Bryan Safi is everywhere: on TV (as an actor on 9-1-1); on podcasts covering politics, groceries, LGBTQ+ concerns, and the Bravoverse; and onstage as a stand-up (he’ll be at Littlefield with a show next month). Last week, he was in town from L.A., visiting his boyfriend, performing at Joe’s Pub, and stopping into old favorites (Le Crocodile) and new-to-him favorites (Sofreh) along the way.
Wednesday, July 10
I’m in New York because I’m doing a couple of shows and I’m dating someone here. I’m telling him I’m here for work; I’m telling you I’m here for him.
Since I’m in New York, I’m exclusively dining out. Even at home in Los Angeles, though, I don’t cook a lot. I mostly buy groceries or DoorDash things that I can rip the lids off of and eat over the sink. I’m talking yogurts. I’m talking Jif Extra Crunchy. I’m talking the legendary tabbouleh from Zankou. I’m an over-the-sink eater, which is something the guy I’m dating doesn’t know about me yet, but now you do, so I feel like we’re already family!
I start this morning with one cold brew and one iced almond-milk latte from a truly spectacular and delicious coffee shop called Suited in Fidi, where the person I’m dating lives and where I stay some nights. Fidi is so chill because it’s all the guys who bullied me from grade school, except now they’re all grown up and are — say it with me — richer, so that’s a wonderful feeling.
Suited is the closest coffee shop to him, but apparently there are people who take “coffee tours” of the city and this is on the stop. The coffee really is fantastic, and the food is also delicious. I have a lot of food allergies, and their breakfast plate with gluten-free bread is a chef’s kiss, but I don’t order that this morning. I take the coffee back to his place, start with the cold brew, and drink it while I stare at the bed.
I decide to make the bed and meditate for 20 minutes. I follow that with the iced latte. I know this is an excessive amount of coffee, but it’s hard for me to focus without this much caffeine and without the meditation. I have one cold brew and one latte because two cold brews, I’m pretty sure, would make me climb the Empire State Building.
So after coffee, I have a writing sesh, which this morning is me punching up the script for my stand-up hour on August 24. (“A Black Tie Affair” at Littlefield in Brooklyn. Please come see it!)
For lunch, I go to Pi Bakerie, which is a delicious Greek bakery, also in Fidi. Their stuff is super-fresh and reminds me of home. I’m not Greek, but my grandparents came here from Syria, and Syrian food was a staple growing up. So the food at Pi feels familiar to me, especially their salad. I get the chicken thighs with rice and this delicious green salad that has romaine, dill, lemon, olive oil, and salt, and that’s it. It’s so good.
I don’t eat a lot today because I have a show tonight at Joe’s Pub, and sometimes my nerves cancel out my appetite. The hilarious Arden Myrin and I have a show called “No Autographs, Please!,” and our guests for it are Jay Jurden and Ana Gasteyer, both of whom I’ve never met, so I’m excited for that.
I meet Arden at Joe’s Pub for a tech rehearsal, and afterward we run our stand-up for each other. Doing stand-up for one person in broad daylight will always be your worst performance, so it’s nice to say it out loud knowing it’s never gonna be more uncomfortable than that.
I go back home, throw some saltines in my mouth, and record an episode of the Ask Ronna comedy advice podcast that I co-host with Ronna Glickman. Then I get changed, showered, and off to my show, which couldn’t go better, so I am happy for that. Jay and Ana are so hilarious, warm, and wonderful.
I always feel like I “deserve” to eat whatever I want after a show, which is ridiculous but true. So I go home after and order from 7th Street Burger — a cheeseburger and fries, food allergies be damned — along with a pint of chocolate sorbet from Morgenstern’s. Then I watch two hours of Below Deck. An incredibly sexy night.
Thursday, July 11
Did I mention I’m also staying in the East Village? I have an Airbnb while I’m here since quarters can be cramped with two people in a studio. I go to this coffee shop around the corner from me called 787. The coffee is good, but they give it to you in these Capri-Sun pouches that draw a lot of attention when you’re walking around. And because I order two of them, I have one in each hand. People are staring. There’s definitely something about brown liquid in an IV bag that isn’t appealing — who could ever know what?
I go to the gym and make a smoothie afterward. I usually just put in spinach, then frozen berries, then water, then protein powder and chia seeds — sometimes peanut butter.
Visit Arden’s place and help her with an audition, which she nails, and stop by Starbucks before that because I have a gift card from there I’ve been working away at for over a year now. I actually make coffee at home in L.A.
Then I walk to the East Village, only to walk back to the West Village a few hours later for dinner at Dante. I’m not a huge fan of restaurants with a doorman, and Dante kind of has that mentality. They don’t actually let you walk into the restaurant. They stop you at the front and ensure you have a reservation. I don’t like anything that feels like I’m trying to get into a club — especially when it’s not a club. But their cocktails apparently are legendary, and the food is supposed to be good, too. I get a strawberry-rhubarb negroni. They have an entire page of negronis on the menu, but they call them “Negroni Sessions,” and my eyes have not rolled back into position yet. Are we calling drinks sessions now? Then what am I supposed to call the 50 minutes I spend with my therapist every week — a cocktail?
The drink is great, and the food is pretty good. We get blue-cheese-stuffed olives; this delicious trout salad; a half-chicken, which is okay; and a side of sautéed spinach, which is so good. The guy at the table to my right didn’t like his old-fashioned because he said it should just be one big ice cube instead of two, so he sent it back. Doorman energy.
The couple at the table to my left sat down as we were finishing, and when they started to order, I did something I’ve never done. They ordered a steak, and when the waiter asked how they wanted it cooked, I thought they said, “Medium rare.” But when the server repeated it back, he said, “Medium well,” and they nodded. It was a loud restaurant, and I was convinced they had misheard each other and that this was a huge mistake. Remember when that blonde model Celia put her neck out for another model in final judging on America’s Next Top Model and then Tyra admonished her for it? This was my Celia moment.
I felt as though I had been put in this chair, in this restaurant, and on this planet to fix this. My mind started racing: The customers might not be satisfied with medium well. They might blame it on the server, who might blame it on the chef, and then Club Dante would be out of business. I started sweating. I saw the server about to punch the order into the computer, and I leapt in front of him and shouted, “WAIT! PLEASE, GOD, PLEASE DON’T DO THIS! YOU DON’T WANT THIS!” That’s what it felt like. I think I actually said, “I’m so sorry … I’m an idiot … and everyone hates me … but I think they said medium rare … but I could be wrong.” The guy was so funny and so nice and said he’d check with them again. So he did and … they said medium well. Humbling.
Friday, July 12
I try to leave my place and get coffee, and when I step out the door, I am screamed at by a police officer. “WHAT ARE YOU DOING? DO NOT CROSS THE POLICE LINE!” I look up and the entire block has yellow tape all around the sidewalks. I think something gruesome has happened, but they are just filming something on that block. So I scurry under the tape and get my coffee, this time at C&B.
I get a call that I’ll need to come back earlier to L.A. than I had planned. Before the call, I had a freshly opened container of Jif Crunchy that I was luxuriating in over the sink, but after the call I figure that it’s a sign to put the peanut butter down.
I should be writing today, but I already know that I won’t. Now that I know my time in New York is limited, I want to try and take advantage of these last couple days. So I do what anyone would do with a couple free days in New York: go to New Jersey!
A listener of Ask Ronna had written in about a place called Old German Bakery in Hoboken, saying they hadn’t been able to go there lately and desperately missed it and that it was the best bakery they’d ever been to in their entire lives — and they said they were well traveled!
So I take the PATH train to Hoboken and then a five-minute walk to the bakery. The guy who runs it is German, is incredible, but is a little intimidating at first. He keeps telling me things I can’t order — because if I taste them, they’ll ruin my life. He also says I can’t share bites with anyone else, even though I am alone, because it’s unfair for everyone to only get a little. He also says I always have to take the train because I could lose all my money Ubering to this place every day.
Here’s what I have to say: It is the No. 1 best bakery I’ve ever been to in my entire life. Nothing in New York, Paris, or Vienna could come close, I’m sure of it. The chocolate croissant is the best I’ve ever had — crunchy, buttery, chocolaty. I also get a cheese-raspberry Danish. “The cheese is from Germany — you can’t get it here,” the owner tells me. “And the raspberry isn’t bullshit jam. It’s pure, it’s beautiful, and not too sweet.” It makes me weep. And then I get a savory tomato Danish, which is exceptional. I almost hate to write about this because it should be a secret, but it’s honestly that good and 100 percent worth the trip.
Also worth the trip is the train ride home, where some young women are having trouble understanding why a guy one of them is dating is a virgin. Then she shows her friends a picture of him, and other people on the train also want to see because she is a very loud talker, and she shows them — and me! Some other guys agree they did not understand how he could be a virgin, and two different guys say that her guy is using it as a ploy to make her think he’s innocent. But she says, “Why would anyone lie about being a virgin?”
I get off the PATH train at Christopher Street and walk around in the West Village to kill time before I meet my friend Jesse for dinner and a movie. Jesse and I always have dinner at the Chelsea Square Restaurant. It’s right by his place, and we’ve been eating there for at least 15 years. They shot a lot of Ryan Murphy’s Pose here, too, which is cool. I get the Greek “Village” salad with chicken. I believe the owners are Greek, and this salad is so good, and they somehow grill the chicken perfectly. Afterward, we see MaXXXine. I love it, and, to me, watching Mia Goth feels a bit like watching throwback Shelley Duvall, so that feels nice, because I am a huge Shelley fan and was so sad to hear of her passing just the day before.
I go home and get Lay’s with limón from the deli downstairs, and they are tremendous.
Saturday, July 13
It’s Oatmeal Saturday, a phrase I just coined and should probably trademark. I know I said I don’t cook, but I do make oatmeal. My favorite is the Bob’s Red Mill gluten-free rolled oats, except I sub almond milk in for water, and I’m telling you: It is luxurious. Bob of Bob’s Red Mill does make me nervous, though — not because I know him but because I’ve created a backstory for him that I don’t like to think about. I’m sure he’s lovely in real life. I encourage everyone to do the almond-milk thing. It lightly sweetens it, and the consistency is so good. I then put the frozen smoothie berries I use and some walnuts in there. Heaven.
My boy … friend …?? and I go to an exhibit called “Old New York” at the New-York Historical Society. It is really cool and features a bunch of buildings, parks, bathhouses, and other structures that are no longer in New York, like Seneca Village, the Hudson River bathing clubs, sketches and photos from the original Penn Station, the Hippodrome, and on and on.
We have lunch at a place called Friedman’s that is down the street from the museum on the Upper West Side. I have a rice bowl and a Diet Coke, and I have to tell you: This Diet Coke is so stunning. They give me an ice-cold can and a glass full of ice and a thick lemon wedge, and I am blown away at my pour and at the fizzy result. Perfection on a summer’s day. The place also has a bit of a swinging-singles vibe for those in their 60s and up. There is a boozy lady eating a chopped salad and grooving to “Straight Up” sitting at the bar, where we are sitting. I appreciated her.
In the evening, we play tennis at McCarren Park and the heat is brutal, but it is still so fun to play. And the main reason we play tennis is because afterward we are having dinner at Le Crocodile, which is probably in my top-five restaurants I’ve ever eaten at. I’ve never had anything disappointing there, and the atmosphere is nice and casual, which I appreciate. I’m not someone who gets off on dressing up for things, so I appreciate this vibe.
I really blow it all on this meal every time I’m in New York. It’s expensive, but it’s something I feel like is worth the splurge. I get Waldorf salad, steak-frites, and chocolate mousse, and every single one of those things is an absolute knockout. Also, their mint lemonade is delicious.
The people sitting next to us are shifty meatheads. There’s nothing worse than a paranoid gym rat. I’ve known a few, and, without exception, they always tell me they could have gone to Harvard Medical School but chose not to, so instead they’re anti-vaxx. These two keep trying to give money to the host for some reason, and the host kept rejecting it, and after five minutes, they leave. And what sat down next was out of my fantasy: a really sweet older couple whose son is getting married soon. The gentleman has this giant white bouffant that I really appreciate. Very Ann Richards. He does chew with his mouth open and keeps saying “I’ve never tasted anything like this chicken liver” about a hundred times. For some, that’s nauseating. But they are very nice.
I watch the season premiere of The Real Housewives of Orange County at night and start a Turkish movie called Once Upon a Time in Anatolia that I’ve heard is great, and it seems to be so far.
Sunday, July 14
It’s most likely my last day in New York, which makes me sad. I’ve eaten out way more than I normally would, but I know I’ll be back at the ol’ sink soon. I sleep until 11 a.m., then do some writing for a couple hours. I find I work really well on Sundays. I feel more relaxed and open, and I like being one step ahead for the week.
I get my coffee from Suited, and for lunch I order something I have been craving forever: a Veggie Delite with pepperoni from Subway. I’m not supposed to have much gluten, but I’ve made all kinds of exceptions this week, blaming it on “vacation.” It’s probably been about 15 years since I’ve had Subway, and it is like seeing an old friend and then eating him. I love a crunch on this sandwich, so I get pickles, banana peppers, bell peppers — anything to make my molars flex.
After lunch, I write some more and go to the gym, then to Juice Press, the home of the silent transaction. I walk up to the counter, they stare at me, I place my order, they flip the screen around for me to tap, I tip, and that’s it. No verbal exchange ever — and to me, that is ideal! I’m great with it!
Afterward, my husband and I go to Barcade in the East Village because we want to play Street Fighter II. I am Chun-Li every single time and remain a stan for life.
For dinner, we go to a Persian place he had heard about from work called Sofreh in Brooklyn. Sofreh and Le Crocodile and Old German Bakery are now in my top favorite food experiences of all time. The guy I’m dating/boyfriend/husband/life-insurance-policy-holder isn’t American, and he does a great impression of me saying, “Oh, wow, it’s AMAZING! It CHANGED MY LIFE!” I guess I hyperbolize a lot. I’m beginning to see he has a solid point.
I’m also becoming aware that I don’t live here, so maybe everyone’s been going to these places for a million years and my excitement sounds dumb. Regardless, Sofreh is delicious, and the ambience feels very casual and chic. We have roasted zucchini, mushrooms, saffron rice, a rib special, and rice pudding for dessert. He has a watermelon-mezcal cocktail, and I have their version of a dirty martini. I’d come back here again and again.
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