Curse of an In N Out Fanatic

For the past fourteen months, I've been on the hunt for the perfect NYC burger. Coming from the In N Out cult of California, raised on all natural milkshakes with bible verses printed on their paper cups, my standards are high. Orders that can be placed in secret code are appreciated; think: animal style, protein style, double doubles. Simple menus. No mushy buns! Ketchup must be served on the side. I'll waive the palm tree requirement.

Needless to say, the search is ongoing. M. and I dragged a couple of California visitors to the Shake Shack in Madison Square Park this summer to help us taste test their offerings. We fell in love with the frozen custard shakes, the option of having wine with your fries and the outdoor venue. I was willing to forgive the lack of secrecy involved in this venture--not only were there no secret codes for ordering, but all of New York seemed to be lined up, making the wait more than I'd bargained for--but there is one major problem with the Shake Shack: Who wants to eat outside in the middle of winter? Shake Shack recognizes this issue and, understandably, adjusts its hours to reflect that. But tell me, what are we carnivorous Californians supposed to do in the chilly January evenings when a warm burger would just hit the spot?

Well, there's the crowded Burger Joint, hidden away behind a black curtain at Le Parker Meridien. There's Corner Bistro in the West Village, where you hang out "on line" at the bar for forty-five minutes before being served. Don't get me wrong: Both serve up a good, simple burger, but you've got to be in the mood for loud, beer-fueled conversation to survive either one.

And then there's Stand, where M. and I headed almost a year ago upon its opening some time last winter. A semi-chic burger bar, it was just okay back then. The waiters mumbled the specials and the franchise had yet to be awarded its liquor license--which perhaps accounted for the mumbling?

But for some reason, I went back. And last night, I was impressed. Sure, the prices could not compete with In N Out but at least the burgers tried to. You have the option of branching out and ordering burger soup or a beer shake, but I selected the classic cheeseburger and (I admit my vice) a chocolate shake. The review? Two greasy thumbs up. The burger even came with a rather refined cheddar dipping sauce! Points. But probably my favorite part of the whole experience--not to belittle the food--was the text on the matchbooks:

"I met: [name], [gender], [phone] at Stand."

Ha. Priceless.

NYC Marathon

[The views from 4th Avenue.]

Mmm mmm coffee

Normally, I cringe at the thought of waking before 8 on a Saturday. But I'm quickly learning that the waking can be tolerable when the following activity piques my interest. Like, say, going to Red Hook for coffee and exploring.

Red Hook is one of those areas of Brooklyn that is not super easy to access. You can take the F to Smith and Ninth, jump on the 77 bus and arrive at the shore of the East River in one piece, but on weekends, well, we all know how accommodating public transit can be then.

So we drove down the Slope, over the Gowanus and to Van Brundt, the main-ish street of the semi hip neighborhood in question. Red Hook is, to some, a bit too gritty; and to others, a bit too far from anything. It is gentrifying yet currently retains its shore-side vibe, with empty lots, warehouses and chic coffee shops juxtaposing one another along the drive.

The old chocolate factory on the pier is now a Fairway, a supermarket mecca, next to which a run down brick building dressed in buoys and life rafts advertises its antique collection.

"I wonder if this place will ever turn into 4th Street, Berkeley," M. said.

It's possible--4th Street, too, once boated bayside industrialization and is now home to Crate and Barrel and The North Face shops. But Californians drive places. And New Yorkers don't. So until Red Hook is more easily accessible via bus/train/ferry, I'm not so sure it will see the same fate. But I could be wrong. After all, we now live in New York, and we drove there.

In fact, we drove there with a purpose. We drove there to check out Baked, a bakery one block down from our favorite greasy spoon, Hope & Anchor. A friend of ours (a pastry chef!) had vouched for it, so we decided it was worth an early morning visit. And boy am I glad we went.

Coffee? Perfect. Their cappuccino comes in one size (small) and, as a standard, always has two shots of espresso. The cranberry scones were made with fresh berries. And their selection of spicy chocolate brownies, cheesecakes and buttercream frosting-topped cupcakes called to us even in the a.m.

We cradled our coffees and sat by the large, orange-silled window, watching the variety of life stroll by. What a wonderful start to our weekend.

Feeling Like Fall

Neighborhoods. That is was Brooklyn is really all about. Everyone has their place, their space, where they feel comfortable.

M. and I finally made it up to Fort Greene today. Yes, we've been here a year and have yet to explore the brownstones surrounding Pratt. We tend to keep to our neck of the woods over the weekends, avoiding hopping on public transit, avoiding anything we'd normally do on a week day.

But today, the sun came out, as did the chill, making for a nice, long walk to Fort Greene Park, where kiddies galore gathered for face painting, pumpkin drawing and music beneath the falling leaves. It's Halloween weekend, and Spiderman, penguins and princesses frolicked around with their winter coats atop the festive garb. One of M.'s friends was visiting her old neighborhood and in between delicious sips of hot cocoa from BitterSweet, she began recounting to us the joys of the little enclave in north Brooklyn. It's neighborhoody, hip, like San Francisco (which is, for anyone who has ever lived in the city by the bay, a wonderful thing), and there are plenty of things to do, whether you're twelve or forty-two.

And she's right; it's adorable. There's a playground for the kids. And joints like 67 Burger and Gnarly Vines for those of us over twenty-one. So why do we prefer our neighborhood to her old stomping grounds? Well, for the simple reason that it is ours. It's familiar. We had no reason to prioritize it over any other in Brooklyn upon our move here, but since we came to this spot, we made it ours.

So we were happy to come home after a day wandering the Fort. But we did bring with us a Halloween spirit and immediately newspapered our kitchen floor for pumpkin carving.

the opera

in an effort to celebrate yet another year and to pluck from new york another cultural feather, we found ourselves dressed to the nines on a thursday, opera tickets in hand.

they were in hand, of course, because in spite of expectations for a cold winter, i was in a halter dress and heels. no tights, no coat, no purse. the unseasonable weather made its way down into the underground, and our fancy garb stuck to the orange polystyrene subway seats.

coming by way of train, we were forced to approach lincoln center from the dungeons of the city. (oh, how easily phantom rumors could form!) mansion-dwellers, to whom such trips became commonplace before even weekly mentions in the sundaystyles, slid up in their town cars. let them have their chauffeurs; they missed the amazing saxophonist playing for pennies on the underground.

of course, the opera itself was incomprable to anything i had ever witnessed. not only was the ceiling graced with a chagall, not only was the world transforming before our eyes, but the purity, the hilarity, the precision of il barbiere di siviglia was so perfectly crafted that i did not know whether to laugh or to cry. to realize that this alternate reality exists only a trainride away from my brooklyn haven is to realize a new desire. a persistent and not necessarily novel need to reach out to the unknown finally found its justification. why haunt a neighborhood, a bar, a stage if you can find at each train stop a new reality an ounce more inspiring than the one before it? why become a regular when the inspiration drawn from these locales comes from not knowing them?

hypocritically, i am indeed going back to the opera. but i guess i'll have to see a different show.