You think New York City already has everything you could ever want in life, and then one day someone hands you a huge bowl of meaty, creamy, cheesy, carb-y heaven and you realize that, for all these years, you didn't even know what you were missing.
Or, at least, that's what happened to me last week when I scrabbled my way up one of those treacherously steep streets that give Washington Heights its name and feasted until I was ridiculously full at Don Plinada, a new bare-bones spot which, as far as I can tell, is our city's first and only restaurant devoted to domplines.
And yes, autocorrect, I do mean domplines, not dumplings; please stop squiggly-red-lining me. The latter are everywhere. The former, as I learned from chatting it up with the hungry folks on West 184th, are beloved and ubiquitous in certain parts of the Dominican Republic, but nearly impossible to find here.
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