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.

Coming Home

A Sunday night in Brooklyn could be the worst possible time to scour the streets for an open parking space. I say could only because weekday mornings, just before street cleanings, are pretty dicey as well. After a long weekend away from the hectic everyday stresses of New York City, M. and I were quickly reminded of the reasons for which we'd nipped away in the first place: impatient horn-honkers, suicidal jaywalkers and the no-right-on-red NYC rule. Thirty-five minutes after exiting the BQE, we squeezed the silver four-door between a fire hydrant and a ZipCar. I measured the distance from the hydrant with long strides: yep, fifteen feet. We were good.

We stepped out, stretched and checked the time. (I wish I could say we checked our watches but, no, we checked our cell phones like the rest of the digital generation.) It was 10.40. We hadn't yet eaten and we hadn't enough energy in us to whip up anything more than toast.

There was no question where we were headed. One and a half blocks west of our one bedroom apartments, a cozy Italian trattoria beckoned this tired couple of New York transplants. This little place holds an important spot in our Park Slope history; we dined here the evening we signed our very first lease. We take our visitors here in winter, when walking much further would cause frost bite in the thickest of skins.

On this evening, we stumbled through the front glass doors, smiled at the host and nodded, yes, table for two, please. He followed us to the miniature mahogany table, near the brick oven in the back, and before we even pulled out our chairs, he plonked the menus down and said, "So, Pellegrino?" M. replied, "Please."

I tried to play it cool. I sat down, unfolded my napkin with a flick of my wrist, smoothed it over my lap and leaned eagerly toward M. "Did you hear that? He knows us!" I could barely contain myself. "We're regulars!"

M. half smiled at me, but I knew he was thinking it, too. How could you not?

We'd been here almost exactly one year. We'd fought for Friday parking spots to avoid moving the car for Thursday street cleaning, we'd made mac 'n' cheese for the summer block party, we'd dug out our sidewalk in winter and finally--finally!--someone recognized our existence. For some odd reason, this recognition, more than our right to vote in NYC, more than the large monthly check we cut for rent, signaled our belonging. Yes, the weekend away saved us from facing the subway delays and from the homeless "crackhead Joe" who frequents the corner a few blocks down and from the go-go-go mentality of the city, but coming back to our block did actually feel like coming home.

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.

Marking Territory

Our balcony is no longer safe.

The woman whose fire escape looks over our garden keeps plants on the rickety stairwell. She waters those plants in the late afternoon. And, as we recently found out while trying to watch Jon Stewart one sticky evening, she waters those plants topless. This is not a once in a blue moon occurance. She climbs out through the window, waters the plants topless, disappears--perhaps she realized she was wearing too little--and reappears... topless. Inside, out, through the window.

Should I be surprised?

I am simply horrified for the poor children in the gardens below. And annoyed that my nighttime tv is interrupted by a fire escape show.

ICTY in NYC

In a throwback to my Hague days, I joined other international criminal justice enthusiasts on Tuesday night at the Human Rights Watch Film Festival to take in a documentary featuring updates on Ms. del Ponte's famed prosecutions.

Carla's List tracks the Prosecutor's careful and impassioned search for those accused of war crimes in the conflict that acted as a catalyst for the break-up of the former Yugoslavia. Apparently, the List is down to four--an amazing feat, given that Carla's team has no police force to round up indictees. This lack of teeth is not uncommon in the world of international institutions, but it may be the only way through which to encourage states to become party to these organizations. The International Criminal Court has begun to feel the burden of this mode of enforcement with its outstanding arrest warrants for five members of Uganda's Lord's Resistance Army, a Sudanese rebel leader and Sudan's Minister for Humanitarian Affairs.

Two of the four on Carla's List are considered big ticket items; Mladic and Karadzic are charged with orchestrating and carrying out the Srebenica massacre in 1995. Milosevic passed away in his cell before he could be convicted. So these two Most Wanteds are Carla's current hope for a high-publicity, international norm-shifting trial.

Sitting in the Walter Reade theater at the Lincoln Center for the Arts in New York City, thousands of miles away from where these crimes were allegedly committed, I only wish that the film delved deeper in to the lives of the victims, the consequences of international negligence and complicity--and the way the world could be changed should international law be followed and enforced by the great powers.

A Bocce Bar

Nearing summer, we, in New York City, found ourselves with more hours of daylight than expected. And after that moody winter, it was about time. Broadway called. Frank Bruni reviewed a new restaurant every week. And the quaint bars of Brooklyn begged to be discovered. We gave in.

Our first challenge: choosing where to go.

In honor of Little Matt's 33rd birthday, we took to the streets of North Park Slope, a hip, gentrified, pram-laden neighborhood named for its incline up to Prospect Park, arguably the heartbeat of the borough. We had our choice of chocolate cafes, hot dog bars, and dives specializing in Australian grub. From a long list, Little Matt chose Union Hall. Why? Perhaps for its tall glass façade or its close resemblance to a library. (Yes, a library—with candles and beer.)

Shelves of biographies—which Fonda is that?—and encyclopedic volumes lined each inch of wall not taken up by the bar. As we slid into upholstered armchairs, I tugged at a blue leather-bound book. “Solving terrorism in 1974.” Well, I guess it’s an age-old problem.

New York City and its institutions define themselves by their quirks, so the academia-inspired ambiance did not throw us, but the constant miniature oddities sure did. As we clustered around the mahogany table, we examined the menu, and the boys were stoked to see canned Tecate on the drinks list. (I believe “Sweeeeet” was the exact response.) I ordered a cider, but not without contemplating the cookies and milk option. Little folding TV dinner tables rested in the corners for those who did choose to indulge.

Behind us, commanding about a third of the clientele’s attention, were the bocce courts. I first was exposed to the revival of bocce in the United States when my parents signed up to compete in the Danville league, and when new sand alleys were opened at Sycamore field. But the revolution’s existence and reach was realized when it became the object of affection of high-heeled darlings on a Saturday night in New York City.

Another third of the clientele could be found downstairs, where live music is performed and where live music must be kept (don’t wake the neighbors!).

And when a third of the clientele seemed to stand between us and the bartender, we headed out, stopping only outside the restrooms, where we laughed at the welcoming sign taped to the door. “Both. Think: airplane.”

Last Night

Somebody somewhere was setting off fireworks. I could hear them through the open screen door and wondered what exactly was being celebrated on the sixteenth of June. Perhaps it was only thunder? It definitely rumbled.

It stopped soon thereafter. Maybe it was a fire and my ears just wanted to hear glory instead of terror. I walked around the block to make sure I wouldn't perish foolishly in my sleep. "But she knew!" they'd say, "And she didn't leave the apartment!" Tragic, I know. My block seemed safe. The pouty sky hung overhead, a few persistant stars were visible if you squinted at just the right moment. And the campanile, the armory, guarded the end of the street, the stone statue of some soldier from some war frozen in front of it. That statue of a soldier, that shadow with a gun.