We try to explore new brunch places, but when you have a favorite, its hard to give up that comfy and assured goodness. Cafe Habana is our reliable pillar of brunch strength in Nolita so when my good friend from the college days, Tannaz, came into town we took her straight there. Despite the thicket of oft-obnoxious supermodels and hipsters that also call this tiny eatery home, I am still loyal because of the splendid, vivid food at a cut-rate price. We've been known to wait for up to 30 minutes for this place, so you know its good. The meal started the way they all have: with a double order of their grilled corn. Unfortunately I didn't take any pictures and just ate it, but
here's one. Eat your heart out!
The
Corona Michelada was first introduced to me by Pham and Amy awhile back. Once partaken, there's no going back, I've been hooked on them ever since. Served as a tall glass of lime juice generously spiked with hot sauce, you pour the cold bottle of Corona into the glass and watch the magic happen. Like a beer-garita! Or a golden [bloodless] mary!
A foray into the sacred realm of the
fish taco proved successful. I was nervous at first. I have a special reverence for this one golden child of Baja California and I've had my heart broken by poor facsimiles before. But encouraged to branch out from my usual torta de aguacate, I enthusiastically wolfed this down. Appropriately beer-battered and topped with thin-shredded cabbage, it met all the basic requirements. The fish (probably a cod or other white flaky species) had a nice char along with the crisp batter. My only minor gripe is that there was no chipotle smokiness or creamy white sauce. But these are a point of taste, I suppose.
Eric's
quesadilla with chorizo, avocado, and lots of spicy cheese tucked into roasted-pepper tortillas. Dee-licious!
Tannazie's
huevos rancheros (you just can't beat that color!)
Out front of the cafe is... Beautiful people and random street trash: big Dior sunglasses barely notice the half-empty bag of rice and old restaurant wok perched on a rattan cabinet.
Cafe Habana
17 Prince Street (at Elizabeth), Nolita
212.625.2002
You know how I feel about the vile Meatpacking District. By this time, I've surely broadcasted my vehement disdain for this place everytime a friend reprimands me for having flaked-out on some group event. Invariably, I say "but the friggin' Meatpacking District totally sucks" and somehow feel vindicated in not having shown up to someone's birthday party. I mean... I'm sorry I didn't make it to your Grandma's wake but it was in the MPD and that makes it suck. And its way far west. And it comprises the most pretentious and ostentatiously vacuous stretch of clubs and eateries this side of Hollywood Blvd. No wait, even the Chateau Marmont is more down to earth than the godforsaken MPD! (And believe me, I know... in college we tried to sneak in there). Which is why I was elated when Gawker started their Rancid: How the Meatpacking District Went Bad expose series. It's about time the world knew! Thank you, Jessica Coen!! In your final days as the arbiter of all things judgemental, you have created your most lasting legacy: The Meatpacking District Pledge. I have already committed this pledge to heart and will cite it immediately upon any occasion whereas I am asked to go there. You should too. Because its totally the most bogus neighborhood in New York City. Fuck you, Keith McNally, I choose your pricey brioche at Balthazar, not Pastis! Oh yeah, and Spice Market is totally 2002. Get over it.
