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Call it a bustling coffeehouse, an upscale diner, or a calculated hipster haven. This Greenpoint hot spot, on the bottom floor of the Astral Apartments, specializes in being whatever you want it to be. During the day, sunlight bleeds through the oversize windows onto the long, wood bar, where the “self-employed” sip bottomless mugs of coffee and pick at tempeh Reubens while pretty baristas keep the burr grinders buzzing. By nightfall, couples fill out the dark, cushioned corners—tucking into textbook crisp-skinned chicken or one of Brooklyn’s cheapest steak frites and contentedly conversing over a loud, Pitchfork-approved soundtrack. Sure, some menu items vanish mid-service and the disaffected waitstaff look and act like moonlighters from a roving indie band, but what makes this neighborhood haunt worthy of a train ride are the little touches—the whiff of cardamom in a near-perfect cappuccino, the Plugra butter generously provided for your basket of Balthazar pastries, and the house-made hot sauce and ketchup for an otherwise average pile of fries. — Matt Goulding

Chili Colorado, $13; cast iron waffle, $8

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