Raymond Ang

1 week ago | revistagq.com | Raymond Ang

Llueve el día que quedo con Ocean Vuong para comer en Frenchette, una brasserie de Tribeca abarrotada de banqueros, poderosos personajes del mundo del arte y señoras de alta sociedad con su ropa de Pilates bajo sus abrigos de The Row y Khaite. Vuong reside actualmente en Massachusetts, pero su agente vive por esta zona, y el restaurante se ha convertido en un lugar muy práctico para comer.

2 weeks ago | gq-magazine.co.uk | Raymond Ang

It’s a gloomy weekday afternoon in Manhattan but inside Boxers, a neon-lit watering hole that bills itself as “America's gay sports bar”, it might as well be last call. The reggaeton’s blaring, the pool table’s buzzing, and our bartender, Javier? Stripped down to his boxers, welcoming the clientele with bedroom eyes, a half-fade, and abs you could grate a wedge of parmesan on. “Where’s your husband?” Javier asks a regular, a beefy unc in a plaid shirt and horn-rimmed glasses.

3 weeks ago | gq.com | Raymond Ang

It's a rainy day in New York when I meet Ocean Vuong for lunch at Frenchette, and the Tribeca brasserie is crowded with bankers, art-world power players, and ladies who lunch, their Pilates athleisure hidden under coats from The Row and Khaite. Vuong calls Massachusetts home these days, but his agent lives nearby and the restaurant has become a convenient place for lunch meetings. He orders fish soup and a plate of charred carrots, almost without consulting the menu.

3 weeks ago | vogue.ph | Raymond Ang

On a March afternoon so balmy you can see spring right around the corner, I meet the Filipino-American chef Woldy Reyes in Grill 21, a cheerfully dive-y Filipino eatery in Manhattan’s East Village. The leaves are still brown outside but in Grill 21, the flowers are in full bloom; at least the hand-painted ones on the walls, found in charmingly upbeat murals depicting tropical life.

4 weeks ago | gq.com | Raymond Ang

It’s a gloomy weekday afternoon in Manhattan but inside Boxers, a neon-lit watering hole that bills itself as “America's gay sports bar,” it might as well be last call. The reggaeton’s blaring, the pool table’s buzzing, and our bartender, Javier? Stripped down to his boxers, welcoming the clientele with bedroom eyes, a half-fade, and abs you could grate a wedge of pecorino on. “Where’s your husband?” Javier asks a regular, a beefy unc in a plaid shirt and horn-rimmed glasses.