Several years ago, I found myself in Philadelphia for the opening of a friend’s restaurant. It was a weeknight and naturally, I had work at 9 a.m. the next day. So, we ate dinner, slept for a few hours in a “rare find” Airbnb and drove back to Manhattan at 6 a.m. the following morning, arriving right in time for work. Oh — and somewhere in there, we stopped at Pat’s King of Steaks and Geno’s Steaks, both open 24 hours, and ate cheese steaks for breakfast.
I’m happy Pat’s and Geno’s are still going all night. In New York, the 24-hour restaurant has become a critically endangered species. Most local institutions, like Sarge’s Delicatessen in Murray Hill and Wo Hop in Chinatown, pruned their hours during the pandemic and never looked back. Others, like Veselka in the East Village, and Three Decker Diner in Greenpoint, only recently went back to 24 hours. Included among their comrades are three of my favorite places to eat, where you can find noodle soups with free refills, nonconformist sandwiches and more fried meats than you can count.
Infinite noodles at any hour
The Grand Street location of Yunnan Rice Noodle House is the last remaining 24-hour restaurant in Chinatown, as far as I’m aware. A local chain, only this location stays open around the clock. And the downtown address makes it a no-brainer after a night of karaoke at Up Stairs Bar, or when the line for peanut noodles at Shu Jiao Fu Zhou stretches out the door.
The noodle soups are served in opaque broths with your choice of pickled cabbage, beef tendon and more. And the cost includes unlimited noodle refills, according to a sign on the awning. You’ll have to take the restaurant’s word for it, since I’ve never needed more than a single oversize bowl of pickled fish stew. (Do your part and order it with boiled grass carp, an invasive species threatening the Great Lakes.) Besides the rice noodles, there are stir-fried crawfish and crunchy, chilled pig’s ears, both excellent at any hour.
274 Grand Street (Forsyth Street), Chinatown, Manhattan
We do things a little differently here
Sunny & Annie’s Deli opened once — in the fall of 1997 — and never closed, staying open 24 hours through renovations, the pandemic and even during the 2003 blackout, when the owner Nam Chul Yum and his family ran the deli on battery-powered lamps. (Anyway, how could they close, when they don’t even have a front door?) I don’t know how many sandwiches were on the original menu back then, but there must be hundreds now, their quirky names and quirkier ingredients listed on crowded, colored cardstock. The No. 777 comes with mango, mint and mozzarella. The Jackie Chan is a bulgogi sandwich with Muenster cheese.
The heaping Pho No. 1 is an anomaly, since the Yums are Korean. Or maybe not. (Many were developed while “under the influence of alcohol,” Mr. Yum’s daughter, Jullya Kim, told me.) Available hot or cold, the default version towers with roast beef, basil and bean sprouts crowded together on a Kaiser roll. It’s inspired a dozen sequels, including the Pho No. 11 with red pesto and another sandwich, called What the Pho, with Fuji apple. None compare with the original, a dead ringer for a steaming bowl of pho, complete with sriracha, hoisin and a fat bundle of cilantro. Pick out a canned soda from the refrigerator case and dine in the comfort of Tompkins Square Park, right across the street.
94 Avenue B (East Sixth Street), East Village, Manhattan
Cuchifritos, veinticuatro siete
Once upon a time, the Bushwick neighborhood of Brooklyn thronged with cuchifritos: Puerto Rican restaurants with swiveling stools and steaming counters full of crackly fried meats, most of them pork. La Isla, under the M subway tracks, is one of the few cuchifritos remaining and probably the only one serving blood sausage after bars close.
Behind the counter, where cooks dart back and forth filling orders, sending jet-streams of steam in all directions, dozens of fried foods glisten in their trays, waiting to be spooned over rice and pigeon peas. These meats — chicharrón, blood sausage and the fried pork chops known as chuletas — are masterfully roasted throughout the day, and not lacking for lime, salsa or sazón. I’m willing to bet the man butchering your pollo asado with a cleaver has never heard of the $40 half chicken. Neither has the deft cook who fries the alcapurria — beef-filled, football-shaped fritters — in a pan of ripping hot oil.
1439 Myrtle Avenue (Knickerbocker Avenue), Bushwick, Brooklyn
