West Side Flavors: Re-interpreting “You are what you eat”

I never really bought into the phrase “you are what you eat.” My 12-year-old self always thought it was pretty clear that I was not human compost.

Nowadays, I realize that the phrase is not meant to be taken literally. It is a statement less about the specific foods, and more about the forces that drive one to choose them. Do our decisions and our impressions about the meals we eat make statements about our personality? Using a completely unscientific method—asking my friends what their favorite restaurants are—I decided to investigate.

Friend A—a classy, Upper West Side daughter of musicians with a penchant for cozy clothes and good deals, told me about Gennaro, an Italian restaurant on 93rd and Amsterdam. She spoke of the plain but tasty gnocchi, and the simple, but surprisingly addictive kale salad. The waiters are friendly, she said, but that might be because, “my mother always flirts with them.” Gennaro seems to be a perfect match for Friend A—it serves timeless, comforting dishes, with a warm environment.

Friend B, one of the most amusing people I know, decided to tell me about a place whose image and intent she is “repulsed by,” Momofuku Bakery and Milk Bar on 2nd Avenue and 13th Street. Her greatest concern? The absence of chairs. “They think they’re avant-garde. Well maybe they should open a restaurant that doesn’t serve food, that’s pretty edgy, too,” she exclaimed.

Friend C also felt betrayed by the misleading name. “The name suggests that it is a gourmet institution that serves hybrid milk concoctions. I expected exotic flavorings, milk-chugging, and taste bud orgasms.” Need I add more to my description of Friend C? She is sarcastic, laughs at hipsters and artist wannabes, and refuses to live by the word of haughty food critics.

Friend C prefaced her response with the phrase, “this isn’t an exciting answer,” and went on to provide a detailed, intriguing response in her typical fashion. Symposium, the Greek restaurant on 113th between Broadway and Amsterdam, was her choice. “I like the restaurant from the outside better than the inside—it’s just this bright blue awning poking out obtrusively into the beige sidewalk,” she told me. For her, sharing a simple, light salad and a tasty, cheap pitcher of sangria has become a tradition, the meaning of which beats out the lackluster service and décor.

Friend D, a boy who recreated Plato’s symposium in his John Jay single just for kicks, enthusiastically proclaimed, “Gray’s Papaya is my favorite because I’m a vegan.” He went on to describe, in a most sexual manner, the 24-hour fast food joint famed for its hot dogs. “It’s quick in and out and you’re done. It’s convenient late at night, and really cheap. I typically eat five hot dogs per trip,” he said. Friend D likes convenience, cares little about expensive gourmet treats, and likes to make sexual references—a lot.

I chose Veselka, on 2nd Avenue and 9th Street. It’s near Webster Hall. It serves the best borscht I have ever had, and it doesn’t card. It was also the site of my sixteenth birthday party, and the place I ate at on secret trips to New York during high school. Besides my favorite Russian dishes, Veselka serves me with a large portion of nostalgia. What more could I ask for?

My research was completely biased—after all, I’m writing an A&E column, not a thesis paper. Whether you buy into it or not, I hope it at least gave you a few suggestions, and made you think slightly differently along the way.

Valeriya Safronova is a Columbia College first-year. West Side Flavors runs alternate Fridays.