Generation Chef by Karen Stabiner Read Free Book Online Page A

would.
    There was a nice space in Brooklyn’s Cobble Hill neighborhood, one of a string of rapidly gentrifying neighborhoods that ran south of the gold mine that was Williamsburg, where the streets were gridlocked ongood-weather weekends with people either walking to or waiting outside of restaurants. That kind of business had to spread, so this might be a good time to get an advantageous lease in a less developed area, but the space he looked at had no basement, which meant not enough room for storage or prep. It was so close to right, though; he felt more inclined to take the next decent candidate in nearby Carroll Gardens. He offered less than the asking price, to buy a little time while the landlord considered the offer, and then he went to dinner at a local restaurant.
    It did little to increase his enthusiasm, because there wasn’t much foot traffic. He called a manager at a nearby place to get advice, a woman he’d worked with at Maialino, and she warned him that it was a family neighborhood, “not a hip, young crowd, less adventurous eaters, a quiet corner.” Not the kind of place where diners might want to eat little bites standing near the bar, or clamor for charred octopus, or linger late into the night. He decided not to proceed.
    He began to feel as though he’d looked at every available space in Williamsburg, the neighborhood that was still his first choice, but they were all too expensive, as Brooklyn prices started to outstrip some Manhattan neighborhoods. He added Manhattan’s East Village to his map, although he was skeptical that he’d find anything he could afford, and was walking out of an unpromising space with a listing broker when Peter Hoffman rode up on his bicycle. Just like that, everything changed: Hoffman knew the realtor, vouched for Jonah, and headed off, and the realtor, suddenly more enthusiastic, wondered if Jonah might like to look at another place nearby. He’d just gotten the keys, hadn’t been there himself, and while there was a for-lease sign in the window, it wasn’t yet listed online. It was on the market but not really on the market.
    They walked over to 107 First Avenue, a transitional space on a transitional block whose storefronts alternated between then and now. Onedoor to the south was Empellón Cocina, the second of three restaurants owned by chef Alex Stupak, who had been a pastry chef at wd~50, Wiley Dufresne’s temple to molecular gastronomy. Stupak gave up pastry to concentrate on Mexican food that was as different from traditional Mexican fare as his desserts had been from pie and cake and ice cream, and he went on to do what Jonah wanted to do, expanded from a West Village taqueria to this place, with a third on the way.
    One door to the north was the Polish G.I. Delicatessen, owned by an Israeli who had bought it from the original Polish owner, whose initials were G.I.—a lineage that accounted for the hamantaschen in the display case in the spring, followed in the summer by a handwritten sign announcing that it was time for homemade cold beet borscht, place your order inside. Across the street, an entrenched fast-food row: Dunkin’ Donuts, 31 Flavors, Subway, and a massive two-story McDonald’s with a huge banner. Around the corner, an uncompromising espresso bar built for quality, not comfort.
    Only three blocks up, a line formed daily during the short break between lunch and dinner service at David Chang’s Momofuku Noodle Bar, as dozens of people, many of them consulting guidebooks and maps, gathered in the hope of getting a seat when the restaurant opened at five thirty. After that, the wait time grew in proportion to the attractiveness of the hour, and by eight o’clock it was possible to spend as much time waiting as eating. The noodle bar was the most famous destination on a strip that ran with dwindling intensity from the 14th Street L subway station at the top, past the block Jonah was