Some also claim that Chelsea’s borders have expanded eastward. If that’s the case, I’d throw in the Breslin, British chef April Bloomfield’s gastropub at the achingly hip Ace hotel. Though you wouldn’t guess it from the sylphlike clientele, it’s an unfettered celebration of fat disguised as a restaurant. Pizza bianco is served with lardo; thick-cut steak fries are thrice-cooked in yet more lard, producing a shattering crust and creamy interior.

Conscious that I’d struggle to fit into any of the clothes at the hotel’s Opening Ceremony boutique, I daintily order the rainbow trout with summer vegetables. I then proceed to demolish half my cousin’s lamb burger, duel with him over the remainder of the creamed Swiss chard, and seriously contemplate whether I have room for the brown sugar–and-apple cake. (I do not.) After such an orgy of fat, I’d recommend a brisk walk back to your hotel while praying to the gods of digestion. Better yet, head to the High Line. During one afternoon stroll there, I notice a sign advertising lofts in the neighborhood. For a brief moment, I imagine a life where weekend gallery-hopping and daily walks along the old rail track would be part of my normal routine. Then a baby cries, a truck roars by below, and the moment passes. But with the Hudson glinting in the distance and views of Chelsea’s mercurial landscape—equal parts grit and glamour—I know I’ll be back.