Eating out in New York City – by Instagram

Robert De Niro didn’t fancy a traditional sponge for his most recent birthday cake. No, he wanted a mozzarella birthday cake. A squidgy mound of Italian cheese, with candles. “I came in at 3am to make it,” laughs David, the owner of Mike’s Deli, knocking his forehead on dangly sticks of salami as he leans over the counter. “What De Niro wants, De Niro gets.”

Mike’s Deli may be De Niro’s choice, but you won’t find it in any New York guidebook. But that’s not because it’s bad. In fact, this little family-run Italian stall in the Bronx is ludicrously good. It just hasn’t been “discovered” yet. So how did I find it? By scouring Instagram of course.

Oh yes, I’ve been lying in bed, searching the internet and enjoying multiple foodgasms over Instagram foodporn. Forgive the crudity, but these are popular Instagram hashtags. With 300 million monthly users (Twitter has 288 million), Instagram is one of the fastest-growing social media platforms, and the hottest for showcasing food, scenery, concerts and, er, dogs. In New York, one of the world’s most Instagrammed cities, it’s now an essential guide to each neighbourhoods’ finest eats, with recommendations by tech-savvy, food-loving locals.

Equipped with five of the city’s most enticing foodie Instagram accounts –@EatingNYC, @NYCDining, @NYCFoodgals, @revciancio and @HungryGrls – I set about exploring. No guide books, no reviews, no words. I base my meal selections purely on visuals: a trail that leads me straight into a lovingly prepped mound of salami, olives, peppers and cheese – Mike’s Deli’s generous antipasti feast.

Handily, I don’t need to go far for a drink to wash it all down. Mike’s sits in the corner of Arthur Avenue Market, a 75-year-old covered market in the Bronx’s “real little Italy” neighbourhood that I’d noticed on @revciancio. It’s home to around 20 family-owned stalls, including the central Bronx Beer Hall, a wooden-clad area serving more than 15 New York State beers, rotated on a monthly basis.

I go for blood orange pale ale, which arrives in a small manageable glass. “But you need to try all these beers too,” says owner Paul Ramirez, pointing to a parade of artistic bar taps, “all 15 of them.”

Soon, there’s beer and food arriving from every corner. Giddied by ale, I order portions of lizard chips (deep-fried pickles), garlic bread knots, “grandma’s pie” (a Little Italy pizza delicacy), aubergine parmigiana and a ground sirloin burger oozing with mozzarella and tarted up with salty fried pancetta.

It’s not the first burger Instagram will lead me to. For months I’ve been eyeing pictures of the famous ramen burger created by chef Keizo Shimamoto of Ramen Co. Sure, it’s one small part of the fashionable deifying of the humble burger, but its quirky good looks are irresistible. I make my way to the Financial District where, on Maiden Lane, a couple of blocks north of Wall Street, I find frazzled stock traders queuing for a swift lunch.

My food arrives within minutes. A blend of Japanese and American culture, it’s an ultra-soft beef patty drizzled with a sweet (but secret) shoyu sauce, topped with rocket and spring onions, all sandwiched between two ramen “buns” – soft boiled noodles compacted into rigid circles. It’s a revelation, and although it’s verging on healthy compared with most burger options, I resist squeezing in another.

Instead I head for a more traditional Asian staple at Nom Wah Tea Parlor, a Chinatown resident since 1920. It’s recommended on several of my chosen Instagram accounts, and behind the faded red exterior is a vintage-style room crammed with dim sum fanatics. I’m flustered by the huge menu, but Instagram eases the pressure, and I order dishes I’ve seen online: stodgy fried turnip cakes with hoi sin dipping sauce, slippery prawn cheung fun (ginormous prawns wrapped in a roll of soft white rice noodle), and sticky rice crammed with chicken, wrapped in a lotus leaf.

I’m at risk of snoozing at the table. Taking a breather with a sip of jasmine tea, I check my chosen sources and realise I’m just around the corner from some bouncy-looking pork buns. I linger outside the Mei Lai Wah Bakery, which is responsible for the best cha siu bao in the city, a steal at just a dollar each. Oh, go on then. I tear into the steamy fluffy mounds of dough, revealing a generous porky barbecue centre, before surrendering to another round of the cheap kerbside snacks.

Outside of Chinatown, the most famous New York dollar-eat is pizza by the slice. There are tons to choose from, but it seems it’s worth spending a bit extra at Joe’s: the by-the-slice pizza joint in Greenwich Village that every foodie Instagrammer consistently posts about. My extra dollar gets me Roy Orbison and Bruce Springsteen on the radio and impressive celebrity company, with signed photographs on the wall from regulars including Ben Affleck, Lenny Kravitz and Leonardo DiCaprio.

It may be a hotspot for A-listers but there’s not a pinch of glamour. Joe’s is standing room only, with sticky faux-marble countertops, chilli flakes in plastic shakers and solo diners popping in for post-work, post-bar, and post-evening meals. Well, one slice can’t hurt can it?

For a more relaxed table-and-chair option, I cross the East River to Green Point, Brooklyn. Guidebooks rave about Brooklyn pizza institution Grimaldi’s, which offers great food and less thrilling queues, but the irresistible Instagram photo directs me to Paulie Gee’s pizzeria. It’s not an obvious restaurant from the outside – its basic wooden door suggests a warehouse entrance. But inside it’s a moody space of dark wood, swinging light bulbs, bare brick, and an unusual menu of locally sourced ingredients. The result? Charming owner Paulie talks me through over 30 wood-fired pizzas, including a mind-boggling selection of vegan options, from the Simply Red to the In Ricotta Da Vegan with house-made vegan fennel sausage. But it has to be the Hellboy for me, meaning lashings of spicy Mike’s Hot Honey, layers of soppressata salami and sprinkles of dried bing cherries as extra.

Midriff bulging, I need a digestif. Checking a few images on my phone, I find I’m within rolling distance of a cosy saloon bar inside the New York Distilling Company’s warehouse. The Shanty is easy enough to find without a guidebook, and I thump into seats with spectacular views of large wooden barrels and sparkly copper stills waiting to distil the next day’s booze. After I’ve downed several Ba-Zucca Joes (a gin, Aperol and rhubarb cocktail that first caught my eye on Instagram), the cheery bartender Jen suggests a side order of bar snacks. Can she convince me? Course she can. I’m soon devouring sweet peppers stuffed with prosciutto and provolone and singing along with the next table to a stellar playlist of Iggy Pop and Joy Division. Instagram may not give detail on atmosphere and soundtracks, but it has done particularly well with my final stop of the day.

The next morning, all accounts point to coffee and carbs at Black Seed Bagels on Elizabeth Street in Nolita. From the images, the hand-rolled wood-fired bagels at this trendy little cafe (black and white tiles, distressed wood) look like an act of craftsmanship. The cameras don’t lie. Bagel number one comes stuffed with huge slabs of maple ham, onion jam, gruyère cheese and sour pickles. The gym can wait, I need to rejoin the queue for a more traditional filling of baked egg, cheddar and bacon.

After all that savoury stuff, I’m drawn to a particularly arty shot of a chocolate chip cookie and lavender infused hot chocolate at Maman Bakery in SoHo. It’s terribly pretty, in a soft-hue, natural-light kind of way. I take a seat on the handy purple bench outside, and manage a warm oozy cookie and flowery hot chocolate in the sunshine.

It’s time to trade some calories for a smidge of health. Avocado smash is the fashionable New York eat of the moment, and Instagram tells me there are some particularly handsome examples at Little Collins on Lexington Avenue in Midtown. The narrow space is used efficiently, with alien-looking coffee contraptions and steel high stools. I tuck into the smash like it’s my first meal of the day, groaning in appreciation over a simple dish of mashed avocado and feta on toast, sprinkled with seeds, chilli flakes and a squeeze of lemon. Add a frothy macchiato, and I’m ready to walk.

Better make it a long one. Crossing the water again I wander the hipster streets of Williamsburg, ducking into vintage shops, art shops and cycling shops. I haven’t eaten for at least three hours, and feel an unfamiliar pang in my stomach. Hunger? Surely not. I’m metres away from a restaurant called Sweet Chick – pictures of its dishes have teased me online for weeks. Unbuttoning my jeans for the final time, I take one for the Guardian: crispy fried chicken, jugs of maple syrup and light fluffy waffles dolloped with three types of butter (flavours include lavender and garlic).

I need air. Outside, the restaurant’s wall is painted with bold red and white text. “Fuck that’s delicious,” it says. With Instagram’s help, it certainly is.
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