The New Yorker

"Several house cocktails, such as the Clock Tower Sour and the Lazarus, were punch-bowl sweet, but the gingery Dark and Stormy on tap had some razzmatazz."

"How is it that the tomatillos, tossed with white cabbage and cilantro, sitting quietly at the side of a house-made-duck-sausage banh mi, taste like such sweet, healthy candy?"

"Unless you know the Spanish word chapulín, you may not realize that the shrimp tacos are battered and fried in a crust of grasshoppers, creating a deliciously recursive arthropod."

"Bankers, writers, ponytailed tough guys, women in tight pants, men with braids like Axl Rose: everybody sits side by side, drinking their fireballs and Honker’s Ale."

"Out comes a parade of sushi, though the chefs identifying their creations don’t always make themselves heard over Drake or Jay Z. Guessing games ensue: “Did he say scallop sperm?”"

"A drink called Beets by Dre contained beet juice, gin, and rosemary—O.K. if borscht’s your thing; watch the white jeans."