I can’t believe I’m saying this, but ten years ago I had an essay in Sari Botton’s wonderful collection Never Can Say Goodbye. If you aren’t familiar, it was the follow-up to the Goodbye to All That collection Sari had edited a few years before, which had a bunch of great essays by writers about leaving New York City. Never Can Say Goodbye was the other side of the discussion: a bunch of great writers including Alexander Chee, Adelle Waldman, Rachel Syme, and lil’ ol’ me in the second spot right after Rosanne Cash’s essay on why we just can’t quit this place. I wrote about how I’ll always be happy as long as there are new bars and restaurants for me to discover, but I also wrote a little about DuMont, my first true aspirational restaurant. 20 years ago, long before just about anything you can think of that has ruined the art of discovery and when the idea of even going to Brooklyn was still a joke to most people who lived outside of it, DuMont was it. People actually got on the L train from Manhattan and got off at Bedford to try it. Everybody talked about the burger and mac and cheese, and I’d just smile and nod because I could barely afford rent so I was sticking with homemade spaghetti and butter with some garlic powder and pepper. But once I had a little money in my bank and got my first check for writing something, I went there to celebrate. It was the first time in my life I felt like I’d done something of any importance.
That DuMont location is no longer around. There’s a whole tragic story about the owner and the downfall of the place you can read about elsewhere. But a thing I’ve noticed in the last few years is that while DuMont didn’t stick around, many of the other places I considered “aspirational” did. I suppose that makes sense since the reason they were places I aspired to try was because they were a little on the pricey side and out of my reach. But the fact is that restaurant owners are often just getting by no matter how popular or expensive, and surviving in New York City is difficult even if you’ve got Michelin stars or Pete Wells wrote a review that wasn’t just glowing, it was deemed radioactive by a nuclear watchdog. I know that’s just a fact in this city, but I always felt like Mary’s Fish Camp, another of the places I used to slink past and wonder when I’d be able to eat there, would always stick around. Not just because it was great and almost always packed, but because it felt like a neighborhood spot. I’ve always figured neighborhood spots have a bit higher of a survival rate. And Mary’s, on a cute little corner in the West Village, felt like it truly belonged there forever. It always made sense to me in that exact spot. When I was younger, I’d walk by it and everybody inside looked so cool and adult, and when I was older and finally got to eat there, I was always happy with my experience.
But nothing lasts forever. Mary’s announced it’s closing up the shop at the end of April. When I read that, my mind immediately went to being 23 and walking home from a shift at Magnolia Bakery with 20 bucks in my pocket from the tips we got that night. It’s a composite of memories. I spent dozens of nights taking that trip and Mary’s always looked so fun and alive. Even up until recently when I passed it, I thought how nice it was to see the seafood spot packed and looking the same as it did in the early aughts. It felt good and natural and not some spot for people chasing TikTok glory. Places like that seem to be a dying thing in Manhattan, and there’s something so sad about that to me. But only maybe slightly more depressing is that all the restaurants I once considered aspirational are gone, save for some of the McNally-built bistros like Balthazar and Odeon. It was nice to always have places I could walk past and get a reminder of where I once was and what I had hoped for. I got to eventually eat at almost all of those places, but not many were worth going to a second time. Mary’s Fish Camp was. And that’s why reading that it’s going away cut me a little deeper.
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