Despite evidence to the contrary — like when I wax on about syrup-ladling techniques and the sticky party of a fruit stem — I don’t consider myself much of a foodie. I’ve always thought of the stereotypical foodie as an epicure chaser, someone absorbed with finding the next talked-about drink, uber-dining experience or hard-to-come-by ingredient. While I love a transcendent meal as much as the next person with taste buds, my real fervor is for my pots, pans and measuring spoons. I really don’t care what Wylie Dufresne did with tomato confit; I just want to make apple pie as good as your grandmother.
That said, Alex and I have been doing something I consider very foodie-ish the last couple weekends: traveling miles (fine, blocks) for things New Yorkers usually talk about end-capped with a “You’ve got to try this. It really is the best.” My inner egotistical cook usually rolls her eyes in response; what baker can’t one-up the most basic cupcake recipe of the Magnolia Bakery, and with less attitude? But I’ve got to draw the line at these three delights we New Yorkers are likely the last to down. If you’ve got to occasionally fill your belly with confections crafted outside your kitchen, may they always be this magnificent.
The first, (and while shamefully not photographed, there are lovely images as well as a discussion of this and other fabulous NYC croissants at the Wandering Eater) was the plain croissant from Patisserie Claude. A butter assault of the awesomest variety, it has both the much-praised “shatter effect” of authentic croissants and inner plume-like moist layers, the polar opposite of the hollow shell impression I get from other highly-coveted ones. I cannot bestow any stronger praise on the bread than this: It’s better than any croissant we’ve eaten in Paris, and that this little, unassuming unparalleled culinary delight exists is one of my favorite things about New York.
Fueled by a hangover bequeathed to us at an Irish wedding the evening before, and the predictably strong need for grease, Alex and I set out for Yonah Schimmel’s Knish Bakery last Sunday. Alex, beholden to the old school, ordered his knish plain, dousing it in at least a 1:1 ratio with spicy brown mustard. Certain he was crazy not to choose the same, I ordered the roasted garlic and onion one and had it topped with cheddar. Yonah Schimmel’s is no place for restraint. I can’t describe it any better than this blurry picture, so I’ll leave you with that, and my accompanying cross-my-heart swear that I will never, ever eat again.
But first! A trip to the Doughnut Plant! This trove of deep-fried yeast has been around for over ten years, but the recipe dates back over 100, via the current owner’s grandfather. They make both cake and yeast doughnuts, but the cake one we tried, a Dulce De Leche filled creation actually forced upon us by the guy at the counter, tasted too close to that Dunkin Donuts texture I can’t stand. (A blasphemous comparison, I know.) The yeast ones, a Coconut Glazed for me and a Raspberry Glazed for Alex, however, were a thing of art, of taste bud fantasy, of plush, doughy dreams, of… Why are you still here? Really, go! What are you waiting for?
Patisserie Claude
187 W 4th Street
Yonah Schimmel Knish Bakery
137 East Houston Street
Doughnut Plant
279 Grand Street
[Like many-a-New Yorkers, I often get asked by people where they should go when they come to the city. I can’t help you much with site-seeing, but I can help you bring joy to your belly. Thus, I’ve just added a “Gulletry” category for adventures like this, and hope to stock it up very soon.]
