The 5 NYC Spots I Visit For The Best 'New York Happy Meals'
New York is, famously, nonstop. After moving here for grad school right before the pandemic, the hustle and bustle hit me like a ton of bricks, and I still find that no matter the ambition of my day or the noise cancellation of my headphones, the psychic turbulence of the daily grind is overstimulating. In this rattled state, I discovered the therapeutic nature of the New York Happy Meal. The precise recipe is one-third martini, one-third fries, and one-third ambience, and, much like a martini itself, all three components must be perfectly balanced.
The drink is adults-only, icy, saline, and baptismal. French fries are comforting in a way that pulls at your stomach's heartstrings with finger-licking nostalgia. Culinarily, it's a perfect match. Most food is not improved by a martini, and most martinis are distracted by food. Fries are the rare exception. Sizzling and salty, they soak up the alcohol like hot little sponges, and amplify the refreshing minerality of the martini. Consume them together in a refuge so gracious that it draws a temporary boundary between you and the city, and you will feel your frequency recalibrate immediately.
The "meal" part is sardonic, because no nutritionists are going to recommend a big cup of alcohol and a basket of fried carbohydrates as a balanced meal. But that's not the point. The whole ritual should feel like it opens a portal out of the fight-or-flight of the city's chaos, and back into your body. Just remember to follow Dorothy Parker's wisdom, and have only "one martini, two at the most..."
These are my go-to spots for the city's most elegant but unserious nervous system reset, where the lighting is gentle, the service makes you feel held (not herded), and the meal, eponymously, makes you happy in New York.
Hawksmoor
This is where the New York Happy Meal shows its most classical form. Every element at Hawksmoor feels extra-special, and it's one of the only restaurants on the list that feels genuinely spacious and serene, almost library-like. Hawksmoor is a "British steakhouse" set in the gorgeous, 150-year-old United Charities building in Gramercy Park, with soaring ceilings, green velvet upholstery, and, supposedly, the coldest martini in town.
A good martini, which Hawksmoor gets just right, should be straightforwardly freezing, proportionate, and easy to drink, rather than sharp or histrionic. It's the ultimate test of a bartender, because it can't hide behind complexity. It's defined as much by what's absent as what's present, and there are no syrups or craft flourishes. The ingredients must be high-quality enough that the bartender's real job is to get out of their way; precision and restraint are the core identity of the drink. A well-composed martini settles your spirit. A bad martini haunts you.
Hawksmoor's fries are cooked in real beef tallow, imbuing a deep richness that pairs beautifully with a dirty martini, the salt and brine of which cut through the hot fat like an icicle, allowing the drink to be truly cool and refreshing. The elements of the establishment come together to exemplify the platonic ideal of the New York Happy Meal: cold, fat, salt, and space, working together to ground you.
Hawksmoor usually requires a reservation, but the ideal moment here is at the end of lunch, when the room is still open, and the crowds have thinned. You can sit side-by-side on the green velvet banquette, quietly pick at fries, sip your martini, and take in the Gilded Age calm. When the room, the drink, and the fries are all properly done, the city loosens its grip.
Turk's Inn
Located in an area I would describe as the Times Square of Bushwick — on that particularly nocturnal stretch of Wyckoff just off the Jefferson L stop that is a veritable see-and-be-seen traveler's bazaar of hawkers, birria food trucks, and clubs so hot people take the train from Manhattan to stand in line outside of them — Turk's Inn is my living room away from my living room, and the definition of chaotic maximalism. Originally, this was a mid-century, mid-country restaurant, which was brought, piece by piece, from Wisconsin to Bushwick in 2015. The restaurant feels like inside the bottle from "I Dream of Jeannie" — the bar is shaped like a paisley, the mascot is a judgmental Persian cat, and everything that can be textured or tasseled is so.
The fries are crinkle cut, allowing for more surface area for their Ottoman spices. It has a rotating cocktail menu, and while Turk's Inn might not explicitly specialize in martinis, they specialize in making you feel comfortable and happy. Their bartenders are kind, skilled, and game. You feel safe in their hands, knowing there's no need for a second location, because all your needs (a chilled coupe glass, choice of gin or vodka, and nice, meaty olives) can be met by just staying there. You can melt into the ambience.
I recommend dressing up in your best pattern-clashing fit, meeting up with a group of friends, and sitting in one of the two coveted round tables. If someone in the group doesn't want to stick strictly to a martini and fries, the cherry cosmo is my second favorite, and their seasonal salads are always bright and full of fresh herbs and toasted seeds.
Cipriani Dolci
Cipriani Dolci sits ethereally in the open air on the Western balcony of Grand Central Station, overlooking the main train hall. Through the miracle of acoustics, the roaring din below is swaddled into an ambient drone, and you can suddenly hear yourself think. In a building built to serve weary travelers — which offers nowhere to sit for free, despite being one of the city's grandest public spaces — this is significant.
Down below, everyone is balancing backpacks and suitcases, snapping selfies to synthesize the simulacrum, and generally missing the big picture. The zodiac mural stretches across the vast ceiling, a painted map of celestial order presiding over the chaos of human movement. At Cipriani Dolci, you too can ever-so-slightly rise above. The crowds surge and wane, the train schedules flicker, but you're suspended, sipping something cold and contemplating the meaning of motion, and how many millions of people have passed through this massive, historic liminal space.
The service at Cipriani Dolci is formal in a European way, and the martinis are served with old-school confidence. This is the only place I deviate from my usual dirty vodka martini and choose gin with a twist. The glassware is delicate, almost petite, an elegant counterpoint to the massive stone architecture surrounding you. A haystack of skinny fries arrives as crispy and precise as the white tablecloths.
Cipriani Dolci is the ideal place to give yourself a moment to shed the stress and grime of the day and become a human being again, before once again descending like a rat into the subterranean subway tunnels below for your commute. Here, with a martini in one hand and a french fry in the other, you remember, if only for a moment, that you're more than just a passenger — you're a person.
Cozy Royale
Cozy Royale is slightly off the beaten Williamsburg path, which is a good thing; it resists spectacle and feels fully ensconced in its neighborhood. From the outside, it's an unassuming stucco-walled tavern. Inside, it's a grown-up clubhouse: the lights are low, the booths are deep, and the decor — dark wood, ships in bottles, and taxidermized ducks — evokes a granddad's office in an extremely comforting way. There's always something to look at, but nothing feels synthetic. It's a place where you can't help but let your guard down and fall into deep talks.
This hideaway was opened by the same people behind The Meat Hook, a beloved, well-appointed butcher down the road, so it's no surprise that Cozy Royale specializes in great meat; the bone marrow is a delectable addition to the martini and fries. The bar itself is unadorned but serious, fully stocked, and dialed in. Drinks are straightforward, and there's a surprisingly interesting, thoughtful amaro selection for after the meal. The fries are reliably hot and salty, and the martinis are served in coupe glasses and flow like water — in part because from 5 p.m. to 7 p.m. on weekdays they're $10, along with their excellent smash burgers, which can help a New York Happy Meal feel a little more substantial.
Cozy Royale has a way of accidentally becoming home base; I recently stopped in with an old friend for a snack before a show at Brooklyn Steel, missing the opening act because the conversation slowed down and opened up, only to come straight back afterward for a nightcap and a debrief. Cozy Royale is an establishment that exemplifies the true meaning of hospitality, so you just feel like staying. This is one of the city's most down-to-earth, dependable versions of the New York Happy Meal.
& Son
The West Village is central, chic, and densely packed with desirable restaurants ... most of which require reservations made way, way in advance, or a willingness to wait in a blocks-long line. One spring day, waiting in said line outside Via Carota, I locked eyes with a very haunted-looking Justin Bieber, before he was hustled in by his security. I really, deeply wanted that salad, but I knew, in that moment, I didn't have what it takes. In the West Village, you can wander in concentric circles, being infinitely, if politely, turned away, like some bourgeois bardo for brunchers. & Son Steakeasy is your salvation.
Tucked into the lower level of a 190-year-old townhouse, & Son has the bones of Old New York, though it's best understood as a slightly theatrical but faithful historical reenactment, rather than an actual relic. There's a tiny patio, a moody front dining room, and a narrow bar that's busy and compressed. If you keep going, the room opens dramatically into a back space with a glass atrium ceiling, deep, oversized leather banquettes, and enough air and elbow room to feel your shoulders drop. You can come in sweaty and frayed, and a few steps later, you're seated, cooled, and capable of carrying on.
& Son's fries and martini pairing is perfectly what it is, well executed and mercifully unpretentious. They also offer a full "adult happy meal" on their menu, which, along with the slightly corny Millennial-cringe humor, comes with a thick burger, fries, and their signature Linger Longer cocktail, a creamy cold brew martini that plays the role of a milkshake in the meal's flavor profile. When the rest of the West Village is impenetrably booked and busy, & Son is friendly and flexible, a place that meets you where you actually are.