The triangular street grid below 14th Street predates Manhattan's 1811 Commissioner's Plan, leaving Greenwich Village with angled intersections and intimate blocks that shaped a century of counter-culture and culinary experiment. By the 1910s, Italian immigrants had opened coal-oven bakeries and salumerias along Bleecker Street; by the 1960s, folk musicians and poets filled the coffeehouses on MacDougal; today, third-generation pizzerias stand beside natural-wine bars and vegan patisseries, each layer of the neighborhood's identity preserved in its shopfronts and menus. A Greenwich Village walking and food tasting tour moves through this edible archive. The district's zoning protections—enacted in 1969 after Jane Jacobs led residents to defeat Robert Moses's proposed expressway—limited high-rise development and preserved the scale of nineteenth-century rowhouses and commercial storefronts. That policy froze the physical fabric but not the roster of tenants: rents climbed, pioneers moved on, yet the density of independent food vendors remained higher here than in any comparable Manhattan neighborhood. Sixth-generation olive-oil importers operate two doors from omakase counters; century-old cheese caves share sidewalks with Sicilian gelato labs. The culinary walk typically spans two miles across fifteen blocks, threading Washington Square Park, Father Demo Square, and the Jefferson Market Garden. Guides lead groups of twelve to sixteen participants through six tasting stops, each representing a distinct culinary lineage: coal-fired Neapolitan pizza, hand-pulled mozzarella, Roman suppli, Levantine baklava, third-wave espresso, and craft chocolate made on-site. The route privileges establishments that produce rather than merely plate—bakeries with visible ovens, pasta workshops with rolling tables in the window, roasteries where green beans arrive in burlap and leave as cortados. Beyond the tasting protocol, these guided experiences decode the Village's layered geography. Participants learn why Cornelia Street remains lined with French bistros, how the AIDS crisis reshaped the restaurant economy of the 1980s, why certain corners still bear plaques marking speakeasy tunnels and Prohibition-era basements. The neighborhood's food culture is inseparable from its tenant activism, its literary salons, its history as a haven for those the grid had no room for. A Greenwich Village food walk delivers six small plates and two miles of pavement; it also delivers a method for reading a city through what it chooses to preserve and whom it allows to cook.