When a journey makes us sedentary, we like to experiment kind of a minor routine. Every morning in Manhattan, we reach the High Line and run northward along glossy terraces’ profiles, multicoloured building sites and trails of lively traffic. We go back to Jane and out again, with wet hair and a grumbling stomach, towards our table at The Wild Son. The first one on the left, the brightest one. We order either a bowl of Greek yogurt, granola, flaxseeds, pollen and coconut, or buckwheat pancakes with wildflower honey and curcuma butter, a generous portion even when you share it. Actually, its delicious recipes, creative atmosphere and accurate aesthetics make The Wild Son one of the addresses we would be proud to be real regulars of, if only it were in our hometown.
Words Laura Taccari. Translation Alessia Andriolo.