Cecilia Ruiz cooked for eight people every Sunday for forty years and never once wrote a recipe down. This is our attempt at the feeling, if not the food.
Marisol Ruiz and Nora Bell met working the line at a restaurant neither of them wants named. They spent two years looking for a room in Hudson and found a shuttered hardware store with a pressed-tin ceiling and forty years of paint on the floor.
They kept the ceiling, sanded the floor, and put in a bar long enough that nobody eating alone feels like they're eating alone. Marisol runs the kitchen. Nora runs everything else, including the wine list and, most nights, the door.
Eleven farms inside an hour. If it didn't grow near here, it needs a very good reason to be on the plate - the olive oil and the anchovies have earned theirs.
We reprint every afternoon. Dishes last a week, sometimes three days. If you loved something, tell us and we'll tell you honestly whether it's coming back.
Family meal at 4pm, sat down, at a table, every service. It's the least negotiable thing in the building.
Twelve of us, most nights. Six have been here since the first service.
Eleven growers, all within about an hour. Most of them eat here too.
“The leeks. I've thought about the leeks more than I've thought about most meals I've eaten this year.” A regular, overheard at the bar
Wednesday through Sunday, five until eleven. The bar doesn't take reservations and never will.
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