Daniel S. Meyer

You eat all the time. Your taste buds speak every flavor’s language—even umami—and your stomach is a general assembly meeting of the culinary United Nations. You eat things you can’t pronounce. You’re not even always sure what’s on your plate. But you’re up for it. We get you. So we’ve put together the 100 absolutely best new dishes and drinks we tasted this year—no, we haven’t eaten at Eleven Madison Park yet, either—with a wallet-friendly average price point of just $14. And we’ve divided them into 10 categories: everything from favorites at food trucks and crafty cocktails at the best bars to vegan delights and the latest in dreamy desserts. Gorge responsibly. RECOMMENDED: See all of the best dishes and drinks in NYC

This artful vegetarian restaurant—which moved from its original East Village basement digs to a Murray Hill townhouse—is likely the city’s most accomplished practitioner of shojin cuisine, a type of hyperseasonal vegan cooking that originated in Zen Buddhism, and is at the foundation of the Japanese kaiseki tradition. For those seeking meat, the closest you’ll get are the seafood and eggs served at lunch in Kajitsu’s sister restaurant, Kokage, downstairs. Upstairs are Kajitsu's main dining room—small and bare, with large windows, straight lines and light finished wood—and an eight-seat chef’s counter. You choose from three ever-changing menus—four courses, eight or a counter-only omakase—each paired with sake if you like. These meals unfold at a languid pace—the longer menus creeping toward three hours—but the attentive service keeps fidgeting at bay. There’s no music—jarring at first—and the patrons at the counter are hushed, a refreshing quiet that’s punctuated by the incongruous clacking of chef Ryota Ueshima’s wooden clogs. Ingredients change by the month, but recent preparations include harusame noodles soup with shitake, pine nuts and spring vegetables. Then there are plates like the spring gelée, an orb of vegetable-stock jelly—studded with okra and mountain yam—that registers bland until you taste it with the bright, tart “noodles,” made from jellied vinegar and soy, that snap it into focus. These symbiotic relationships are everywhere: in the soft, house-made soba,

It’s hard to believe that a few short years ago, meathead chefs ruled the day, pushing gout-baiting, nose-to-tail feasts and plundering pork-belly reserves into short supply. In those go-go times of beast worship, the seasonal-vegetable gospel played more humming background note than rip-roaring solo. That is, until a worldwide foraging craze made field pickings cool again and signature vegetable dishes became the new reputation makers. John Fraser—chef-owner of Michelin-starred Dovetail—is the latest adopter of the vegetable high altar, and his carrots Wellington at Narcissa sends up a fittingly sublime hymn. For a dish that sounds like the token vegetarian option at a bad 1980s wedding, this Wellington is entirely novel. The sweet, brined carrots are tinged hauntingly bitter by a coffee-cocoa rub, their juicy flesh downright pampered by buttery puff pastry and silky sunchoke puree ($20). The restaurant space itself is less than transcendent, about as navigable as the Bermuda Triangle, with a basement bathroom two zip codes away and a main dining area chopped up by wooden masts and zigzag banquettes. This carpeted room would look like a Marriott breakfast buffet were it not filled with black-clad art directors and Coen brothers look-alikes. But a card-carrying locavore chef couldn’t ask for a better home than the Standard East Village hotel, whose proprietor André Balazs owns an upstate farm that funnels produce directly to the kitchen. And John Fraser proves to be one of th

Deep into the night, six of us sat around an undersize table shuffling small plates back and forth like poker chips. When the dust settled, we took a final tally: Of the 18 tapas consumed, the number of memorable dishes was precisely one. While almost nothing at Telepan Local is bad, too much is easily forgettable. That’s a bitter pill considering this is farm-to-table pioneer Bill Telepan’s first opening since his lauded Upper West Side flagship. The chef’s Tribeca outpost is a chic barn filled with more unfinished boards than a Home Depot; gleaming subway tiles spruce up the rough-hewn wood, while stylish grazers give the countrified room a downtown vibe. There’s only one jaw-dropping headliner on a menu that’s filled with so-so opening acts. Typically ho-hum watercress ($9) is transformed into a bewitching plate, its fresh leaves dredged and fried crisp like a tempura salad, with chili-oil vinaigrette amplifying the trace spiciness of the greens. Beyond that seasonal stunner, there are preposterously chewy grilled octopus ($15) and pizzette ($14) no better than a grab-and-go slice. Overeager servers gush about every dish, as if they can will you into loving things that you will merely find okay: smoky trout and salty croutons entangled in pleasantly supple scrambled eggs ($12); sweet, barely seared bay scallops lined up on a muddy sidewalk of mushroom puree ($16). But neither is worthy of its flowery introduction. The kitchen banks on strength in numbers, as if the clown c

New York may be the culinary capital of the world, but when it comes to great diners, it’s not even on the map. While New Jersey normally lives in Gotham’s shadow, the Garden State has us beat by a meringue-whipped mile when it comes to hash houses. Or at least it did. At the revamped Empire Diner, ridiculously fluffy buttermilk pancakes ($11) give tattered Jersey joints a run for their money. The crisp-edged clouds reduce galleryhopping sophisticates to shameless jockeying for the last bite at the crowded counter. Those all-day-breakfast beauties come courtesy of Food Network toque—and Jersey native—Amanda Freitag, who has taken over the beloved old Empire, polishing one of New York’s most iconic greasy spoons into a sceney, fan-baiting dining room. Lined with padded booths, tiled floors and glossy chrome, the shimmering steel warhorse looks the part, but this ain’t a mom-and-pop truck stop. Instead of chain-smoking waitresses who call you “sweetie” or “hon,” there are suave, fresh-faced servers offering pickled jalapeño martinis, and skate wings ($11): crisp, tender fillets that soak up butter-rich buffalo sauce even better than a bird. Freitag’s playful riffs on diner classics can be revelatory, like firm slips of everything-bagel-spiced gravlax ($12), paired not with pedestrian cream cheese but with luxe burrata and briny roe. At times, though, her gussied-up renditions leave you longing for solid originals. A thin, salty oyster pan roast ($19) is too stingy with silky po

Restaurateur Chris Cannon was once the Dr. Dre of New York Italian dining, producing smash successes with chefs Scott Conant (L’Impero, Alto) and Michael White (Convivio, Marea). Now, three years after a very public split with White, Cannon is back in the spotlight. His much-anticipated return, All’onda, isn’t pure Italian, but a modern hybrid, tinting the food of Venice with the flavors of Japan. The mash-up comes courtesy of chef Chris Jaeckle, who earned his Italian stripes at Ai Fiori, after sharpening his Japanese skills at Morimoto. Delicate border-crossing cuisine unfolds inside a duplex, sleek in cool shades of gray and polished wood. All’onda shows occasional bursts of brilliance. Jaeckle’s Italian cooking leans to the East with a lyrical hamachi crudo ($17) tickled by olive oil and soy, or creamy fried sweetbreads ($18) spun smoky by fluttering bonito flakes. But the nouveau fusion falters with ricotta tortellini ($17) bobbing like wontons in undersalted kombu-Parmesan broth, a discordant mingling of dairy and dashi. Those tortellini are a rare misstep in a lineup of solid midcourse pastas, the best of which boast rich sauces levitated by acid. Lemon brightens toothsome bucatini ($19), decadently slicked in smoked-uni cream sauce; vinegar rouses snail-shaped lumache ($19), with a gamey ragù bearing five-day-aged duck and the trace bitterness of chocolate. Compared with the stunner pastas that precede them, All’onda’s mains mostly fizzle. Two fillets of skate ($25) c

Atop Anglo pub the Shakespeare is luxe clubhouse the Peacock, creating an upstairs-downstairs dynamic worthy of Downton Abbey. The rich-wooded space smacks of old money, perhaps a lingering ghost of the hotel’s former tenant, the Williams College club. With four separate rooms, the stately complex recalls a game of Clue. But instead of Colonel Mustard, you’ll find businessmen sucking down Scotch in the library, or postcollege couples tilting heads beneath the Waterford chandelier in the dining room. The only disruptions to the convincingly 19th-century vibe are hotel guests tapping on their laptops in the bar. The Peacock’s food isn’t particularly worthy of its dapper digs. Short-rib pie ($26) features melting hunks of beef and flaky puff pastry, marred by the unrelenting funk of Stilton. Lamb curry ($27) vexes too, tender-enough meat wronged by watery sauce and mushy rice. Still, British chef Robert Aikens (London’s Le Gavroche, Philly's the Dandelion) isn’t lacking finesse altogether. Instead of a tired trope, his beet salad ($15) is a sweet-tart synergy of roasted and pickled roots, amplified by beet juice vinaigrette. Beef tartare ($16) also improves upon the bistro norm, a creamy, truffle-tinged mix loaded into crunchy Yorkshire-pudding cups instead of ubiquitous toast. The same fish-and-chips ($26) and bangers and mash ($21) available at the Shakespeare cost more up here; save those rib-stickers for a night at the pub, and spend your extra dollars on the silky roasted s

Like Michael Jordan in his prime, It chef Danny Bowien—who rocketed to culinary superstardom for his revelatory Szechuan at Mission Chinese Food—up and switched disciplines. While Bowien’s got more talent for Mexican than MJ had for baseball, at Mission Cantina, he’s far from the top of his game. He still plays to packed crowds of bohos and bankers, tinting them pink with neon lights, just like he did at that fun-loving weird disco of a restaurant, Mission Chinese. (The NYC location shuttered last November due to mice scuttling in from an adjacent construction project.) The haute-casual Latin dishes seldom mesmerize in the way we know Bowien can, and it’s not on account of any shortage of ambition: Most restaurants outsource their masa or tortillas, but this joint puts forth the herculean effort to stone grind and nixtamalize (braise in pickling lime) dried heirloom corn kernels into masa. It pays huge dividends in the form of intensely corny, delicately puffed tortillas. But the tacos themselves are hit or miss—that format is perhaps too confining to reflect Bowien's outsize creative endeavors. One boasts tender, deeply charred nuggets of pork cheek ($6.50), while another suffers from mealy, too-firm chunks of pumpkin ($6). Livery beef tongue ($6.50) is roused by pickled tomatoes, but a sleepy combo of braised octopus and grilled turkey wing ($6.50) is all texture, no flavor. The genre-bending stunners we’ve come to expect from Bowien exist beyond the taco template. Crisp ch

When dapper Yiming Wang and Xian Zhang stealthily debuted Café China in 2011, it held a singularity on the spectrum of Szechuan restaurants. Neither gilded midtown warhorse, outer-borough shanty nor nouveau fusion trendsetter, the elegant spot earned a Michelin star for its boho style and fresh renditions of classic dishes. Like its older sibling, China Blue feels fashionable, but not overdressed in its 1930s decor. Wang and Zhang have switched from Café China’s chili-spiked Szechuan to the much tamer flavors of Shanghai for their sophomore effort, but they’ve retained their trademark aesthetic. The high-ceilinged, teal-swabbed dining room is unlike the city’s other exemplars of the regional cuisine (Joe’s Shanghai, Shanghai Cafe Deluxe), showcasing antique lamps, worn books and old typewriters like Art Deco calling cards. Young waiters whisk delicate, crab-rich soup dumplings ($10) to tables, while smartly dressed couples sip classic cocktails from etched-glass coupes. Where Café China relies on the one-two punch of chilies and Szechuan peppercorns, China Blue offers subtler interplays among salty, smoky and sweet. Slices of cold poached chicken ($12) go on a 24-hour bender, their soft, “drunken” flesh sloshing in a heady marinade of sweet rice wine and salty broth. Firm shreds of tofu, chicken and cured Chinese ham ($18) soak up the flavors of a brackish, smoky pork stock. The delicate sweetness of Shanghainese cuisine emerges in fried slivers of Asian swamp eel ($14), crun

It’s a bizarre world in which Manhattanites would sooner brave the bearded frontiers of Bushwick for a meal than zip up to Harlem, but the culinary revival that’s transformed Brooklyn into a dining destination has left Harlem in its artisanal dust. Three years ago, Marcus Samuelsson’s Red Rooster Harlem finally gave us something to cluck about. The Cecil may lack Samuelsson’s culinary star power—chef Alexander Smalls and his fat-cat partner, former Time Warner CEO Richard Parsons, are mostly unknown entities in the food world—but it should nevertheless inspire a trek uptown. Ella Fitzgerald and Billie Holiday once crooned next door at legendary jazz club Minton’s Playhouse—also recently revamped by Parsons. But these days you’ll have to settle for single ladies purring over cocktails in the sultry front lounge. Paintings of a pensive woman and a geisha gaze at each other across the spacious dining room, where low-burning globe lamps reveal a crowd as diverse as the U.N. The menu frightens at first glance with its cross-cultural abandon; there’s fried rice next to burgers next to gumbo, like at a mall food court. But there’s a method to this madness. Smalls is cooking from the far-flung larder of the African diaspora, charting its influence on global cuisines from Asia to the Americas. That’s how delicately spiced, citrus-scented jerk bass ($26) shares the table with Brazilian feijoada ($27), a classic black bean and meat stew that musters rib-sticking depth from jiggling oxta

The farm-to-table movement took Brooklyn like a counterculture riptide, leaving in its kale-strewn wake a glut of seasonal spots serving composed plates in down-home haunts. In the most recent twist of the borough’s dining evolution, those scruffy locavores have put out more polished sophomore efforts—hipster shanty Roberta’s spun off sleek tasting room Blanca, while T-shirt-clad Franny’s gave way to the urbane Marco’s. With their debut, the perpetually mobbed Battersby, chefs Walker Stern and Joe Ogrodnek dance the high-low jig particularly well, serving fine-dining food in a boisterous room. At Dover, the setting is more serene, and the food even more refined. A central bar anchors the unadorned space, where couples on the brink of parenthood lean close over Ikea-esque tables. While the spartan decor is a bit of a snooze, the menu is anything but. Dish after dish, Stern and Ogrodnek throw down big flavors, never failing to whip them into a surprisingly delicate balance. Small, crisp cauliflower florets ($12) swerve salty in a dressing of colatura (Italian anchovy sauce), but are straightened sweet by plump raisins and chopped hazelnuts. Lusty grilled lamb ribs ($28) and tender slips of eggplant get a briny slap from Thai fish sauce, but are soothed by a blanket of fried garlic, crushed peanuts and fresh herbs. The young chefs also have a knack for creating subtle tensions between sweet and tart. A slab of confited pork belly ($15) mingles with roasted fruits and vegetables,

Once confined to the sad heat-lamp preserve of supermarkets, rotisserie chickens have put a little shine on their spits lately—just see the much-ballyhooed versions at joints like Lafayette, Uncle Boons and Mission Cantina. Now, at Rotisserie Georgette, the primitive alchemy of spit roasting takes center stage in a setting more opulent than a deli case. Owner Georgette Farkas spent 17 years as communications director for Daniel Boulud, before opening this high-ceilinged chapel of twirling meat. Clothless tables and butterscotch banquettes project a beauty more natural than that of the nip-tucked Upper East Side ladies who dine there. With gleaming rotisseries spinning whole birds in the back, appetizers feel like perfunctory foreplay, a customary—if somewhat tedious—buildup to the main event. Fluffy, mushroom-rich Parisienne gnocchi ($18) disintegrate too quickly, while frisée-lardons salad ($16) screams for an oozing egg yolk to accompany its scant crumbling of blue cheese. Better to beeline straight for the headliner: a silver skillet cradling the regal poule de luxe for two ($72). Newly-minted chef Chad Brauze—a cohort of Farkas from his days as sous chef at Daniel—dry-brines the pampered chicken overnight, dehydrating the skin so it roasts to a shattering crisp. Juicy breasts are topped with fat-tinged panko-mushroom stuffing; you could eat a pint, but will have to settle for a thin layer, supporting the seared foie gras perched on top of the bird. The humbler route is po

These days, New York’s Chinese food scene is in full-blown revival mode, fueled by red-hot joints like RedFarm and Mission Chinese Food, edging out dated fixations on cheap and “authentic” with promises of locavore and cool. The latest restaurant to take a 21st-century crack at Chinese is Fung Tu, from Nom Wah Tea Parlor scion Wilson Tang and Per Se vet Jonathan Wu. In their slender, wood-rich room, cultural references are subtler than the typical red-lantern kitsch; spindly Pyrex light fixtures—made by Wu’s artist wife—were inspired by Chinese lattice patterns. They cast a gentle glow on tight-sweatered scenesters and beach-wood booths as stiff as church pews. Rather than intensifying flavors, Wu’s cerebral plates subdue them. Ribbons of celtuce ($13) are vexingly tasteless, even slicked with buttery popcorn puree and the salty ooze of a soft-boiled, soy-soaked egg. A beige slab of broad-bean curd terrine ($13) is doused with chili oil, but conjures up little more than solid, grainy hummus. More disappointing than these creative offerings are reinterpreted classics sapped of their trademark allure. Buttery steamed buns ($12) cocoon a mushy, salt-starved mix of vegetables and glass noodles; a bowl of gummy, spaetzle-esque knots of dough topped with heat-deficient chili-pork sauce ($19) are meant to reference mapo tofu, but recall overcooked Hamburger Helper. Wu’s best dishes summon more assertive flavors. Steamed whole sea bream ($28) is salt-licked by pungent fermented black