Solo eating establishments—the truly great ones—require a precise atmosphere. Some are quiet and discreet. Others are unexpected and lie in plain sight. But they can all be difficult to find in a metropolis. Alex Vadukul presents a new one here on the first week of every month. The third in the "Eating Solo" series: Tracks, a seafood-oriented commuter favorite in the heart of Pennsylvania station that boasts the best Guinness pour in town.
Solo eaters cherish restaurants they can feel unreachable to the outside world in, but it’s hard finding genuine sanctuaries in our metropolis. Perhaps they no longer truly even exist in these hyper-connected times. Certain establishments, however, offer the potent illusion of pure solitude, the appearance of cutting the cord tethering us to the city’s commotion.
What better place to feel out-of-reach than underground? Options for good subterranean dining are limited, but a gem just happens to lie in the busiest of places, in the unglamorous soot-lined depths of Pennsylvania Station, amid harried commuters, subway musicians, and shuffling time boards. The station’s lower floor discreetly houses Tracks, a raw bar and grill designed in the style of a long classic train car.
It opened a decade ago and has since become an institution among its commuter clientele. So, sure, regulars know each other and are far from lonesome. But outsiders can approach it like a mystical inn at the ends of the earth or something out of the nourish scene in Hopper’s Nighthawks. The feeling is amplified when you walk past the long bar (which Tracks claims as the city’s longest), past the glistening table covered with plump clams and oysters on ice, and into the quaint restaurant. To complete your fortress of solitude, secure one of the red Orient Express-esque looking booths.
The menu is far above what you would expect for subterranean fare. I was reluctant to try raw seafood in an environment I normally associate with filth and general commuting misery, but it’s a large part of the restaurant’s identity, so I did. I can attest my clams and oysters were fresh and vibrant; their brines each distinct and carrying the flavor of their respective watery body origins. Frankly, the mollusks can more than compete with offerings at some first-rate steakhouses, and are offered at more affordable prices. I ordered second helpings from their sizeable selection.
Crab cakes, served with chipotle and cilantro aioli, are delightful, prepared with spice and gusto—a welcome change from average uninventive crab cakes served all over town. The New England Clam Chowder was flavorful and balanced in its clam bits ratio. The shrimp cocktail is well regarded, as are their steaks and beer battered cod sandwiches. The burger is also a winner. Tracks has a good beer selection, but I’d recommend ordering Guinness. The restaurant prides itself on its Guinness pours, deemed first-class by an official Guinness inspector, as evidenced on a certificate hanging on the wall (sitting not far from a sealed bag of “Official Irish dirt”).
Eating at a booth by yourself can also turn you into an inevitable eavesdropper, if you are a solo eater who appreciates that sort of thing. Some commuter camaraderie is fun to overhear, pulling you away from your drink and oysters.
If you eat at Tracks al
Solo eaters cherish restaurants they can feel unreachable to the outside world in, but it’s hard finding genuine sanctuaries in our metropolis. Perhaps they no longer truly even exist in these hyper-connected times. Certain establishments, however, offer the potent illusion of pure solitude, the appearance of cutting the cord tethering us to the city’s commotion.
It opened a decade ago and has since become an institution among its commuter clientele. So, sure, regulars know each other and are far from lonesome. But outsiders can approach it like a mystical inn at the ends of the earth or something out of the nourish scene in Hopper’s Nighthawks. The feeling is amplified when you walk past the long bar (which Tracks claims as the city’s longest), past the glistening table covered with plump clams and oysters on ice, and into the quaint restaurant. To complete your fortress of solitude, secure one of the red Orient Express-esque looking booths.
The menu is far above what you would expect for subterranean fare. I was reluctant to try raw seafood in an environment I normally associate with filth and general commuting misery, but it’s a large part of the restaurant’s identity, so I did. I can attest my clams and oysters were fresh and vibrant; their brines each distinct and carrying the flavor of their respective watery body origins. Frankly, the mollusks can more than compete with offerings at some first-rate steakhouses, and are offered at more affordable prices. I ordered second helpings from their sizeable selection.
Crab cakes, served with chipotle and cilantro aioli, are delightful, prepared with spice and gusto—a welcome change from average uninventive crab cakes served all over town. The New England Clam Chowder was flavorful and balanced in its clam bits ratio. The shrimp cocktail is well regarded, as are their steaks and beer battered cod sandwiches. The burger is also a winner. Tracks has a good beer selection, but I’d recommend ordering Guinness. The restaurant prides itself on its Guinness pours, deemed first-class by an official Guinness inspector, as evidenced on a certificate hanging on the wall (sitting not far from a sealed bag of “Official Irish dirt”).
Eating at a booth by yourself can also turn you into an inevitable eavesdropper, if you are a solo eater who appreciates that sort of thing. Some commuter camaraderie is fun to overhear, pulling you away from your drink and oysters.
If you eat at Tracks al
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Kathy Lo
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Petra Collins
