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As good as it is to be nigh immortal, with superhuman strength and speed, he still has needs. And they are a bloody nuisance.
"Bloody" being the key word here. As much as he can go for weeks without the stuff, with no harm to himself or his abilities, he still gets hungry. A cold, gnawing sensation in the back of his mind that makes him cranky and anxious, and turns into a thick red fog of rage-want-thirst the moment he shoots a gangster or rips the head off one, hot blood spraying around, filling the air with its smell. It's easier to feed the monster to keep it quiet.
And it's not like he's exactly short of prey. New York is full of scum, young men too lazy to make an honest living and too stupid to fear the monster lurking in the dark. Mostly armed, but guns are not a problem to him. Not anymore.
Easy pickings, he muses, coming up behind a would-be mugger, biting into the man's neck. The mugger's would-be victim screams and crosses herself, then flees, heels striking sharply on the pavement. Then, silence, just the sound of his own slow, quiet gulps and his victim's rapid, terrified heartbeat. The sharp, dark taste of terror coats his tongue, and he finds himself savouring it, slowing down to enjoy it longer as his hunger is sated. Who said a necessity can't be pleasant?