at least on a Sunday evening) that it seems to fit its surroundings. No sign marks its entrance and most of the renovations have been kept indoors. The wide plank floors and thrift-shop decor evoke early, rustic Americana; the seasonal menu follows suit.

According to their website the menu changes each week, so quite possibly the dishes I tried will soon be out of rotation. I ordered the corn ravioli with jalapeno, bacon, and sage ($13). I never met a ravioli I didn’t like, but I appreciated the crunch of sweet corn in a creamy sauce, with salty bits of bacon. My snacking associate had the boneless braised short ribs with heirloom tomatoes and croutons ($21). The ribs were deliciously flavored and tender, while a bit of blue cheese added lots of tangy flavor to the sauce. A roasted corn salad with cabbage, lime and parmesean ($8) would’ve fared better with a bit less cheese. My cocktail of tequila and peychaud ($10), while potent, did not equal more than the sum of its parts and was my least favorite part of the meal. I had to ask the waiter to bring a basket of bread–shouldn’t this be de rigueur?–and proceeded to sop up every bit of delicious sauce from our entrees with it.

Other than this oversight, the service was friendly, and while I didn’t think the prices were a bargain, the food was hearty, inventive, and probably a few dollars cheaper than comparable fare in Manhattan. Mostly, I’d stop here for the pleasure of finding a mellow nook in a forgotten corner of the city. Walking home over the Brooklyn Bridge can’t hurt either, especially if you indulge in the chocolate Guinness cake.

More about Vinegar Hill on Forgotten-NY

Vinegar Hill House
72 Hudson Ave. between Front St. and Water St. Brooklyn
Mon.-Thurs. 6pm-11pm, Fri-Sat. 6pm-11:30pm. Brunch Sat.-Sun. 11-4.
(718) 522-1018

If I were to describe my ideal brunch, it would sound a lot like the one I had at recently at Supper. We rolled up at around 10:30am on a Saturday and were seated immediately in a shady spot on the sidewalk patio–no wait list, no hungry mob, and given the lack of foot traffic on East 2nd Street, I could easily imagine I was in a tranquil little spot upstate. Bold, fresh-brewed coffee laced with crema arrived on gleaming white saucers, along with a plate of fresh crusty bread and spicy white beans soaked in olive oil. Most appetizers only seem to fill me up, but this one properly whetted my appetite for some of the best french toast in the city. A pile of plump berries, bananas, and pecans nearly hid two slices of thick challah that were cooked with a buttery-crisp crust while remaining moist and chewy within ($9.95). A pat of raspberry butter–a nice touch–slowly melted its way into the dense, eggy bread. I’ve had superb French toast at both Franie’s Spuntino and Café Condessa, but Supper might be my top pick.

Eating french toast, while wonderful, is a little like having dessert to start your day, so I ordered grilled polenta, which they also serve at dinner. This was the more intriguing, if complicated dish. Two perfectly-poached eggs perched on four bars of rich polenta, served on a bed of prosciutto, under a mass of shaved fennel. With parmigiano cheese angled on top. It makes me exhausted to describe it, let alone eat it. Each ingredient individually was quite good, but I wasn’t quite successful at combining the moving pieces on my fork—they ought to throw this sucker on a sandwich! A side of thick-cut, crispy bacon provided a familiar, savory respite ($5.95). All told, two dishes were plenty to share between two people. With the bacon and with two coffees our bill came to $36 (minus tip).

Perhaps we lucked out by arriving earliy-ish, because judging from the food, the queues at dinner, and the popularity of the other two restaurants from this crew (Frank and Lil’ Frankie’s) I’d expect there to be more lines for brunch at Supper. Fortunately for us antisocially lazy types, you can get all this delivered. A roasted fennel and fontina omlette ($11.95) with a side of bread and mixed greens traveled quite well to my doorstep, while the french toast, in its pool of butter and berries, was a little bit worse for the journey.

Supper
156 E. 2nd Street between Ave. A and Ave. B
Mon-Thurs 8am-12am, Fri 8am-1am, Sat 10am-1am, Sun 10am-12am
Cash only, $10 minimum delivery (212) 477-7600

Would you wait for 35 minutes on the most touristy stretch of Bleecker Street to try real Neapolitan pizza? When in doubt about a new place, I scope out the people leaving the establishment. Do they roll onto the sidewalk looking food-stunned and satisfied? Are they sighing “oh wow,” and lovingly patting their swollen bellies as if they contained precious cargo?

Well then goddamnit I’ll wait. It’s not that long and after all, a pizzaholic’s work is never done. To Keste’s credit, they brought out fresh pies for people in line to sample, as if to allay any fears that your time and money might be better spent at long-established John’s across the street (where, on a Saturday night, the line looked just as bad).

What Keste has on John’s is buzz and authenticity. Real Neapolitan pizza adheres to certain guidelines that guarantee its character and its quality, and according to New York Magazine, Keste is leading the city’s Neapolitan pizza revolution. The pies I had at Keste made the fuss seem justified. The ingredients in my marghertia pizza ($12) were top-notch. The sauce was fresh and sweet and just a little bit tangy, complimenting the delicate richness of the generously-heaped bufala mozzarella. The had a distinctively smokey flavor from the wood oven along its edges, but got pretty soggy in the middle. For the sake of balance, I like a little more sturdiness and a little less smoke in my crust. I think Neapolitan pizza is supposed to be a bit wet, but compared to Una Pizza Napoletana (now regrettably closed) I don’t think the crust attained the heights capable by this kind of pie.

That was my only complaint, however, and I would definitely try Keste again, though maybe during a less hectic time. The salame pizza ($14) which came with fresh mozzarella instead of bufala, and prosciutto-thin cuts of salame, was also very good. My Menabrea beer was pleasantly more flavorful than standby Peroni, which is basically Italian Heineken.

Interestingly, Frank Bruni at The New York Times totally dissed Keste but liked ho-hum Veloce. Crust Is a Canvas For Pizza’s New Wave is required pizza fan reading.

More Snackish posts about pizza

Keste Pizza & Vino
271 Bleecker St. between Jones St. and Cornelia St.
Daily: 11:30am-12am
No delivery, takeout available