The Fraught Relationship Between Diners and New York City’s Most Coveted Restaurants

There’s a certain kind of restaurant in New York that exists in two parallel realities at once. In one, it is transcendent: the food is precise, thoughtful, maybe even transportive. In the other, it is unbearable: impossible reservations, tightly packed tables, a dining room full of people more focused on documenting the meal than actually tasting it.

Take The Polo Bar, which opened over a decade ago, but whose reservation system still feels akin to winning the lottery—one that’s made worthwhile by the excellent Old Fashioned served on premise, perhaps one of the best in the city. Or The Corner Store, arguably the hardest reservation to secure in New York City, but likely worth the headache given the attention to detail and vibe. There’s also Torrisi, where every dish lands, albeit in a room that hums with a kind of performative appreciation. Semma, Bungalow, Bangkok Supper Club—these places are almost indisputably excellent, and yet, they come with an atmosphere that can feel curated to the point of suffocation.

Even smaller, more design-forward spots like Ha’s Snack Bar or Theodora aren’t immune. By the time you’ve managed to secure a reservation, you’re not just going out to dinner—it’s as if you’re participating in a competitive exercise focused on cultural relevance. You have made it into Laser Wolf, now snap a picture of the mezze appetizers, or it is as if you’ve never been there in the first place!

Theodora-HomeStudios-Interior2.jpg?quality=80&w=970" alt="A dining room at a restaurant." width="970" height="728" data-caption='Theodora. <span class="lazyload media-credit">Brian W. Ferry</span>'>

And that’s where things get complicated. Because what happens when the food really is that good, but posting about it on social media feels like joining a ritual you’d rather skip? When the restaurant deserves the hype, but the experience surrounding it makes you question your own enjoyment?

To grasp why all of this feels so loaded, why a single dinner reservation can spark both delight and disdain, you have to understand what makes an “it” restaurant an “it” restaurant in the first place.

First, we have to acknowledge that we’re talking about New York City, which operates on a completely different scale of attention, density and cultural pressure compared to other cities that might also be obsessed with all things culinary, like Chicago, Miami or Los Angeles. According to NYC & Company, the city welcomed over 65 million visitors in 2024 alone, many of whom traveled specifically for food. Meanwhile, data from both OpenTable and Resy consistently rank New York among the most competitive dining markets in the country, with reservation demand routinely outpacing supply, especially at high-profile restaurants, where tables can disappear within seconds of release. Fun fact: although Carbone—arguably the eatery that has ushered in the era of impossible reservations—opened in 2013, my husband, usually a pretty resourceful guy, has tried every March since 2017 to score a birthday table for me… with zero luck. (Yes, he tried Amex concierge and, yes, he has a 10 a.m. alarm set up 30 days ahead of my birthday, when tables open up.)

Layer that with the fact that New York has more than 50,000 restaurants, and you begin to see the paradox: in a city overflowing with options, a small handful of places still manage to dominate the conversation. How did they get there?

I went to the source.

“It’s not one thing,” says Dennis Turcinovic, owner of Delmonico’s, one of the city’s most enduring dining institutions. “It’s history, credibility and a room that actually delivers on what we promised. But also, there’s a small niche: when you know, you know. In New York, we all eat at the same restaurants. Every industry person eats at Tucci or Delmonico’s, so you know it’s good.”

Delmonico’s, which will mark 190 years in business next year, occupies a strange position in the “it restaurant” ecosystem. It is both immune to hype and, in some ways, the original blueprint for it. The restaurant can serve up to 700 guests in a single night, numbers that dwarf the 50- to 120-seat dining rooms that define today’s hardest reservations, and yet it remains consistently busy, a testament to something less fleeting than virality. In a way, Delmonico’s proves that hype might bring diners through the door at the start, but it won’t sustain a restaurant for generations.

“Hype only lasts for so long,” Turcinovic says. “If you need to hype yourself to stay in business, then you will go out of business. Consistency through hospitality and food is how you stay in business.”

But good food and great service don’t explain the modern phenomenon that we’re constantly dealing with: the TikTok-fueled, notification-driven scramble for tables that defines restaurants like Misi and Via Carota today.

So I kept asking.

“I think there are three things,” says Bruce Bronster, an attorney and co-owner of BBianco Hospitality, the group behind Santi. “You need really good, if not great, elevated cuisine. The second component is consistency, and the third element, which is maybe the hardest, is storytelling.”

Storytelling, in this context, is more than just branding. “Every restaurant that you love has a point of view about the cuisine, about the chef, about the decor,” Bronster says. “The whole thing has to have a point of view and tell a story.”

Lawrence Longo, the CEO of Prince Street Pizza, agrees. “An ‘it’ restaurant is more than just great food,” he says. “It’s a place where people feel something when they walk in. There’s energy, personality and a sense that you’re part of something bigger than just a meal.” 

New York City, he claims, is uniquely positioned to cater to those emotions. “[It] is the perfect place for that because people here are looking for connections,” he says. “If you can combine quality, culture and community, New York City will amplify it in a way no other city can.”

In 2026, the best way for any restaurant to showcase its stories and stir emotions to draw people in is social media, which is now an indelible part of this conversation and perhaps the biggest driver of a restaurant’s “it” status. Social media has become the new word of mouth in a city that, for decades, relied on friends telling friends about the best eateries—and restaurateurs are far from blind to it.

“Social media has shifted discovery,” admits Longo. “People eat with their eyes, but the taste and experience need to back up the photo and the content. That’s what turns a post into a repeat customer.”

The idea that a restaurant’s virality depends on the food it serves and the story it tells, both on- and off-screen, is compelling and might explain why some businesses linger in the cultural imagination long after the initial hype cycle fades. But even that doesn’t quite account for the frenzy: the waitlists, the resale reservations, the sense that dining out has, at times, become a competitive sport. Sure, food matters, the story behind the food matters, how the food is delivered to your table each night matters, and how it looks through an iPhone screen is also important—but that can’t be it, can it? Plenty of restaurants in New York City check all of those boxes, but don’t reach the impossible-to-get-into-no-matter-how-you-try status. 

Bungalow, the relatively new Indian eatery by chef Vikas Khanna and restaurateur Jimmy Rizvi, is a good example: the place went viral before it even opened in March of 2024. 

“It became a story,” chef Khanna remembers. “We opened without offering reservations and over 2,000 people were waiting on line.”

The chef is uniquely suited to dissect the source of any eatery’s “itness,” and he is the one who comes closest to it throughout my research.

Khanna acknowledges that the difficulty of securing a reservation at Bungalow, requiring diners to log onto Resy at 11 a.m. sharp each day, may actually fuel the broader public’s desire to dine there. But, to him, scarcity is almost besides the point. It might push people to keep trying, but it won’t guarantee return customers. 

“Whenever you do business, remember there has to be a purpose. That’s the key to being relevant across generations,” he says. 

It’s also worth noting that Bungalow benefits from serving one of the moment’s trendiest cuisines: a wave of new Indian restaurants has recently opened across the city, from Ambassadors Clubhouse to Semma. But, to Khanna, there’s more to Bungalow’s popularity. 

Bungalow’s story—deeply personal, rooted in loss, culture and representation—has become inseparable from its success. “This restaurant is more than just serving food,” he says. “It’s a representation of pride for Indian and South Asian culture. They feel like this restaurant gives them a voice.”

What gives a restaurant that elusive “it” factor isn’t just how hard it is to get a reservation. Plenty of places draw crowds for one reason or another: some serve excellent food, but lack a clear identity, while others master the social media game and pack tables despite underwhelming menus. The restaurants that truly stand out manage to do it all: deliver exceptional food and service, generate real buzz, and, crucially, have a story to tell.

That “itness” isn’t manufactured scarcity; it’s the result of substance. It comes from a sense of purpose beyond simply being seen as the place to be. As Khanna suggests, even if the owners recognize it as a business, there’s something more driving it.

Sitting at a table at The Polo Bar, you might notice the room buzzing with a certain self-awareness—diners pleased to be there, to have secured the reservation. But look a little closer, and the entire space reveals itself as an ode to Ralph Lauren, a fully realized extension of one of the most important and influential fashion brands in American history. The restaurant works hard to honor that legacy with every meal it serves.

At The Corner Store, set in the heart of downtown Manhattan, the experience nods to a more nostalgic New York, an era when dining out felt less performative and more personal, even as the crowd today suggests otherwise. What drives it is the devotion to nostalgia, and that’s what you feel in the dining room but can’t capture via social media.

Then there’s Carbone, still spoken about as the reservation, but deserving of more than just that reputation. It’s a love letter to Italian American cuisine, done with a sense of theater and excess that feels distinctly, unmistakably New York. 

And at Ambassadors Clubhouse, a newer arrival, the menu and setting trace a different kind of narrative, one that tells the story of Indian cuisine through a British lens, layered with history and migration.

These places know exactly what they’re doing. They have something to say, and they know how to say it. The “itness” isn’t random; it’s created, and it is based on the owners’ desire to express their message through food and good service.

With my newly formed understanding of the catalysts behind these impossible-to-get reservations, it suddenly feels less annoying and frustrating to not be able to snag a table at Or’esh as quickly as I’d like to. In a way, the chase builds a kind of anticipation I now suspect is part of the experience and maybe even worth it. 

And when I finally do get in, the food, the atmosphere and the story the owners are trying to tell might pull me in so completely that I forget to take a picture, forget to tell my handful of followers I was ever there at all.

Or maybe I won’t?

Maybe I’ll post about it, too, because now I understand that, in some small way, I’m part of the story as well.