Hidden in plain sight
it's my duty not to gatekeep this one
Every few months, like clockwork, things get a little wonky. Even with longer days and warmth on the horizon, the transitory period from 5 p.m. sunsets and 20-degree days to weeks of rain with the odd 70-and-sunny afternoon makes me feel weird. Anytime the seasons start to change, I feel a need to recalibrate somehow—which usually transpires as a desire to leave the city, to spend time alone, an overwhelming move from the E to the I that share split custody of my Myers-Briggs results. The introversion that comes out every once in a while reappears in full force. It’s never a bad thing, just a bit of a shift—changing how I spend my time and use my energy.
New York can be a hard place to lean into a spell of introversion. New York can also be the best place to lean into a spell of introversion. It’s all a matter of finding the spaces that feel good. Lately, those have been my 6:15, 105-degree Monday yoga class; the home two of my best friends are building together just a short walk from my place; my kitchen when I’m cooking for myself; my kitchen when I’m baking for my friends, to warm their aforementioned home; the grocery store (Union Market feels particularly good); and the new udon place tucked away in my neighborhood.
There are very few places I’ve wanted to write about within minutes of my first visit. This was one of them.
Heading south on Franklin, you’re unlikely to turn right. There aren’t many reasons to leave the main drag and waltz down a row of residential buildings—unless, of course, you know how good the sushi cups from Silver Rice are and have journeyed to their window for some fresh fish packed into a paper coffee cup. Tucked just out of view, hidden behind the awning of its neighboring restaurant, sits Don Udon. When the sign went up this winter, I hadn’t even noticed that an empty restaurant sat there. I waited patiently for opening, and then waited patiently to have a moment to step inside, at long last.
At the end of a weird and very long day, after a not-very-restful weekend, I decided that despite the pre-prepared food in my fridge, I was in need of some warmth. This, to me, was just the right occasion to sit down for a bowl of udon. It was an especially dreary day: the temperature never dipped above 45, the rain was spitting from dark gray clouds all afternoon, and it was unpleasantly windy.
Approaching the door, it was easy to forget how strange my day had been. I was greeted by a smiling face that popped out of the kitchen for just a moment—I told them it would just be me, and I was seated at the end of the counter. I looked over the menu, and on any other day would’ve had an insane challenge narrowing down my options. Curry, unagi-don, soba noodles were all calling to me, but I knew hot udon was what I needed. I was drawn to the huge sheets of inari and tempura flakes that came on the vegan set and went for it. I also ordered a small app that came within minutes: soft marinated and grilled eel served over thinly sliced cucumber dressed in yuzu. The cucumbers had softened and absorbed the distinctly sweet citrus that only yuzu can provide. Each bite I picked up with my chopsticks tasted better than the last. I’d come back for the eel alone.
A few things to note as I made my way through the meal: ten short stools wrapped around a small kitchen concealed by small curtains. Four more stools sat parallel, facing the windows. There were never more than two seats open at a time while I was there, as people filtered in and out before their 9:30 close. There was no music, and I didn’t have my headphones in. I was staring into space, eating salty food, and watching drops of rain slide down the glass in front of me. It was a sort of mind-numbing calm that I don’t find often—unless I’m on a long run or in the middle of a time-consuming baking project. The space was filled with a mix of people, but it was clear these were all neighbors who had dropped in for a cozy dinner. I saw other solo diners, I saw friends knee-to-knee in the throes of catching up, kids with their mom gossiping about their roommates.
The kind woman who brought me my food apologized to the guests at the counter as she reached above their heads, the chef handing her a tray over a makeshift pass. My bowl of soup arrived moments later, with two spoons (each a different shape) and a bowl full of crunchy tempura crumbs, which nearly disintegrated the moment they touched the hot broth.
The broth…the broth!!!! It was sweeter than expected, with a depth of flavor I couldn’t totally place. There was a bit of yuzu—a brightness that seemed to wake up the scallions and wakame. Less fishy or meaty than the typical bowl of udon, the deep-colored broth was rich with what I assume was a combination of kelp and shiitake mushrooms. I couldn’t dream of replicating a broth like that. The noodles were soft and chewy—and the bowl was topped with soft seaweed, sharp spring onion, and long sheets of sweet, pillowy inari floating on top. The crunchy tempura bites counteracted the otherwise soft and chewy textures, though those, too, added more softness as they succumbed to the bowl’s heat.
I sat, looking around, eavesdropping, staring out a still-foggy window, and reveled in something rich and special that felt like it had been whipped up with such care and ease. There was nothing fancy about it. It was so good—good enough that I ate the entire thing. Full of soup, I smiled, said thank you, and walked my two blocks home.
It felt like being let in on a secret—a retreat just minutes from my home where I could slip away, revel in something delicious, and be on my merry way. It felt really good to sit there, alone, listening to nothing in particular, downing a bowl of soup. I want to bring my parents here. I want to bring my friends here. I want to come back and eat alone… all the time.
Some gems are worth keeping to yourself. This one needed to be shared. Walk in, be patient, be kind, tip well.
A few other gems that I think offer the same level of coziness (hopefully in your neighborhood!)