Finding a restaurant in New York City for a proper catch-up with a buddy is deceptively tricky. When I was single, I kept a tried-and-true roster of date restaurants. The criteria were straightforward enough: soft lighting, ideally the glow of candlelight; a serene ambience, perhaps with a little jazz; and plush, private seating for lingering conversation—or a smooch after dessert.
But what about dinner with my cousin Billy? I was less than eager to spend the evening feeling like I was on a Hinge date with him—a sentiment I suspect was mutual. Sure, I could have picked a dive bar, but we’re both in our mid-thirties now and striving to feign respectability. Besides, Bill draws a fat salary at Amazon, and I knew he’d feel obliged to pick up the tab for his freelance writer cousin. Why squander such generosity on chicken wings and Guinness?
“May the wine always be good, the company better, and the bill someone else’s problem.”
I settled on BLACKBARN, a modern American restaurant in NoMad. The dining room—a salon with soaring ceilings, an open kitchen, and weathered wood trim—is lively without being loud, polished without feeling pretentious. Chef John Doherty serves elevated American comfort food like aged steaks, grilled fish, and soul-satisfying bacon cheeseburgers. Adjusting the menu to the seasons, he sources many of his ingredients from the Union Square Greenmarket and farms in the Hudson Valley.
Billy and I had much to discuss—family goings-on, new girlfriends, career updates—and quickly agreed it was wise to plunge headlong into the cocktail list before considering food. My aperitif, The Midnight Special, was a dark, brooding beauty based on Bulleit Rye and Green Chartreuse. Bill ordered the Honeydripper, a gin cocktail infused with honey and rosemary.
We’d both crushed a lift after work and accordingly ordered a carnivorous spread fit for a pair of victorious warriors. The opening salvo was apple-cider-glazed pork belly chicharrones with frisée. Next came a thick puck of tuna tartare atop a pedestal of smashed avocado. In a display of uncharacteristic maturity, Bill refrained from ridiculing me for ordering a salad—kale with charred corn and tomatoes as aromatic as a Sicilian garden.
We ordered wine and loosened our belts for the entrées. The duck—a pastrami-cured breast alongside a girthy sausage link—was some of the juiciest I’ve eaten anywhere. Bill’s short ribs—braised for eight hours, glazed with chipotle and orange, and served with cucumber salad—silenced his sloshy prattle for the better part of twenty minutes.
As the wine took hold, the dessert menu beckoned like a siren’s call. I pointed out to Bill that he was already sporting a respectable middle-aged paunch and that apple cider doughnuts and butterscotch bread pudding would scarcely move the needle. I should have held my tongue; he hogged both plates.
The Knicks were in the playoffs that night, and, to our pleasant surprise, BLACKBARN’s bar still had a pair of open stools. As expected, Bill picked up dinner, though he grumbled something about Venmo. I bought a round of tequila shots at the bar, with the tacit understanding we were even.
