I Believe… in the Power of These Wings at Mono Mono

I’m in a very Ray Charles era of my life.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve always known him as famous. But if I’m being honest, my deeper awareness of Ray arrived courtesy of Jamie Foxx, who played him in Ray, a movie I still somehow have not seen. This is not a confession of guilt. It’s simply context. Because lately, I’ve been living inside his music.

“I Believe to My Soul.”
“Hit the Road Jack.”
“I Can’t Stop Loving You.”

Men. Does he know how to get a girl through it.

So imagine my surprise when, midway through biting into a beef bulgogi burger at Mono Mono in the East Village, I looked up and found Ray Charles watching over me, his vinyl sleeve quietly circling my table. And I couldn’t help but wonder if this was divine timing. A soft nod from the universe. Ray himself offering approval for whatever emotional, romantic, or existential choices I’ve been making lately.

Because Mono Mono is exactly the kind of place where those thoughts feel reasonable.

The restaurant is anchored by vinyl, not as decoration, but as atmosphere. Records line the walls like silent witnesses, while music history hums softly through the room. It also happens to double as a flower shop, so when you walk in, you’re greeted first by fresh florals, then by moody lighting, rustic furniture, and that unmistakable buzz of a space everyone seems to already know about. It’s warm. It’s lived in. It’s romantic without trying too hard.

If you’re lucky, your seat awaits you tucked into the wall, a literal cubby that feels conspiratorial in the best way. I was special that night, but not that special. A girl cannot receive Ray Charles’ blessing and a wall cubby in the same evening. Let’s be realistic.

Instead, I landed beside the DJ table. Yes, there is a live DJ. Because apparently dinner alone isn’t enough. It must also soundtrack your emotional arc.

It was a Thursday night, and I was there with someone very special. I’d discovered Mono Mono the way many modern women find fate, through Amex and Resy. The reviews spoke reverently of the wings, and when strangers on the internet sing in harmony, you listen.

We ordered the half and half. Spicy and not spicy.

At first bite, we genuinely confused the two. The flavors are remarkably similar, almost deceptively so. You think you know which is which. You don’t. Then, about ten seconds later, the spice blooms. Not aggressively. Just enough to remind you that patience is rewarded.

They were crisp without heaviness, flavorful without grease, the kind of wings that quietly interrupt conversation.

And then came the burger.

The beef bulgogi burger.

Transformed is not an exaggeration. There is something borderline spiritual about realizing that the savory sweet depth of a bulgogi bowl can be so perfectly translated between two slices of bread. Juicy without being messy. Bold without being overwhelming. Balanced in a way that makes you pause mid bite, recalibrating your standards.

Lord have mercy.

The room was loud, but in the right way. Not candlelit whisper loud. Not nightclub loud. More like leaning in closer, laughing harder than you meant to loud. The kind of energy that turns dates effortless and Thursdays into something resembling Saturdays.

Some places whisper approval.

Others affirm you out loud.

Mono Mono affirms.

It’s social and romantic and slightly chaotic in the best way. Vinyl spinning overhead. Flowers softening the edges. Spice arriving late. Burgers tasting like destiny.

Maybe it wasn’t a sign.

But as Ray looked down from the wall and the DJ slid into something nostalgic and bass heavy, I couldn’t help but wonder: even if you can’t stop loving someone, you can absolutely start loving a restaurant.

And this one?

Hit the road, Jack, then circle right back to the East Village.

because I can't leave you hanging: here's the absolute fixation of my ears currently. 

xoxo,

BT