Handicapping the competition for Brisket King of NYC

Brisket is big business these days. After years of struggling in the Passover ghetto, the notoriously fickle cut of beef is having a full- fledged moment in the sun, thanks in large part to the awareness campaign begun some six years ago by New York’s Texas BBQ pioneers, Hill Country Barbecue Market. Unlike most other smoky locales, which worship the almighty hog, Texas has always been cattle country and, as the old saying goes, smoke ’em if you’ve got ’em. That’s not to say brisket doesn’t exist in other traditions, but it’s always been the ugly-duckling cousin to specialties like Carolina whole hog or Kansas City ribs.

Not so in Texas. There it’s all beef and it’s all good, from the Flintstones opening credits-worthy heft of the ribs to the Central Texas snap and spice of sausage. But the real test of the pitmaster’s art is the brisket—done wrong it’s a tragic husk, a cat’s cradle of stringy, lifeless fibers bound by a salty rub (no sauce to save you here). To do it right takes dedication and skill, which may be why New York chefs are almost monomaniacally focused on it (just ask Brisket Town-née-Lab’s Daniel Delaney). Now lifers and dilettantes are chasing the deckle dragon, after the perfect balance of fatty excess and smoke-laced, lean meat.

At next week’s Brisket King of NYC showdown, the city’s boldest will square off against reigning champion John Brown Smokehouse for the crown and the glory. The meaty affair now in its third year (the second under such regal auspices) is organized by Food Karma Projects, which could lead a master class in hosting tasting events. They’ve crowned victors in everything from gumbo to cassoulet, invaded Governors Island with pigs and celebrated craft beers, always with enough food and drink to go around and a ticket-selling philosophy that understands giving attendees a little elbow room is worth more than selling out to capacity every time.

While the rules of competition do not specify the BBQ treatment, it’s a safe bet that at least 75 percent of the dishes on offer will have gone through the smoker in some capacity; the lineup includes all of the city’s BBQ brisket Brahmins. There for the fight will be the aforementioned Delaney; Smorgasburg darlings and now brick-and-mortar East Villagers Mighty Quinn’s; Harlem grandpappy Dinosaur BBQ; the brand-new Fletcher’s Brooklyn BBQ, run by a former pitmaster for heavy hitters Wildwood and R.U.B.; lone ranger Robbie Richter, the Hill Country O.G.; and the reigning champs John Brown, back to defend their honor.

They’ll be rounded out by a broad selection of wild-card restaurants, from the Mediterranean/Middle Eastern-inflected Taboonette to the Caribbean Mango Seed, the Creole Tchoup Shop, and the grilled cheese specialists Melt Shop. Most interestingly, also on the roster are farms being represented by hired-gun chefs, clearly angling more for name recognition than for a chance at the big crown.  Of these, the most curious is Møsefund Farm’s apocryphal Mangalitsa pork brisket, which, we’re predicting, will get tons of audience love but no official recognition, like the Olympic figure skaters who were back-flipping before judges would give them any points for it.

Competition will be tough, but ultimately the field will be easily divided into a lot of sliced BBQ briskets served slider-style with a slaw, some just-like-bubbe-used-to-make braised versions, some way-outta-left-field (last year saw a deep-fried, panko-breaded meatball) and a few creative smoked treatments. The judges’ top three will be diplomatically representative, but our money’s on John Brown for the crown, for the Kansas City-style competitor has a secret weapon none of the Texas guys can match: burnt ends. Traditionally, the rub-encrusted, fatty ends of each brisket are saved up over the course of the week, held in their juices like a proper braise, and offered as a blink-and-you’ll miss-it special at the best KC smokehouses. It’s the best of both worlds; truly a brisket fit for a king.

Brisket King of NYC will take place Wednesday, Feb. 20, from 7 to 9 p.m. (VIP hour with open bar from 6 to 7 p.m.) at Santos Party House, 96 Lafayette St. Tickets are $45 or $75; to purchase, visit BrisketKingNYC.com.

Stop me if you’ve heard this one before: Valentine’s Day is a Hallmark sham, a manufactured non-holiday dreamed up in a craven bid to sell out-of-season roses in the middle of the long, dark winter. Singles hold this trope up like a string of garlic to ward off the vampiric specter of couples’ bliss, while longtime partners wearily use it to rationalize spending another night in sweatpants on the couch.

They’re right, to a point. There is nothing about Feb. 14 that demands plush hearts, teddy bears and cupids, boxes of chocolate and bouquets. But the original Saint Valentine made his name centuries ago when, right before his execution, he sent one final love note to his lady, signing it “From your Valentine.” Since then, the saint’s day has been a catalyst to fess up your true feelings, whether to a secret crush or the spouse you tell to empty the dishwasher more than you tell them how important they are. It’s a tradition that’s lasted more than 500 years—why mess up a good thing now?

Unfortunately, when it comes to dining on the day, too many restaurants fall back on the menu equivalent of the Russell Stover assortment: the caviar-steak-chocolate cake prix fixe. Rather than fall for this scourge of the Valentine-industrial complex, take a moment to consider the things that make your relationship unique, and do something meaningful to you. Go out for a meal that’s outside your usual routine, try a place you’ve been talking about for months, or stay in and cook something more complicated than pasta and jar sauce. Still not sure where to start? We’ve got you covered.

Was your first date a trip to the underground Flushing food court? Are you on a shared mission to try food from every country in the world? Head for Yunnan Kitchen (79 Clinton St., yunnankitchen.com), which specializes in the cuisine of this still relatively unfamiliar region of China in an atmosphere more conducive to hand-holding than most linoleum-lined Chinatown dens. Light, veg-focused fare that emphasizes unusual ingredients is the M.O. here—try the chrysanthemum salad.

Have kids? You’ve most likely been eating any meals out at ungodly early hours, in brightly lit barns that have room for tantrum throwing and crayon flinging (not that your kids do these things, of course). Do a 180 and have a Spanish night out at the tiny, dimly lit Txikito (240 Ninth Ave., txikitonyc.com). Arrive as late as you can stand to stay up—dinner in Spain doesn’t ever begin before 9 p.m.—and graze on the Basque specialty, pintxos, one- or two-bite toasts topped with everything from artichokes to foie gras.

Use V-Day as an excuse to restock your sugar high? Go for a three-course dessert meal at Chikalicious Dessert Bar (203 E. 10th St., chikalicious.com). Their seasonal approach to sweets means the menu is currently stocked with wintry options like hot caramel custard soup and butternut squash ice cream brûlée, all guaranteed to change the way you think about dessert (and keep you bouncing off the walls for hours).

Single? Take a page out of Amy Poehler’s Parks & Rec book and make it a gal-entine’s day (pal-entine’s day?). OK, you don’t have to go so far as embroidering faces on pillows, but there’s no reason not to take the day as an opportunity to appreciate whoever is special in your life, whether it’s your group of high-school besties or the people at work who listen sympathetically whenever Brenda in HR makes your life miserable. Crowd around a table at the wood-lined Rye House (11 W. 17th St., ryehousenyc.com), and raise a glass of the titular spirit (or bourbon, or scotch) from an extensive menu that’s helpfully organized by tasting notes. Bonus: This is probably the least crowded this cozy but decidedly un-romantic spot will ever get, so stretch out and enjoy the leg room.

No matter your circumstances, there’s a way to celebrate the holiday without inducing gags or yawns. This year, make sure old St. Valentine didn’t die in vain.

If you serve ramen in a restaurant with none of the traditional trappings, can it still be considered a proper ramen experience?

Zutto Japanese American Pub (77 Hudson St., zuttonyc.com) hopes so. No, not the Zutto you’re thinking of, though Tribeca stalwarts may be forgiven. For some 30 years or so, that name was the domain of the first and, for a long time, only sushi restaurant in what was still an amenity-free neighborhood.

While this erstwhile izakaya occupies the same address and bears the same name, it is very clearly Under New Management. In addition to a new real estate developer owner, the restaurant now has a kitchen run by a former wine director for Bouley and other fine dining landmarks in his first solo venture as chef. The resulting establishment shows some affinity with both sides of its heritage, though perhaps not enough in either direction to produce a coherent experience.
In addition to the all-important ramen (more on that in a moment), there is a variety of steamed buns (nikuman), blistered shishito peppers whose occasionally overwhelming bell pepperiness is tempered by a sharp hit of citrus, pork katsu cutlets and edamame, also charred to better effect than the usual boiled blandness. There is a sushi menu that does not completely eradicate Zutto’s baroque past, rather balancing the outlandish items like a foie gras roll and a short rib roll with a manageable list of pristine sushi and sashimi.

Then again, those nikuman are stuffed with, in addition to the standard braised pork belly, portobello mushroom and arugula or a miniature Kobe beef patty with oven-roasted tomatoes, a nightmare for both steamed bun aficionados and hamburger purists. There is a Thai green papaya salad on the menu for no discernible reason. And the large-format dishes number exactly two: a miso-glazed cod straight out of another Tribeca Japanese stalwart’s playbook and … steak frites?
Ultimately, the rest of the menu is window-dressing for what is the real star of Zutto’s universe: the ramen. The moment it arrives, any remaining doubts dissolve quietly in the steam rising from the bowl. Here, the kitchen joins its two worlds seamlessly. As any true ramen-ya knows, the soup is only as good as its broth, and the 48-hour-simmered tonkotsu broth is easily on par with the city’s widely acknowledged traditional best. The chicken-lightened shoyu base reads as pure chicken soup, in a way bubbies could only dream of replicating.

Flavor combinations burst the boundaries of the traditional in a way that feels revelatory, never forced. Wasabi oil on the wasabi shoyu ramen isn’t the full-frontal sinus attack it might be; the bite is barely present, allowing a floral grassiness to shine through instead. Briny clams in the kimchi ramen (not nearly as spicy as the caps-locked menu would have you believe) are an unexpected bright point in the deep, mildly funky soup. The only disappointment is in how sparingly toppings are handled, given how well they feature the kitchen’s trickier maneuvers—the few tiny clams in a recent bowl teased more than they satisfied.

Even for those who don’t remember the dark days of Tribeca, when Zutto was a beacon of civilization, this new incarnation has already become a go-to neighborhood stalwart. Even the menu’s more erratic moves allow it to appeal to a broader audience—cynical, perhaps, but if it keeps that ramen coming, nobody will take offense.

FireBird navigates the frozen tundra of the Theater District

“There is no such thing as Russian food,” says FireBird executive chef Paul Joseph. And while there are entire neighborhoods in Brooklyn that would take jingoistic offense at such a suggestion, over the course of a meal at FireBird (365 W. 46th St.; firebirdrestaurant.com), this starts to make a sort of existential sense. There is no Russian food; everything is Russian food. There is no Matrix; we are so deep within the Matrix we can no longer see it.

Or, more plainly, there is no Russian food in the same way there is no American food, and to write a menu of such would by necessity include dishes that are actually Southern and Midwestern, or of Italian or Hungarian origin. With a few exceptions, the foods we love are sloppily borrowed from other traditions, while the ones we can claim to have originated are fiercely regionalized (try putting a hot dog on that menu and just wait for the New Yorkers and the Chicagoans to start the next civil war).

But while our culinary history is one of the poor, the tired, the huddled masses bringing their mom’s recipes west to be misinterpreted for the next three or four generations, the Russians did this cultural appropriation dance with style. OK, style and a hearty dose of the old iron fist: When they weren’t copying the grand style of the French, the tsars were taking an interest in the cuisine of their neighbors by invading and forcing some poor serf to keep cooking it for them.

Style is where FireBird excels. If you’ve ever walked the side streets west of Times Square and lamented the number of beautiful old townhouses turned rather unceremoniously into restaurants, FireBird will set those doubts to rest permanently. With grand, curtained doorways and plush, padded banquettes providing an air of opulent coziness even when empty tables outnumber the occupied, there is no way the restaurant could exist anywhere else. It is a warren of these rooms, each encrusted with ancient daguerreotypes of men in fur coats, paintings of wintry street scenes, sepia-faded books and glass-enclosed suits of clothing, culminating in a parlor stuffed with settees situated around a fireplace under a grand crystal chandelier, marble busts looming.

The menu is similarly lavishly appointed, with less clear results. Succumbing to trend, every ingredient in every dish is listed along with its provenance, whether local from the Hudson Valley, as the wild boar, or Armenian, as the lamb. While it makes for interesting reading, it is only occasionally useful. Do we need to be told what a kulebiaka is (it’s a thrillingly Old World dish of puff pastry enclosing salmon, mushrooms and rice)? Absolutely. Do we gain anything from the knowledge that the chicken Kiev comes with a rocambole garlic sauce, which, it can only be presumed, was the demi-glace-ish pool in the bottom of the unwieldy bowl in which the cutlet is balanced? Not particularly.

The dishes that sing best are those left in their natural state. The menu begins with a page of caviars served with blini and “traditional accompaniments,” and if budget allows, they are a necessity, along with any selection from the two-page spread of the vodka list. There are a number of salads that illustrate the European fascination with mayonnaise; the best of these is the Olivier, which combines cubed carrots, cornichons, kielbasa and potatoes to bizarrely tasty effect. It’s served on top of a thin black bread toast and topped with a beautifully poached quail egg, and it tastes of hardship and luxury all at once, like it originated in an isolated palace on the frozen steppes.
While there may not be any such thing as Russian food, there is a Russian attitude: oversized, gilt-edged, slightly out of touch, proud. Too many restaurants in New York manage only to capture a few of these contradictory impulses; by these standards, FireBird is the most Russian restaurant in New York.

EATING HABITS AREN’T REALLY SO HARD TO CHANGE

Resolutions are an easy way to absolve yourself of the sins of December. Too much eggnog? You’re going to find the diet that really works. Black out at the company Christmas party? No more than one drink a week for you from now on! Suck wind at that Turkey Trot your cousin bullied you into? This is the year you run the marathon, somehow. That’s about the level of thought that most people put into their resolutions, which translates almost directly to the ease with which those resolutions fall by the wayside. Easy come, easy go.

But we are fans of using the New Year as an opportunity for taking stock. This exercise should be about behaviors and habits, breaking bad ones and making new good ones. It’s not about punishment and low self-esteem; most importantly, it’s not quantitative—you don’t get a gold star and permission to quit once you’ve lost those 12 pounds; make a fundamental shift and stick with it.
So. Now that you’ve awakened early to go for a jog exactly twice, only to discover that it’s still dark out at 6 a.m. and your bed is somehow exponentially more comfortable after that first snooze button, you’re ready to try on a different kind of resolution. Here are the ones we’re committing to this year.

Leave the borough. The amount of time we spend seeking out new restaurants is enough to have learned a new language. But the minute we see the address on that interesting new place is in Williamsburg, our defenses clamp down. “It’s so far! It’s full of hipsters!” Well, yes. But so is the Lower East Side, and we were first in line at the Bowery Diner.

To start, get yourself to Gwynnett Street (312 Graham Ave., Williamsburg; gwynnettst.com ) ASAP; it’s been the talk of the town all year and turned up on all the “Best of 2012” lists that matter. Whiskey bread to start and a seasonally driven menu full of surprising, comfortable combinations, exquisitely presented without toppling over into the precious, will be more than enough to outweigh that moustache-packed L train ride in.

Just say no to bacon. Yes, we know, bacon is delicious. It is concentrated fat and salt, two of the things our brains are chemically wired to seek out at all costs, so saying you love bacon is as unnecessary as expounding your love of oxygen. Unfortunately, chefs have started relying heavily on this meaty crutch to prop up otherwise unlovable dishes. This year, vow to read the menu in full, and don’t fall for the shiny object dangling in front of you. At brunch at Print (653 11th Ave.; printrestaurant.com), resist the maple bacon sticky buns, an overload of sweet topped with an obscene shower of chopped bacon, and go for a properly flaky croissant or semolina raisin bread French toast, a hearty foil to as much maple syrup as you can pour on.

Try things you think you don’t like. Obviously this does not apply to serious allergies. But if you’ve always hated mushrooms because they’re too slimy or avoided cabbage because you had an over-boiled boiled dinner as a kid, now’s the time to banish that old sense memory. Ninety-five percent of the time, the fault is with the chef, not the ingredient, so find someone you trust and put yourself in their hands.

If vegetables are the enemy, go kamikaze at Dirt Candy (430 E. 9th St.; dirtcandynyc.com), whose menu is entirely vegetarian, much of it vegan, and the restaurant nonetheless remains one of the New York Times’ favorite spots. Mushrooms don’t stand a chance against a portobello mousse served with truffled toast—chances are whatever your aversion might be, it will meet its match here as well. Unless you’re one of those people genetically programmed to hate cilantro. If so, we’re sorry.

By Regan Hofmann

We’re ready to declare 2012 the year of the death of the meal, and we couldn’t be happier about it. As more and more chefs embraced versatile dining, adding snacks to their menus, scaling down dishes or doing away with the old appetizer-entrée-dessert progression altogether, food got more inventive, more surprising and just plain better. For some, it was an opportunity to explore ideas that weren’t quite fully formed—instead of worrying about what the skillet cornbread should accompany, let people just order the bread and see if they like it. For others, it was a new challenge, a way to refocus their creativity after years of culinary success. And for indecisive diners (guilty as charged), it means you can order most of the menu without feeling like a monstrous glutton. From snacks to sandwiches, here are the ones you just have to try this year.

The samosa with chickpeas at Punjabi Deli (114 E. 14th St.) is a shockingly compact, intensely filling bowl of straight Indian comfort, a potato-and-pea samosa split, topped with a rich chickpea curry, tart chutneys and yogurt Jackson Pollock-ed over the top. It looks just awful, but after a bite, it’s the most beautiful thing in the world—oh, and it’s only $3.

The best Jewish deli sandwiches in New York are coming out of a Canadian kitchen, and we don’t care who hears us say it. All of the choices at Mile End Sandwich (53 Bond St., mileenddeli.com) are beyond reproach, but of them, The Beauty reigns supreme. It’s the apotheosis of the lox sandwich; a housemade, slightly sweet Montreal-style bagel, house-cured salmon, capers and thin-sliced red onion. There are no modernist flights of fancy here—the glory is in the classic elements’ flawless execution, in just the right proportions.

“Coffee tea with condensed milk toast” sounds like Menupages madlib, but is in fact the most exciting afternoon pick-me-up going. At Cha Chan Tang (45 Mott St.), the sleekest Hong Kong-style teahouse in Chinatown, bubble tea flavors range from the mundane to the exotic, but the best is this unlikely combination of two great tastes you had no idea went well together. Like a particularly strong Earl Grey minus the tannic edge, it’s excellent sipped alongside an inch-thick slice of soft white bread, barely toasted and drizzled with syrupy condensed milk.

Whatever you do, do not head directly for Bar Jamón (125 E. 17th St., casamononyc.com) to order the pan con tomate. Painful as the wait may be, hang on until summer, when tomatoes are back in season, to appreciate the pure genius of this deceptively simple Spanish mainstay. Grassy olive oil highlights the mellow sweetness of the perfectly ripe tomato smeared over crusty bread, the occasional heavy crystal of salt crackling on the tongue. Is it July yet?

M. Wells is dead; long live M. Wells! You’ll be pleased to know the fat-friendly, offal-loving mad genius of the dearly departed diner lives on in its new cafeteria home at MoMA PS1 (22-25 Jackson Ave., Queens). Word of advice: Scan the menu for the most baffling combination of words and order it. That’s how the chicken liver mousse with granola ended up on our table, an inspired savory take on the breakfast parfait. Salted pistachios, golden raisins, fried shallots and parsnip chips are bound together by a breathtaking scoop of creamy, funky mousse, a baffling combination that makes perfect sense on the first bite.

In a town that’s now got more steamed pork buns than hot dogs, Fun Buns (follow @funbunsnyc for locations) has somehow managed to rekindle the city’s affair with the mini meaty bites. The secret is their Taiwanese take; pork belly is braised in rock sugar and soy for a sweet, salty edge, then topped with sharp pickled mustard greens and chopped peanuts. It’s a brand-new flavor combination, enough to get New York to fall in love all over again.

In most of the United States, if all you knew about Spain came from the Spanish restaurants in your town, you’d be laboring under the impression that everyone in Spain listens exclusively to folk music, uses too much paprika and hasn’t yet reached the Iron Age, preferring to cook exclusively in terra cotta crocks. These are places to which you go out for tapas, apparently the staple food of Spaniards. Unlike many such national minstrel shows (the red-sauce Italian, moo-shu Chinese or plate-breaking Greek), these notions are based in a reality that continues to exist; however, they should never have come to represent a nation of millions.

In New York City, there is one kind of restaurant that is sorely lacking; one that is the bedrock of Spanish food culture. It’s a small, casual bar that just happens to serve better food than it needs to, a place where eating is not the point of your evening, it’s just an ever-present element thereof. You go out to meet friends, to talk, to hang out; you have some cheese, a plate of anchovies, a little bread to keep you going. Arguing about who makes the best pan con tomate and whether to get the squid or the chorizo may be most of the conversation, but you’ll never sit in front of a massive plate, taking photos and eating in silence until the next course comes. It’s aspirational living at its best, being incredibly exacting about food while treating it with the nonchalance it deserves.

This is what you get at Bar Jamón (125 E. 17th St., casamononyc.com), the round-the-corner companion to Mario Batali’s longstanding Casa Mono. The narrow, dark-wood-lined space is unforgivingly small, the room dominated by a winding, high-topped table and a narrow marble bar at the entry that also serves as wine display and prep space. Enormous mirrors cover the walls at both ends of the room, one marked in white with the menu, the other reflecting diners’ flushed, laughing faces back to them in the shimmer of candlelight.

It is a perfectly romantic location to put your date through a surreptitious battery of tests: Are they adventurous, or will they blanch when told that the “pulpo” in pulpo with spicy garbanzos is octopus (though you might let them—more for the rest of us!)? Can they appreciate a dish almost ludicrous in its simplicity like that pan con tomate, two slices of toasted bread smeared with olive oil and tomato pulp and a judicious scattering of chunky salt? It’s the best in the city precisely because of that simplicity, relying on the quality of the sharply green oil and obscenely red tomatoes rather than chef-y theatrics to dazzle.

Should your date fail the tests, there’s plenty to drown your sorrows in a wine list that is second to none for highlighting the varietals that are routinely overshadowed by dark red malbecs and tempranillos on most round-the-world wine lists. For a lighter way to spend your night, one of the Basque txakolis is the only way to go. What is otherwise an exceptionally well-balanced, mid-weight white is made sublime by its presentation: poured in a thin stream into a small carafe from as high as your waiter’s wingspan can manage, the aeration lending a slight effervescence that lurks without overpowering the palate. Like sparkling wines it pairs perfectly with rich, fatty foods like cheeses and the eponymous jamón, but as a heavier white it works just as well with brighter, more acidic foods like olives and stuffed piquillo peppers.

Whatever you do, don’t order all at once. Get one plate at a time, linger over your (generously sized) glass of wine, people-watch, have a real conversation with your companion. In other words, get Spanish.

Eating your way through the holiday market 

Over the past five years, pop-up holiday markets in the city’s larger public spaces (Union Square, Bryant Park, Columbus Circle) have become progressively monochrome, the Brooklyn-handicraft version of the tube-sock street fair. What were once venues for unique creative endeavors are now awash with the same five booths—hilariously screenprinted baby onesies, beaded jewelry straight out of summer camp, hand-carved Peruvian wooden wine boxes, framed illustrations torn from old science textbooks and purses made from license plates—repeating over and over like an M.C. Escher nightmare.

Paradoxically, the food options at these fairs have been getting better and better. Much as summertime events like Mad Sq. Eats and the Hester Street Fair have bested plain old street fairs by acting as incubators for small businesses and emphasizing variety over sheer abundance, so too do the holiday food vendors outshine their surroundings. No longer just a sugar-rush ghetto on the outskirts of town (though don’t worry, there are still plenty of sweets), these are bona fide food courts—with seating, even!

Now, if you spend too long ogling the hand-carved wind chimes, you have somewhere to restore your faculties—and maybe decide on a few edible gifts instead. Here are some of the best bets around town:

Taste of Persia (Union Square) undersells at the same time that they massively over-advertise—their menu is nonexistent save for a couple of scrawled-on styrofoam cups taped to the side of the booth (small and large, with prices. Meanwhile, the accolades they received from their appearance at the market last year literally paper the walls. The menu is secondary, really, as all they sell is a handful of soups, chief among them the “Persian vegetable noodle soup,” another remarkable understatement. (This glory has a proper name, ashreshteh, but that was apparently too much marketing for these guys.) The soup is rich and thick, but what really makes it is the à la minute assemblage of toppings afterward. From a compartmentalized condiment tray, spoonfuls of garlic, a yogurt-like whey and fried mint, black as night, add a welcome bitter, fragrant edge to an otherwise mellow cup. Eat it immediately—the toppings do not travel.

The bratwursts at German Delights (Columbus Circle) are to street hot dogs what the neighboring booths’ vintage subway map mugs are to a street fair’s plastic piña colada horns: higher quality, classier and way less embarrassing to carry around. Though the preparation is minimal and very street-dog-like—your options for topping are sauerkraut and mustard, though they are better versions of both—the robust flavor of the sausage shines through, making embellishments a moot point. Unless you’re willing to trek up to Yorktown, there are very few sources for fuss-free German fare in the city; take advantage of this one while you can.

The winner for most original vendor is Bryant Park’s Daisy’s Grits, the “only grits shop in the entire world and all of explored space,” according to them. I believe it. There aren’t many people who would stake their livelihoods on selling gussied-up versions of the Southern staple—options include Cantonese crab and vegan meatball—but bless their hearts, they’ve gone and made it a hit. Some flavors work better than others, and you’re generally better off erring on the side of tradition—creole chicken and collard greens are particularly good—but if you’re not sure, there’s always the option to add a pile of cheese (their words!) for $1. Now that’s money well spent.

For several years now, the good people at Stuffed Artisan Cannolis (Union Square) have been hoping theirs would be the next sweet nothing to hit the big time. After having suffered through the cupcake, mini cupcake, macaron and cake pop trends, we feel the same way. Their version of the old-school favorite is smaller than the one you might find on Arthur Avenue but not so small as to be foolishly “mini”; they’re just big enough to try a couple of flavors without having to roll yourself home. Oh, that’s right—did I not mention the flavors? In addition to good old-fashioned vanilla, seasonal flavors include pumpkin pie, eggnog and peppermint bark. Grab a box for your next holiday party and get ready to outshine all those who brought cupcakes.

THIS WEEKEND DOESN’T HAVE TO BE THE END OF THE LINE FOR THESE AUTUMN DELIGHTS

Thanksgiving is the last hurrah for the multitude of flavors that come together to spell “autumn” in our little lizard brains. Herbs like sage and rosemary, Brussels sprouts and squash, apples and ginger—soon we’ll say goodbye to all that and it’ll be all Christmas, all the time. Chocolate and peppermint will flavor absolutely everything—hell, they’ve already snuck their way into the Pringles can, once a bastion of salt. Orange and cinnamon will somehow find their way into the very air around you, like surplus oxygen pumped onto the casino floors in Vegas.

Some of this has to do with geographical seasonality—there’s only so much you can grow when there’s been 2 feet of snow on the ground for a month. But much more of it is due to the manufactured seasonality of holidays as consumer events. How are people supposed to go wild shopping for Christmas gifts on Black Friday if they still feel like it’s Thanksgiving, a time for being grateful for what you already have? How can you keep latte consumption running high without introducing a new limited-time-only flavor every three weeks?

Turns out seasonality means less and less these days, both from a meteorologic and a material perspective. Starbucks rolled out its holiday-branded cups weeks ago, along with all the eggnog/gingerbread/peppermint coffee-type beverages that go in them. And with a hurricane, massive snowstorm and mid-60s temperatures all within a week of each other, climate and season have only a passing acquaintance. So check out some of these autumnal flavors after Thanksgiving and assert your independence from the whole charade.

If you think you don’t like Brussels sprouts, you’re not alone. If all you’ve ever had are Aunt Gertie’s boiled-while-the-turkey’s-in rendition, there’s really not much to love. Cooked plainly, the little guys’ crucifer heritage comes out loud and clear, packing all the stench of boiled cabbage into a tiny, bite-sized parcel. But roasting opens them up to a world of caramelized sweetness, a slight bitter edge and the delightful contrast of tender interior and crisp exterior. Eat these anywhere, but especially at Mile End Sandwich (53 Bond St., mileenddeli.com), where they’re halved and tossed with shredded radicchio and a bacon vinaigrette that nestles in all the right crevices. It’s just the right thing to cut the richness of their signature Ruth Wilensky sandwich (that’s fried salami for us non- Montréalers).

Sure, there’ll be apple cider till Easter, but that over-spiced, over-sweetened hooch doesn’t do the apple justice. Over the years, New York has been home to some of the most brilliant apple breeders, who created a multitude of varieties that coax bright tartness, honeyed sweetness, floral undertones and more from the fruit. Go straight to the source at the Union Square farmers’ market, which is open all year round (apples keep for months in the right cold storage!), or try some of the seasonal sandwiches at Num Pang (21 E. 12th St. or 140 E. 41st St., numpangnyc.com), the Cambodian sandwich shop whose creations defy borders. Roasted, spiced chicken comes with slices of pickled apple, turkey breast is topped with a very Thanksgiving cranberry-apple chutney, and glazed pork belly is accompanied by Asian pear (OK, not an apple, but just as autumnal!).

For a full-on one-two punch of fall, try Crispo (240 W. 14th St., crisporestaurant.com) and their butternut squash tortelloni with chestnuts and sage. The below-the-radar Northern Italian spot (no mean feat for a restaurant that sits right on 14th Street) serves a variety of soul-warming pastas in a romantically low-lit, brick-lined room, along with plenty of their signature ingredients: prosecco, prosciutto and parmigiano. But the handmade pockets of rich, dense squash sweetened by the street vendor favorite, roasted chestnuts, and made savory with browned butter and fried sage, take the seasonal prize.

If you were downtown when the lights went out on Monday, it was an eerie reminder of just how vulnerable we are, how dependent on modern technology, how crummy our systems are. Then the power came back, we all celebrated and cleaned out our fridges, and got back to business as usual. Except it really didn’t. For downtown restaurants, the loss is more than just a week of business. It’s compounded by the major loss of inventory, and they are still expected to come up with Manhattan-sized rents every month. Restaurateurs have estimated that the real impact of the storm will not be felt for another six months, the amount of time it takes for cash reserves to be exhausted and past-due payments to come to bear.

A number of movements have sprung up in the past few days to help out. Dineoutnyc.org began as a simple Twitter hashtag and is now an online clearinghouse for information about those who need help and where and how to make donations or volunteer your time. The NYC Food Truck Association (nycfoodtrucks.org) is taking donations to pay its members to take a break from their regular routes and hand out free meals in the hardest-hit neighborhoods. But there are even smaller things you can do today, right now, that will make a huge difference.

Donate With Your Stomach

Maybe you’ve been meaning to make a donation to the Red Cross but just haven’t gotten around to it yet. Rather than sending that text message or going online, check out one of the many restaurants running specials that kill two birds with one stone—boosting their business and donating a portion of the proceeds to relief funds. Try Shake Shack’s special “Rally Shake,” check out the Queens Kickshaw today, when 100 percent of their proceeds are going to the Red Cross, or have a drink at the Beagle, which is donating a dollar for each cocktail poured.

Don’t Spend It All in One Place

You’ve got your morning routine down pat: free morning paper at the subway, coffee and a roll from the coffee cart on the corner. How about you buy your paper from the bodega next to the station? Get your roll from the cart, but try that cute little coffee shop down the block for your morning joe? You were going to spend the money anyway—by spreading it around, you give more businesses a fighting chance.

Eat Down, Tip Up

Another Twitter rallying cry, it’s a reminder that downtown restaurant workers, who lost a week of hourly pay, are historically underpaid anyway. Many positions are heavily tip-based, and those that aren’t, like dishwashers or bussers, are marginalized. Tip everyone, if you can, when you eat out, and tip more than you normally would. Usually a straight 15-percenter? Try 20. Kick a couple of bucks into the barista’s jar. If you’re out for a nice meal, send a $20 into the kitchen in addition to tipping your server.

Support Paid Sick Leave

Let your City Council member know that tips aren’t enough. The city is currently considering legislation that would give restaurant workers the freedom to take off from work when they need it without suffering the loss of a day’s wages, a measure that has the bonus of promoting food safety.

The scale of the recovery ahead can seem daunting, and unless you’re planning on quitting your job to build houses and, it can feel like you’re not doing enough. But the restaurant industry is a huge part of the city’s economy, and it employs those very same people whose houses need rebuilding. You’ve got to eat anyway—why not keep others fed while you’re at it?