Manhattan Raw - Part One

Manhattan Skyline & Seafood Dishes - Tasting Table

I've been writing this blog for 16 years now and haven't really done much on New York City.  Sure, I've touched on it here and there: oysters grown around the Greater New York area, New York oysterman & abolitionist Thomas Downing, and of course the infamous Long Island Blue Point.  However, I've never done a proper piece on the NYC seafood scene.  And, I have to be honest, that's no accident.  NYC is really intimidating, in more ways than one.  For my purposes, the panoply of potential seafood profiles is simply overwhelming.  New York is a city where you can literally get anything you want at any time of day.  3am döner kebab delivery - check.  Thursday night Indigenous-American cuisine pop-up - check.  Sunday Italian bomboloni or Chinese bolo bao - check and check.

By the numbers, New York's five boroughs combined have over 25,000 eateries, restaurants, or food retailers.  That's an insane amount.  Manhattan alone accounts for about 9,500.  And of those 9,500, over 350 are self-proclaimed seafood establishments.  Just to cover Manhattan, that's two seafood meals a day, every day, for six months.  This doesn't even account for the random Irish pub with incredible fish & chips or obscure Dominican spot with killer camarones al ajillo.  Daunting, to say the least.  But with a recent three-day work trip, I decided it was finally time to navigate NYC's vast culinary waters. 

Aguachile del Día at Amá

So, where to begin?  "Seafood" is too broad for New York City, with all the aforementioned possiblities and more.  What if I narrowed it down to only crawfish boils or crab houses?  Maybe just establishments known for their respective seafood stews like chowder, tom yum, bouillabaisse, caldeirada, or gumbo.  Seafood-focused fine dining would be fun, right?  My employer is cool, but a few $300 Le Bernardin meals in two days and I'd have some 'splaining to do.  How about Italian-American clam houses or only retail seafood markets?  The possibilities were still many, but you can see the direction I was heading.  At the same time, I'd dined at Amá, an upscale Mexican eatery in Philadelphia, a few weeks prior to my trip.  They do seasonal ceviche and aguachile specials, and having enjoyed a few, I knew exactly how I wanted to explore NYC's seafood scene.

Raw seafood preparations span both history and the globe, and people around the world have likely been pairing raw fish and shellfish with various available ingredients for millennia.  Narrowing my NYC trip to just raw, or raw-ish, seafood preparations would definitely help.  But still, so many possiblities ranging from Tahitian poisson cru to components of a 'seacuterie' board.  This is where the Amá experience and inspiration really came in.  I've written about ceviche quite a few times before, or ceviche-esque dishes.  Cocteles, salads, tartares, tiraditos.  Whatever you want to call them, they're delectable.  Fresh, raw seafood that's dressed or lightly cured in acid & salt and served with any combination of other ingredients, often capsicums and alliums.  No catch-all name exists for these, and each variation has its own nuance and history.  In the States, ceviche is arguably most popular, and we've come to loosely group similar perparations under this title.  You'll even see things like "Kokoda: Fiji's version of ceviche" on menus.  Either way, I was excited for this to be my Manhattan seafood focus.  I think the late, great Ol' Dirty Bastard said it best — "oh baby I like it raw..."  And with only a few 'ceviche o'clocks' in my work trip, I had to 'seas the day' wisely.  Vamos! 

Kausa - Peruvian Restaurant & Pisco Bar
   

Where better to start than with the most widely acknowledged founding father of ceviche, Peruvian cuisine.  Hell, it's even got UNESCO recognition.  I often half joke about desperately wanting a Peruvian pollo a la brasa place somewhere in the suburbs.  It would kill it, especially with the anti-seed-oil, crunchy, granola crowd.  I realized, though, that while I say I miss the charcoal chicken and yucca fries, it's really just the aji amarillo sauce that I miss most.  I'd mainline that shit if I could.  It's incorporated in practically every Peruvian dish, ceviche included.  I even grew some aji peppers in my garden this year, but that's for another blog post 😉.
   

Anyway, after a lengthy work conference day in Midtown, I scrambled over to Hell's Kitchen for an 8pm reservation with a friend.  Opened right after the pandemic, Kausa sits on a bustling section of 9th Avenue between West 50th and 51st Streets, catering to locals and theatergoers alike.  It's named after the traditional Peruvian dish causa, a sort of mashed potato and potato salad hybrid with, you guessed it, aji amarillo.  There's a vibrant Latino bistro & bar vibe to the whole place.  Warm, neon blue lighting illuminates gold ornamentation and murals of sweeping Andean landscapes.  A mashup of hip hop and Huayno music is on full blast.  Peruvian Liga 1 soccer matches are on every TV.  And the bar is buzzing with pisco sours flowing freely.  The staff were as lovely and welcoming as could be, too.  But, if I'm being honest, there were a few moments I felt I wasn't cool enough to be there.  That could also be said of me and the entirety of Manhattan, though.      

We ordered a few cervezas, then a rotisserie chicken and some yucca fries.  Both were well done and delicious.  The ceviche mixto, however, was top notch.  Shrimp, squid, octopus, and corvina lightly cured in a savory, citrus-forward leche de tigre and topped with red onion, cilantro, and sweet potato.  Simple yet satisfying in the best ways.  My favorite part of a Peruvian ceviche is always the choclos and canchas, adding a wonderful textural complement and contrast in each bite.  Classics are classics for a reason, and Kausa's ceviche mixto is a perfect demonstration of why.  I highly recommend.  And don't worry, I asked for plenty of aji amarillo on the side, and suggest you do too.    

Los Mariscos - Tacos, Ceviches, Cocteles

I have no data to back this up, but it feels like Mexican eateries account for the second most common iteration of ceviche-esque dishes we see in the States..  Almejas chocolatas, tostadas de atun, vuelve la vida.  Mexico really celebrates its mariscos.  Much respect and love to Colombian, Venezuelan, Ecuadorian, Panamanian, and many other ceviche-making cuisines; too much to cover in too little time, unfortunately.  Also, the inspiration for this whole NYC exploration came from a Mexican meal I'd had in Philadelphia, so you know I had to check one out in Manhattan.  Most importantly, I was looking for a Mexican regional cousin of ceviche, Sinaloa's aguachile. 

Modern-day aguachile is typically a mix of spicy, green peppers blended with salt, lime juice, and water into a thin, verdant sauce; hence the translation to chile water.  It's then poured over raw shrimp or fish and served right away.  The key differentiation between ceviche and aguachile is the cure on the protein, or lack thereof.  Ceviche often comes with cured or even cooked seafood, while aguachile is almost always raw seafood with the sauce poured over and served immediately.  This creates an important textural distinction between the dishes.  Curiously, though, aguachile actually originated in Sinaloa's Sierra Madre mountains with wild game, not on the coast with seafood.  Pre-Colombian peoples would sun-dry meats like venison and javelina for preservation, then reconstitute them with a mash-up of salt, water, and wild chiltepín peppers to eat.  This was adopted by Spanish ranchers and vaqueros, bringing it up to the late 1800s and early 1900s.  Nobody is quite sure exactly how or when, but this practice was popularized with raw seafood in coastal Sinaloa some time in the mid-20th century.  Global familiarity with shrimp aguachile really didn't take hold until the early 2000s, and now it's a menu staple on practically every marisquería.      

My research brought me to NYC's Meatpacking District and the cavernous labyrinth that is Chelsea Market.  Somewhere amongst the narrow corridors, random staircases, and oddly connected spaces sits Los Mariscos.  Opened in 2016, Los Mariscos aims to transplant the seafood shack culture of Baja California to downtown Manhattan, and in all ways succeeds.  The tight space is full of bright, beachside colors with surfboards, fishing rods, Mexican beer signs, and picnic tables.  Staff are shucking oysters, hand-squeezing lime juice, and griddling tortillas all to order while mariachi music blares.  I may have felt out of place at Kausa, but I most certainly felt right a home at Los Mariscos.    



I had limited time with my train home departing in an hour, so I got right into it.  "One aguachile de camarón and a Coca-Cola, por favor."  I sipped my Mexi-Coke while watching the raw-bar staff freshly blend my aguachile and plate it in a show-stopper molcajete.  Served with sliced red onion, Tajín-dressed cucumbers, and tostadas on the side, it was delightful.  The shrimp were fresh and snappy, the cucumbers and onion refreshing, and the sauce was spot on.  Bright, acidic, and bracingly spicy.  It kind of reminded me of Andy Capp's Hot Fries as a kid.  Not in taste or texture of course, but in heat and addictiveness.  You know, one of those foods that once you stop eating, your mouth is on fire.  But as long as you keep eating, the heat is kept at bay, at least for a while.  Spice and all, it was great.  Even after the shrimp and tostadas were gone, I was literally crunching up saltine crackers and dumping them into the aguachile to eat, like a soup or chowder.  10 out of 10, Los Mariscos.  Well done.

Kalye - Filipino Street Food

I'd never had Filipino food until I moved to the Bay Area in 2010.  The past decade has seen a surge in Filipino restaurants throughout Philadelphia, and the States in general.  But when I was a kid, it simply wasn't around, at least where I lived in Chester County.  Better late than never, and I've been regularly enjoying pancit, sisig, lumpia, and more ever since.  Filipino cuisine has also been quietly simmering beneath American mainstream food culture for some time now, with many saying it's the next "big thing."  It's a delicate subject with a long, sordid history steeped in modern colonialism, inequity, and appropriation.  That's for a whole other blog post, though.  What I can say is that Filipino food is delicious and entirely deserving of national recognition.  It checks all the sweet, sour, spicy, salty, pickled, fermented, intensely flavored boxes that Americans increasingly want in their meals.  It's also rooted in a singular culture, something I very much welcome amid so many co-opted Asian fusion restaurants popping up everywhere.  And for my NYC trip, I was focused on finding one Filipino dish in particular: kinilaw.   

Kinilaw is a fresh raw seafood preparation with a mix of acid, salt, and local ingredients like ginger and alliums.  Like ceviche and aguachile, kinilaw has its own unique history and origins.  Archaeological records show evidence of indigenous Filipino communities making variations at least 1,000 years ago.  The name actually stems from the Cebuano word kilaw, meaning "to eat raw."  One of the primary distinctions between ceviches or aguachiles and kinilaw is the type of acid used.  While ceviche draws from an array of citrus or passion fruits, kinilaw is traditionally and typically made with native Filipino acids like coconut vinegar or palm vinegar. 

For my very first kinilaw experience,  I landed on the Lower East Side's Kalye.  Tucked into the eclectic and immigrant-focused neighborhood, Kalye was opened in late 2022 with the goal of creating both a Filipino street food restaurant and community gathering space.  It's packed with Filipino art, media, and ephemera paired with shoutouts to Manila street culture like rattan furniture and sari-sari displays.  Kalye is even the Tagalog word for "street." The whole place has a certain buzz about it that you immediately feel.  If you don't, have a few of their calamansi or pandan cocktails and you definitely will.  Menu-wise, they've got it all: ube halo-halo, sinigang, even a four person feast known as a boodle fight.  All sounded great, but I was there for the kinilaw.  Also, note the parenthesized "tuna ceviche" on their menu right next to kinilaw.  Got to know your market, I suppose. 
  

It was happy hour, so we ordered a few half-priced small plates: lumpia, ube beef sliders, and some charred okra.  All quite tasty, especially the okra with some sort of salt & vinegar seasoning.  A smaller portion of their kinilaw is always available as an HH special, but I wanted the full experience.  It was a satisfying mix of cubed tuna, chiles, cucumber, and red onion, garnished with grape tomatoes and julienned papaya.  The biggest difference between this dish and the other raw seafood preparations I'd had was the aroma.  The heat and crispness of the dish were similar, but it had an almost funky nose and tang to it.  Ginger was notably forward, and there was a sort of fermented sweetness.  Staff were scurrying around a very busy happy hour, so I didn't have the chance to ask about specific ingredients.  But the difference must have been from the acid, whether it was coconut vinegar, sugarcane vinegar, or something akin.  The tuna was even visibly cured in a different way, creating a more milky but sharp liquor vs. the lighter leche de tigre.  Quite the eye-opening experience for me in terms of a what other delicious raw preparations are out there, and the perfect culmination to my Manhattan adventure.

I'm going to be spending more time in New York City for work, so I plan to continue this as a running series; hence the "- Part One."  Ceviche-style dishes were the perfect place to start, too.  American Chef Andrea Carbine said ceviche, with its cooked texture and common, approachable accompaniments like tortilla chips or corn nuts, is the perfect gateway food for those squeamish about raw seafood fare.  I couldn't agree more.  My only question is: what's next?  Anything is possible in NYC, and those possibilities are endless for Manhattan Raw.  Sushi & sashimi, oyster & clam bars, cured & cold-smoked fish, carpaccios & crudos, poke & lomi lomi.  I've definitely got to search out some Korean mulhoe and san-nakji.  Let me know what you think in the comments.

Cheers,
The SF Oyster Nerd

  

Oysters & Melons

Full transparency, my annual oyster & gardening post didn't quite go as planned this year.  I've had a lot of fun with some previous projects: "shucked" ceviche with garden fresh peas and corn, homegrown chile peppers for oyster hot sauce, even pairing eggs from our neighbors' chicken coop with oysters.  For this year's, I started in late 2025 by attempting to grow a perennial known as oyster leaf.  Also known as oyster plant, oyster leaf is in the borage family and closely related to Virginia blue bells.  Relatively rare and prized by chefs, it's got a succulent, snappy texture like a nopales, and a clean saline, oceanic taste like, well, an oyster.  I've only had it once, over a decade ago, while living in San Francisco.  In the States, it's difficult to find outside of the areas it grows wild or is now cultivated, like the North Atlantic or Pacific Northwest.  So naturally, I tried growing it.  And unfortunately, I continue to try growing it.  Direct sow, paper towel sprouting, cell trays with starter mixes, Aerogarden, cold stratification.  Plugs or starts are practically impossible to source, and Mertensia are notoriously difficult to germinate, so I've learned.  I haven't reached the point of defeat just yet, but my oyster leaf escapades are tracking for summer 2027 at the earliest.

But for 2026, things looked dire, as if my annual oyster & gardening post was not going to happen.  Then, as a saving grace, the Tuscan cantaloupe I'd planted back in April went gangbusters, providing some inspiration in oyster & melon pairings.  Oysters, with their natural brininess and minerality, are complemented well by sweet and tart.  Lemon, lime, grapefruit, blood orange, even pomegranate, apple, and stone fruit are commonly served or paired with oysters in some way.  Melons most certainly check that box.  Some Pacific oysters (Magallana gigas) also have slight cucumber or melon flavor profiles.  I've had Kusshis that tasted like straight Watermelon Jolly Ranchers.  So, as my kids and I eagerly awaited over half a dozen melons to ripen on the vine, I started thinking of oyster & melon combinations.

Usually I do some sort of deep subject matter dive in my posts, or at least try to.  The history of Atlantic City, the global dissemination of capsicums, debates around combining cheese and seafood.  But, here we are with my 11th hour, slapdick plan B: oysters & melons.  I'm not saying oysters & melons is a bad idea.  Far from it.  I just want to acknowledge that I'm leaving a lot of fun history, botany, and culture around melons on the table here.  That said, I had to at least provide a bit of detail on what I find interesting about melons, so here we go.
  

I like melons.  Melons taste great.  People have been eating melons for millennia.  Nobody seems to agree on whether melon cultivation originated in Sub-Saharan Africa or the Middle East, but thank you to whoever figured it out.  Some foods that we call melons aren't actually melons, like pepino melons or bitter melons.  Other foods, like Armenian cucumbers, are actually melons, scientifically speaking.  Taxonomic vs. culinary classifications are often weird.  Some growers have been hybridizing and creating cool, new melon varieties, like the Sugar Kiss or Lemon Drop.  Personally, I prefer the big ol' natural melons, though I like augmented melons and little melons too.  Today, melons are available year round thanks to global supply chains.  But, in the Mid-Atlantic, melons are best local and in the late summer months.  When in season, few things can beat a cool, sweet slice of melon on a warm, balmy day.  So, with a few dozen oysters and a mélange of melons, let's get our mel-on!

Oysters & Melon Caviar

Oysters topped with caviar is a classic pairing, and oysters and caviar actually share a similar history.  In the 19th century, oysters were abundant and cheap in Europe and North America.  While consumed by all classes, they often had a distinction as a poor man's food.  Charles Dickens famously wrote "poverty and oysters always seem to go together."  At the same time, caviar-producing sturgeon were incredibly abundant across the East Coast.  Exhausted sturgeon populations had already made caviar a prized luxury in Europe, but it was readily available and cheap in the States.  The US was even the world's leading caviar exporter in the mid-1800s.  However, due to its perishability, the US had more caviar than it could either consume or ship across the Atlantic — so much that it was literally handed out as a free bar snack, just like peanuts or popcorn.  Over-fishing and clever marketing of the early 20th century made oysters and caviar the culinary status symbols they are today.  However, for a few decades in America, oysters and caviar were foods for the masses, enjoyed by all.

          

To turn my melons into caviar for an oyster accoutrement, my mind immediately went molecular gastronomy and spherification.  You know, those pretty little popping pearls of cranberry juice or gin & tonic you see on Top Chef?  However, time is the real luxury when you've got young kids, and science is hard.  So I pivoted and got the most adorable little melon baller available, making my oysters & melon caviar a much more approachable project.  I shucked half a dozen Mystic oysters from Connecticut, plated on some ice, and proceeded to ball various melons.  Korean melon, watermelon, canary melon, honeydew melon, all from various local markets, and of course the Tuscan cantaloupe from our garden. 

In hindsight, I should have tried each oyster with a single melon variety to get a solid sense of which worked best.  Look at all those pretty colors, though.  We're all victims of the Instagramification of our cuisine, I suppose.  I also think this oyster & melon caviar preparation would be much better with Pacific oysters and their fruity, vegetal notes.  However, I can confidently say that the Korean melon was far and away the best pairing.  Its crisp texture and more-tart-than-sweet flavor, almost like a cucumber and Asian pear hybrid, contrasted perfectly with the supple and briny oysters.  I'd love to try it at as a mignonette, maybe with some shallots and champagne vinegar, or bird's eye chiles and yuzu juice.  Either way, this is certainly not the last time I'll be enjoying Korean melon and oysters together.   

 

Oyster & Honeydew Aguachile

2026 has been a year of Mexican marisco dishes for me.  Pescado a la Veracruzana, tostadas de atún, vuelve la vida, caldo de camarón.  Plenty more on this to come in my next blog post, but they've been a recurring theme this year.  It could be from seeing several viral videos like these, or maybe my missing the Bay Area.  Occam's razor would suggest I’m obsessed simply because Mexican seafood preparations are delicious, and therefore deserving of obsession.  Whatever the case may be, they are indeed delightful.

Being top of mind all year, the very first dish I thought of for this project was an oyster & honeydew aguachile.  Again, much more to come on aguachile in that upcoming post, but it's essentially the Sinaloan cousin of ceviche.  Hot peppers like serrano and chiltepín are mixed with cucumber, cilantro, garlic, lime juice and water into a thin, verdant sauce, then poured over raw shrimp or fish and served with crispy tortillas or saltines.  Adding in some honeydew sweetness while maintaining the sauce's green vibrancy, and bringing in a few oysters, seemed like an obvious oysters & melons dish.  I started by curing some Goose Point oysters and Mexican brown shrimp in lime juice to firm up their texture a bit.  I then blended garlic, cucumber, cilantro, honeydew melon, and homegrown jalapeños in lime juice with a little water and passed it through a sieve.



After about 15 minutes of the lime juice cure, it was time to plate.  I laid out the shrimp and oysters, added some cubed honeydew, poured over the aguachile sauce, and garnished with sliced red onion, cilantro, and cucumber.  My favorite Mexican ceviche, aguachile, or coctel accompaniment is saltines, so I had to throw a few on the side.  Overall, it tasted great.  A bright, herbaceous, spicy sauce with toothsome bites of shrimp and oyster and a cooling crunch from the cucumber and red onion.  In terms of a classic aguachile, spot on.  Unfortunately, the honeydew was overpowered by the citrus and spice.  I had put A LOT of honeydew in there, too, but it was still barely noticeable.  I wouldn't have even known it was in there if it weren't for the cubed melon.  Solid 8 out of 10 for a standard aguachile, but I need to go back to the drawing board on the melon pairing.  Perhaps for next year's oyster & gardening post.

Gul Subak Naengmyeon (굴수박냉면) 

Few cultures around the world take their melons as seriously as the Japanese.  They grow luxury, high-end melons that often go for $100 to $200 for a single fruit.  Just this year, a pair of Yubari melons from Hokkaido sold for nearly $40,000 at auction.  As soon as I started this project, I knew I'd be looking to the East for inspiration.  I ended up in South Korea where they make a summer dish called subak naengmyeon.  Buckwheat noodles are cooked, chilled, and tossed in a sweet & spicy watermelon-gochuchang broth.  They're then served cold in a hollowed-out watermelon and topped with sliced cucumber and a jammy, soft-boiled egg.  Perfect for my oysters & melons coup de grâce dish.
  

Yes, that's an Aerogarden in the background,
still trying to sprout some oyster leaf seeds. 

A large oyster, when lightly poached or steamed, can be a great substitute for a boiled egg in many dishes, whether for dietary adjustments or just a fun riff.  I've had some success with it in the past, most notably as a Scotch egg oyster.  I started my Gul Subak Naengmyeon (Oyster & Watermelon Cold Noodles) by boiling Kikkokin buckweat noodles and chilling them in an ice bath, and poaching an XL Goose Point oyster.  At the same time, I hollowed out a baby watermelon half and set it to the side.  I blended the removed melon with rice vinegar, gochujang, and Korean oyster sauce for the noodle dressing.  I also sliced up, purged, and pan-fried some bitter melon to add to the noodles.  I only used a little, so the rest was set aside for a school night stir-fry.  The slightly astringent melon would contrast well with the sweet and spicy noodles.  But really, I just wanted to add more melon, so I could say melon more, even though bitter melon isn't a true melon.

Once all the components were ready, I dressed the noodles and bitter melon and plated them in the baby watermelon half.  I then added the oyster on top and garnished with scallion, sesame seeds, and a few heavy shakes of gochugaru.  The result — quite the showstopper, I don't mind saying.  And the flavor —  🤯.  Slightly chewy, al dente noodles swimming in an all-things-flavor broth.  It was sweet, spicy, savory, refreshing, and tangy in every bite.  The bitter melon brought a great, contrasting crunch, and the oyster on top provided an umami-rich pop.  I'm genuinely surprised we don't see subak naengmyeon on menus in the States more.  It's delicious.  I also have to apologize to my mom.  Growing up, I always watched her salt her watermelon before eating it.  We all looked at her like she was batshit crazy.  But after this dish, I get it.  Watermelon pairs wonderfully with salty and savory, especially in the form of cold noodles with some oysters.  Sorry, mom, you were right all along.    

For a last minute pivot, I was pretty happy with my dishes pairing oysters & melons.  A few tasty bites, some fun learnings, and plenty of leftover melons to enjoy after the project.  No joke, we've been eating melon for breakfast, lunch, snack, and dinner the last week or so.  The boy and I went fishing at the Jersey shore recently, and sure enough, he landed a 20 inch keeper.  Summer flounder is delicious, and particularly delicious when served crudo with cantaloupe, watermelon and a spicy gochujang & lime sauce.  I hope you get the chance to eat some peak-season melons and seafood in the last few days of summer, too.

Cheers,
The SF Oyster Nerd