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Reading the menu, however, was a more challenging issue. It was dim, for sure, but the flickering candlelight wouldn’t stop me from stuffing my face. When I entered, I immediately thought Zio was exaggerating. You couldn’t tell that power had been restored weeks ago in Chelsea judging by the lack of light in El Cocotero. “It’s so dark in there, you won’t be able to find your mouth with your fork,” he wrote in a text. We all wished the best for Rick, but his pronouncement was just too sudden and late in the day to stop us from heading to Chelsea.īefore anyone else had arrived at El Cocotero, Zio had scouted it out. The false alarm was a reference to the impending birth of his first child the due date set for early December. Just got a call from the wife and we have to go to the hospital! It may be a false alarm, but please go enjoy Venezuelan food without me.” But a couple of hours before our meeting time, Rick sent an email that read as follows: “Guys. Still, we gave Rick the benefit of the doubt and to El Cocotero we all planned to meet. Chelsea, in its present incarnation, is not a neighborhood where we would think to find our kind of restaurant meaning one suited more for our penny pinching tastes.

It wasn’t only the relatively quick repeat of a cuisine that was odd, it was also the location. A few months earlier, we traipsed to Inwood for Venezuelan cachapas on Dyckman Street Stalking Corn on Dyckman Street. Rick’s choice of a Venezuelan place in Chelsea quickly raised some eyebrows amongst our group when we were notified.