My arm was tired from carrying the heavy shopping bag full of ceramic mugs and bowls and pretty things I was to bring home to New York with me. “Let’s stop at this store I found on Google,” said Madeleine, “apparently they have pretty tiles.” We had been walking around Lisbon all afternoon, hunting and gathering special things to bring back to our families and friends from our trip to Portugal. I thought about all the things that were quintessential to both local life and tourism in this country—ceramic patterned tiles, pottery, tinned fish, pastéis de nata. We had visited so many stores and purchased so many of these things, and we didn’t have to think too much or search too hard to find them. “What do you think people bring back to their friends after a trip to New York?” I asked Madeleine and Steven. It was so easy to find meaningful mementos in Lisbon, but nothing immediately came to mind when I thought about New York. “I mean think about it, we have pizza and bagels, sure—but do people really leave our city with I ♥ NY mugs and plastic toy taxis? That’s so sad.” We all thought for a moment and couldn’t quite conjure what New York is known for. I kept thinking about it for the remainder of our trip, but I never came up with anything.

Over a month later, I’d received an invite from Madeleine and Steven for their “NYC Decade Party,” a night celebrating their 10 years in this city at their cheerful new apartment in Carroll Gardens. Toward the end of the invite, the description read, “Wear your NYC uniform and bring something that reminds you of this city.” The former part was easy—I’d obviously wear all black. It was the latter part that still had me perplexed.

A couple weeks later, the day of the party rolled around, and I had not yet discovered what reminds me of this city. I’d expected to know by then, having received the invite weeks ago, but I still had nothing. I decided to take myself out to lunch to (A) enjoy a good meal, (B) finish Stephen King’s On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft, which I’d been enjoying for most of January and needed to finish, and (C) hopefully have a transformative epiphany about what reminds me of New York. Only one place came to mind where I knew I’d accomplish all three: Via Carota. That was something that truly reminded me of New York. I’d been dining there since 2018 and had had many perfect meals there. Whether they were solo or with companions, they’d always been memorable.

On my walk to the restaurant from my apartment, I kept my head up and was sure to take note of my surroundings. Washington Square Park reminded me of New York—could I tangibilize that? (And was tangibilize a word?) The way I couldn’t feel my hands because they were so cold reminded me of New York. (That was something I didn’t want to tangibilize.) I noticed bundled-up New Yorkers and tourists enjoying slices of hot pizza at Joe’s and thought maybe I’d pick up some pizza on my way to the party, but that felt unoriginal. I kept thinking.

As I turned onto Grove Street and walked up to Via Carota, I experienced a quick wave of nostalgia. It had been about a year since I’d been there, and I was a totally different person now. I pulled open the swinging door and let the warmth of the restaurant welcome me inside. A brunette hostess with a chic-bob-that-I-could-never-pull-off walked over and smiled at me. “May I have lunch at the bar?” I asked her. She pointed to the right side of the bar and said there was a seat open for me. “That’ll be perfect.”

I plopped my black leather bag on the floor beside the barstool and hung my coat and scarf on one of the rusted hooks along the wooden wall toward the back of the restaurant. (I’ve always loved how Via Carota feels like you’re in an old Italian woman’s farm house.) Returning to the bar, I noticed that the older man next to me was dining alone as well. We exchanged a solemn glance, and he returned to his tonnarelli cacio e pepe as I pulled my book from my bag. Before opening it, I looked around to see if I felt inspired yet. Via Carota reminded me of New York, but that was my New York, not my party hosts’ New York. I looked down at the paper menu that had just been placed in front of me and glanced at my dining neighbor’s plate in front of him to my left. Via Carota’s tonnarelli cacio e pepe reminded me of New York, but bringing any sort of meant-to-be-served-hot food to the party felt unoriginal (and cacio e pepe is best served immediately). I opened On Writing as the tall server behind the bar came over to interrupt. I told him I’d be having the roasted beet salad and the tonnarelli. He took my menu and turned away. He didn’t ask what I was reading, I thought to myself. He usually does. Had things really changed that much?

The roasted beets—a special menu item for the day—arrived delicately piled on top of a generous dollop of crème fraîche in a puddle of extra virgin olive oil. A nest of chopped fennel and pickled red onions sat atop the beets with almonds to garnish this masterpiece. The hot pink juice from the beets immediately started to soak into the shiny white crème fraîche, and it looked like pink and white paint swirling on my plate. I thought about my pink kitchen, another thing that reminds me of New York—and another thing I couldn’t tangibilize. (I don’t think tangibilize is a word, but I’ve used it 5 times now. Bear with me.) The beet salad was divine, and I savored every bite as other diners down the bar pointed to my plate asking what it was. I finished it with gratitude, and my server removed my plate as I returned to my book. He still hadn’t asked what I was reading.

A middle-aged couple sat down at the bar and, after ordering champagne, asked one of the servers, “What neighborhood is this?” I figured they must be visiting from out of town and thought how lucky they were to have stumbled into such a magical restaurant that, to me, is quintessential New York. They had a bag from Magnolia Bakery with them as well as a few colorful shopping bags, and I pictured what their day had looked like. After stopping for banana pudding at Magnolia, they’d walked down Bleecker Street and popped into a few stores, feeling hungry for some real food after passing the line for pizza in front of Mama’s Too. The woman asked her husband if he wanted to try this restaurant she’d just found on Google that had a 4.4-star rating and Looks So Cute From The Pictures, and here they were. I looked up and noticed them watching me. Something about a person dining alone at a restaurant with a book really throws out-of-towners for a loop.

“Careful, the plate is hot,” said one of the servers, placing my steaming hot bowl of tonnarelli cacio e pepe in front of me. I immediately pulled the bowl closer (when someone tells me the plate is hot, I’m obviously going to touch it—especially when my hands are this cold) and twirled the thick noodles with my fork, the cheese melting more with each spin. Bringing the hot bite of pasta to my mouth, I glanced at the couple’s shopping bags again. I used to live in an apartment on top of the Magnolia Bakery on Bleecker—what if I brought cupcakes to the party? A lot of people go to Magnolia Bakery when visiting New York, and having lived in the same building as one for 1.5 years, the smell of those cupcakes certainly reminded me of New York.

Unoriginal, I told myself. I had to keep thinking.

After eating a little over half of the bowl of pasta, I declared myself full and asked to take home the rest. My server took my plate away and I returned to my book with just a few pages left. One of the main things Stephen King writes about in his memoir is to write what you know, which was part of the reason I found myself having lunch here on a Friday—a reminder that for some reason, this was where I usually found my inspiration, and I figured I’d be writing about this dining experience later. As I finished reading the last page and closed my book, my server asked if I’d be having anything else, and I ordered an Americano. He put this order in and then turned back to me. “Finish the book?” he asked. I smiled and nodded. “How was it?” I guess things hadn’t changed that much.

After slowly enjoying my Americano and paying the bill, I put my coat and scarf back on and braced myself to return outside. The sun was starting to set (this was a very late lunch) and I still had not found what I was bringing to the party. I thought about the party hosts Steven and Madeleine—my older cousin and his girlfriend of many years—and tried to think what reminded me of our New York. Red bean buns from Fay Da Bakery. Warm summer nights at the Philharmonic in Central Park. Long, happy dinners with our aunt and uncle who live on the Upper West Side.

Our Aunt Sharon and Uncle Gérald seemed like the impetus of it all—Steven and I are their only nephew and niece who live in the city, and if it weren’t for them, there’s a chance we wouldn’t live here. I thought about what reminds me of them. That was it.

Later that night, wearing black jeans and a black top and black boots and my black coat and black scarf and black gloves, I got off the subway at Carroll Street and found Jason standing on the sidewalk with a bag of New York apples. (The Big Apple. Ha.)

“Where’s your thing you brought?” he asked me. I’d have to explain it when we got to the party. In true New York fashion, Steven and Madeleine’s buzzer wasn’t working, so we rushed up the stoop to catch the door behind the couple who had just entered before us. I hugged our hosts hello and pulled two jars of dijon mustard out of my black leather Coach bag. My cousin Steven started laughing, as I began my spiel in one breath.

“Okay, so I tried to think of what reminds me of New York, but I thought of everything and nothing and then realized that what really reminds me of New York is Aunt Sharon and Uncle Gérald, and they never have anything in their fridge except for several jars of fancy mustard,” Steven was laughing and nodding as I continued, “so I brought you two types of dijon mustard—and I tried to find that one they have that comes in a big matte black jar, but I’m pretty sure they get that from France and this is New York. So this is all I have.”

“This is perfect,” Madeleine said smiling, finding little spoons to use for the mustard. She had a tray of pigs-in-a-blanket in the oven.

I looked around at the party, and there were all different walks of life. New York is a place that’s easy to call home if you’ve never felt a sense of home anywhere else. It’s a place where you can be yourself and find people who have the same interests as you—or interests totally different from your own, but you’ll learn something from each interaction about those interests. New York is known for pizza and bagels and yellow taxis and skyscrapers and the Yankees and freedom and Carrie Bradshaw, but there are so many other things that remind me of New York. This goes without saying because it’s an unoriginal thought, but it truly is the people who make a place what it is. It’s my aunt and uncle on the Upper West Side with their fridge full of fancy mustard. It’s Ryan at Via Carota who always asks me what I’m reading, even when I don’t think he’s going to. It’s my best friend Emily who lives 3 floors up in my building and handled our power outage with our superintendent while I ignorantly wrote this from a cafe in the West Village, where the girl behind the counter always says, “Remind me your name?” when I order a coffee because I’ve been here so many times and have written so many essays from here. It was hard for me to think of something that reminds me of New York because there’s nothing that doesn’t remind me of New York. That’s what makes it so special.

Thank you for reading! I love New York!!!!! What reminds YOU of New York?