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 latest in our "Eating Solo" series: Raoul's, a French bistro stronghold in SoHo that—little-known fact—also serves the most coveted burger in the city.
Wanting what we can't have. It's irrational, and New Yorkers are especially susceptible to the affliction. We itch for the unattainable in all matters, from work to romance to social life.
A few weeks ago, I would have done a number of things to eat at the lauded WD-50 restaurant in the Lower East Side, which was shuttering amid a frenzy of media attention. (You may recall our OCTV scrambled eggs tutorial with head chef, Wylie Dufresne.)
I'd known about the restaurant for years, never giving much thought to trying it, but as soon as I heard it was closing—some were even flying across the country for last meals—an intense urge to visit gripped me. I showed up early one evening, pleading for a seat at the nearly empty bar to no avail. When I realized I wasn't getting in, a stone seemed to lift from my stomach, and I suddenly couldn't have cared less. But I observed how fast my feelings switched from desire to indifference, and realized just how potent, yet irrational, these sensations can be.
I indulge you with this story because it is this same psychological quirk—whatever its depressing Freudian explanation—which makes longtime SoHo bistro, Raoul's, an irresistible place for the solo diner. The restaurant is not inhospitable. It is warm, welcoming, and beloved to locals. But by design, one aspect of Raoul's toys with our affinity for things we can’t have.
The Prince Street institution has changed little since 1975, immersing diners in a sort of sophisticated bohemian time warp: dim lighting, elegant wood bar, glowing fish tank, a knowledgeable bartender, velvet curtains, newspaper rods, and stamped tin ceiling. Regulars enjoy classics like steak au poivre, foie gras, and rack of lamb. One meal, however, is difficult to acquire: an off-the-menu burger attainable only at the small nine-seat bar, of which only twelve are prepared per day. If you don’t order one in time, you don’t get one at all.
Your best bet is to arrive at 5:30 PM, when the kitchen opens. You might be seated next to a fellow burger pilgrim (or helplessly affected foodie, depending on how you look at it). By 6 PM one night last weekend, as I sipped a martini with my exclusive burger alongside three other diners, newcomers entered to ask, “Burgers sold out yet?” By 6:15, the answer was "yes."
The Raoul's burger has a following among burger aficionados, and food writer and burger historian Josh Ozersky recently dubbed it the greatest burger in America. It is undoubtedly impressive: served on buttered challah buns, the sizable patty is covered in a peppercorn crust, topped with heavy St. André cheese and a baby forest of watercress and cornichons which explode into crackling sourness, adding new flavor dimensions to the beef. It is served with fries and a cup of au poivre sauce, which you can dip the burger into, transforming the mess of it into a d
Wanting what we can't have. It's irrational, and New Yorkers are especially susceptible to the affliction. We itch for the unattainable in all matters, from work to romance to social life.
A few weeks ago, I would have done a number of things to eat at the lauded WD-50 restaurant in the Lower East Side, which was shuttering amid a frenzy of media attention. (You may recall our OCTV scrambled eggs tutorial with head chef, Wylie Dufresne.)
I'd known about the restaurant for years, never giving much thought to trying it, but as soon as I heard it was closing—some were even flying across the country for last meals—an intense urge to visit gripped me. I showed up early one evening, pleading for a seat at the nearly empty bar to no avail. When I realized I wasn't getting in, a stone seemed to lift from my stomach, and I suddenly couldn't have cared less. But I observed how fast my feelings switched from desire to indifference, and realized just how potent, yet irrational, these sensations can be.
I indulge you with this story because it is this same psychological quirk—whatever its depressing Freudian explanation—which makes longtime SoHo bistro, Raoul's, an irresistible place for the solo diner. The restaurant is not inhospitable. It is warm, welcoming, and beloved to locals. But by design, one aspect of Raoul's toys with our affinity for things we can’t have.
The Prince Street institution has changed little since 1975, immersing diners in a sort of sophisticated bohemian time warp: dim lighting, elegant wood bar, glowing fish tank, a knowledgeable bartender, velvet curtains, newspaper rods, and stamped tin ceiling. Regulars enjoy classics like steak au poivre, foie gras, and rack of lamb. One meal, however, is difficult to acquire: an off-the-menu burger attainable only at the small nine-seat bar, of which only twelve are prepared per day. If you don’t order one in time, you don’t get one at all.
Your best bet is to arrive at 5:30 PM, when the kitchen opens. You might be seated next to a fellow burger pilgrim (or helplessly affected foodie, depending on how you look at it). By 6 PM one night last weekend, as I sipped a martini with my exclusive burger alongside three other diners, newcomers entered to ask, “Burgers sold out yet?” By 6:15, the answer was "yes."
The Raoul's burger has a following among burger aficionados, and food writer and burger historian Josh Ozersky recently dubbed it the greatest burger in America. It is undoubtedly impressive: served on buttered challah buns, the sizable patty is covered in a peppercorn crust, topped with heavy St. André cheese and a baby forest of watercress and cornichons which explode into crackling sourness, adding new flavor dimensions to the beef. It is served with fries and a cup of au poivre sauce, which you can dip the burger into, transforming the mess of it into a d