The Americano is so delightful you may not want to leave

The words West Chelsea and Beautiful People are enough to strike fear into the hearts of most of us mere mortals—not just those of average self-esteem, but also the pretension averse, the perfume allergic and the food lovers.

These are not places you go to eat. They are for cold marble edges and low black leather banquettes on which to perch while nibbling on tiny empanadas that taste enough of sawdust to discourage second helpings. They are for an overlong champagne list and vodka cocktails. They are for reflective surfaces and spotting Jon Bon Jovi. They are the places for which the term “scene” was coined.

This could be used to describe the Americano (518 W. 27th St., betw. 10th & 11th Aves.), and in fact the place does fit the description—to a point. The break comes when you realize it is a place that is not just beautiful, it is one you actively want to spend time in. In fact, a first visit will likely find you planning your next before the meal’s end.

If it’s raining and you eat indoors, you’ll want to come back to have a drink at the rooftop bar. If you’re at the rooftop bar for drinks, you’ll want to come downstairs for a full meal once you pass the plates on your way out. You can do a full, multicourse dinner or a proliferation of small plates—both are a good idea.

One might be inclined to call the Americano’s multiple personalities an identity crisis, and it would be hard to disagree. That rooftop bar is called La Piscine (and there is, indeed, a tiny pool up there, though it should be foregone for the seats at the other end, which have a view of the High Line and the Hudson River), but the grill up there serves Greek hummus and babaganoush, branzino and kasseri cheese.

The dining room menu proffers “French food with a Latin flair,” which means there is a segregated section for things like carnitas with plantains, while the “Salades” include one of “Pulpo y Calamares” and the entrecôte comes with chimichurri. There is plenty of marble and black leather inside, but the entire rear wall of the dining room is a window looking out on the ivy-covered wall that supports the rear outdoor garden, a beautifully chaotic natural counterpoint to all the shiny edges indoors.

However, this all-things-to-all-people striving is more and more a common pitfall for the kind of hotel that wants to lure in local business while giving overnight guests whatever they might need. And in this regard, the Americano does much better than its counterparts.

Navigating the NoMad Hotel, whose restaurant, the much-anticipated second home of the team from 11 Madison Park, is its over-hyped crown jewel, is a logistical nightmare. Eating there, you pity the poor souls who paid money to wander at blank lobby in search of their room; eating at the Americano, you wonder whether it wouldn’t be a better idea to get a room for the night rather than go home.

Yes, your neighbors might be impossibly tall, vodka-drinking Beautiful People, but chances are you’ll both have just eaten the same tuna tostadas, tiny rounds of hard-fried tortilla topped with rare tuna, chipotle mayonnaise and a shower of slivered hearts of palm, and will want to commiserate about how good they were. If you’re lucky, they might even share a sip of their cocktail, a grapefruit-and-blood-orange concoction so refreshing you’ll kick yourself for overlooking it the first time.

They probably won’t have ordered the lamb saddle, but you should recommend it to them; it’s a delicate, perfectly cooked portion with a bracingly sharp mustard jus and sweetly salted pistachios and the hard-to-find panisse, a French Mediterranean cake of chickpea flour that’s somewhere between polenta and bread but twice as tasty.

And when they rave about the crudités, don’t roll your eyes and dismiss it. An assortment of the world’s most precious spring vegetables come, tops attached, in shallow bowl of “dirt,” olive crumbs over a layer of crème fraiche. It’s amusing and pretty to look at, but there’s more to it than simple appearances and it’s ultimately a deeply satisfying, inarguably enjoyable experience—a perfect synecdoche for the Americano itself.

There have been times when I haven’t wanted to venture into another neighborhood to try “the great new restaurant” simply because it seemed like too much trouble. Sometimes New York, for all the opportunities it offers, can become like a boyfriend you tolerate—in fact, you think you’re doing him a favor by dating him—until someone else comes along and goes after him like he’s the top prize at a church bazaar. Only then do you remember why you liked him in the first place.

Sarabeth’s pumpkin waffles are worth a trip from the West Coast. Photo by Andrew Schwartz

Such was my recent experience when my dear friend, who lived here for a decade 20 years ago, returned to our city for a visit. Spending time with Cecile just proved to me that so often, you don’t know what you’ve got to be thankful for until you see it through someone else’s eyes.

“I love this area,” Cecile was heard to say more than once, when we were walking around. I found myself questioning when the last time was that I strolled around Carnegie Hill or Yorkville or the Upper West Side and uttered, “I love this area.” I’m usually power walking down the block trying to get where I’m going, maneuvering around people who always seem to be in my way. Sometimes I don’t notice what area I’m in.

I, like so many of us, had been going through a period of disenchantment. It’s easy to start feeling as though you hate that which you love, taking New York City for granted or blaming it for all your woes. And the city isn’t exactly innocent. It antagonizes us with protracted projects like the Second Avenue subway or the World Trade Center memorial. It baits us with crowds everywhere, and mocks us with raised cab fares and yet, no raises for those of us lucky enough to still be employed and no jobs for those unlucky enough to still be looking for work. Let’s not forget the traffic tie-ups when elected officials visit, or the turmoil created when we hear that we will be hosting the perpetrators of the September 11th terrorist attacks.

And then there’s the inequality and realization that the rules don’t seem to apply to everybody. That’s why a town that has a two-term limit for mayor now has a mayor serving a third term, and why Caroline Kennedy, with no political experience, was taken seriously as a contender for U.S. Senate.

Even with all this being the case, I hate being a hater when it comes to the Manhattan I love. But once the “I’ve-got-a-beef” ball gets a rollin’, it’s hard to bring it to a halt. It may take a village to raise a child, but sometimes it takes an “outta towna” to show we natives what to be thankful for in our own city.

“The best part of coming back is seeing that the places I used to go to are still here,” said Cecile, who moved to East 93rd Street in 1979 and moved back to California in 1989. When she was here she lived that Carrie Bradshaw-esque life (before Carrie B. even existed) as an advertising art director at two worldwide agencies. Much of that time, she had a boyfriend with whom to share the New York nightlife.

Aside from some restaurants and stores she used to frequent, as well as Wollman Rink, where she used to ice skate, Cecile also took in the museums and walked around sightseeing “like the tourist I now am.” Upon seeing Cooper Union at Astor Place, she reminisced about a concert she’d seen there. Then reeled off some factoid about how Abraham Lincoln had once given a speech there.

Who knows this kind of stuff? Do you? New York was one of the 13 original colonies. We are surrounded by history here. How many of us bother to really learn about where we live? Cecile did.

“When I first moved to New York, I had this guidebook—and I used it. It was really important to me to learn about all the different buildings and everything in the city. The buildings are so old and so gorgeous to look at. They’re a treat for your eyes. That’s what I love about this city. When I lived here I made a point to see everything and go everywhere at least once or twice,” Cecile said

But for all that she remembers New York being the way she left it, Cecile acknowledged, of course, that things had changed—for the better!

“They’ve beautified things,” she said, pointing to landscaping around the bases of trees on the avenues and streets that add flora to the neighborhoods.

The High Line: a creative way to salvage a relic in disrepair.

She also noted that New York has gotten to be a greener city. Cecile noticed a lot more bikers and shrieked, “Oh my God, there’s bike lanes? Who would have thought you’d ever find so many New Yorkers riding bikes, instead of taking a cab or the bus?”

She also made a point to mention that cabs are nicer now: “There’s the little screen with the map that reports the weather and the news. It gives you something to do as the cabs are whizzing down the avenues.”

Up until then, disgruntled me had just considered it another intrusion of everyday life. Since she put a positive spin on it, though, I’ve made a point to not automatically turn off Taxi TV after telling the Eyewitness News team to shut up.

I also took to heart her observation that as a whole, New York has become a gentler city, emphasizing that service people are definitely much friendlier. “They’re willing to help you. They don’t snap at you like back in the day,” she said. I’m willing to give her the benefit of the doubt.

She also noticed that the city was cleaner, and that there seemed to be fewer homeless people than when she lived here. That was the era of the squeegee men, who used to wipe your windshield whether you liked it or not. Also, the trains were full of graffiti.

What hasn’t changed?

“New Yorkers have always had great style. The shoes, the bags; people still look great,” Cecile said.

Yes, we do, don’t we?

For all her walks down memory lane, she did want to see what’s new, so she headed downtown to the High Line, the place that started out as a creative way to salvage a relic in disrepair, then became a controversy about taxing local businesses and flasher hotel patrons.

“Incredible,” she extolled, adding that she loved Chelsea Market. “The way it’s done with the sculptures and steel is really great.” (Yet another thing I’ve never bothered to notice.)

She seemed a little sad, though, when it became apparent that time and distance had diminished some New York recollections—like referring to Columbus Avenue as Columbus Street. She also seemed shocked that New York had so many joggers. I had to remind her that long ago and far away, she used to run around the reservoir. “I totally forgot I used to do that,” she said.

Despite not being able to recall every little detail of what she did two decades ago, overall the memory of being a New Yorker is something that Cecile will cherish forever.

“I’m really proud and grateful I got to live here,” she said.

And so should be all of us. Happy Thanksgiving.

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Lorraine Duffy Merkl’s debut novel, Fat Chick, from The Vineyard Press, is coming soon.