As evidenced by my Serbian stuffed burgers post, I really like the idea of cheese as burger entrails rather than burger beanie. Even though you’re probably consuming the same amount of dairy and meat either way, there’s something so satisfyingly savage about biting into a patty and encountering oozing, orange gobs.  Whitmans in the East Village offers such a rugged experience with its Minneapolis-based Juicy Lucy burger.  The grass-fed beef is encased by thick layers of char (a little less blackening would have been preferable) and a squishy, seed-studded bun. I liked the old school bun choice because it was able to house its corpulent tenant with ease.  Like a tootsie pop, three bites led me to the core — which was gushing with a pliant but melty pool of spicy cheese.  Fresh new pickles and caramelized onions also garnished the burger for added tang, sweetness, and freshness. I actually would have liked a little more of where that came from.

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Though its owners have enjoyed relatively considerable success in the restaurant biz, Totale Pizza still seems like the benevolent pizza underdog whose innocent yet manipulative puppy eyes command your praise and support.  Not only is it a little late to the wood-fired world of personalized Neapolitan pies (behind Motorino, Keste, Paulie Gee’s), but its barely-there existence on the flashy, seedy St. Marks strip and unlikely Fanny Brice-Nicky Arnstein of a management duo designate Totale as unassuming, if not a little peculiar. Perhaps it is this mystery (and a worthy mention in New York Magazine’s  ”Cheap Eats” guide of 2010) that draws twenty-somethings like myself, salt-and-pepper couples, and groups of tourists to its modest, black and white-tiled dining room.  After all, it’s not every day that a local ingredient, gourmet pie type shacks up with a man whose living is earned selling dollar slices to drunken coeds and babbling hobos.

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After seeing Danny’s photos of the Vietnamese fare at Pho Grand, I’ve been determined to head over there to try the cutely packaged summer rolls and piping hot noodle dishes.  The restaurant’s sloping roof and wide wood paneling resembled that of a ski chalet more than it did a Chinatown hole-in-the-wall. Though instead of bunny slope babes in tight snow pants (a fashion phenomenon I never understood), there are surly, deadpan waitresses whose no-bullshit service gets you in and out of the place in 20 minutes. I’ll take business over bimbo any day, especially when it comes to mealtime.

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I like the esoteric playfulness behind Traif, the new pork-centric, small plates-only eatery situated near the entrance to the Williamsburg Bridge in Brooklyn. Despite its stone’s throw proximity to the neighborhood’s Hasidic enclave, it seems the restaurant’s Semitic inside joke is still fairly exclusionary — our waitress’s wide blue eyes, fair hair, and button nose were a pretty clear indication that she’d never been hoisted in a rickety chair in her sweet, Midwestern life.  And from the looks of the other apple pie faces crowding the establishment, bacon’s current hipness in the foodie world, rather than its blasphemous role in the Kosher one, is Traif’s primary lure.

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Today’s weather did not make the long-holiday-weekend-to-work transition any smoother. This morning’s stifling heat made me uncharacteristically angry at a cute baby who mistook my turquoise headphones for playthings.  I’m usually angry during my morning commute to work, though this indignation is almost never directed at babies.

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A few months ago my mother discovered that Lidia Bastianich was heading to my hometown of Toms River, NJ to perform a cooking demonstration.  Mom excitedly snagged tickets — nothing of the sort ever happens in Toms River, unless you count the roving carny trailers that set up shop in the Ocean County Mall’s parking lot every summer. After attending this embarrassingly disorganized event (Lidia’s culinary exhibition, not the seasonal circus), it’s pretty understandable why Crystal Lil’s has been the only game in town thus far:

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This week, I’ve actually been pretty glad that my bosses didn’t spring for leather desk chairs. I can feel the sweat creeping through my porous polo shirt and shorts (Bermuda shorts; I’m no office hoochie), but luckily the seat’s cushy upholstery won’t claim my sticky top layer of skin when I stand up. I do wish my superiors would jack up the A/C, though. Despite yesterday’s equally lethal heat and humidity, I decided to take a little 10+ block lunch excursion to No. 7 Sub. I’d been wanting to go since it opened and was especially enticed by the olive oil poached tuna and broccoli sandwiches.

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After an IKEA furniture assembly mishap, I headed over to Tea Lounge to relax and read over a pot of decaf. That was a no-go; the bearded dudes setting up saxophones, violins, and microphones sent me straight for the door. The next closest cafe I could think of was Cocoa Bar, a handful of blocks south on 7th Ave. There were two empty suede couches in the front of the store (cha-ching), so I ordered a chocolate chip cookie and cinnamon hot chocolate to wash it down.

Both were disappointing — I took two bites/sips and left the rest over, which is something I NEVER do. (I once picked a dead fly out of a cup of Italian ice and continued to eat my dessert. I’ve got a pretty high threshold when it comes to food.) The cocoa wasn’t really a liquid.  The consistency was viscous, its burnt taste and chalky texture lingering on my tongue long after I had taken a swig. The cookie was no different from those available at Starbucks and Guy & Gallard. Each leaden bite separated into dry, bland crumbs.

Can anybody get a slice of rhubarb pie in this town?

A couple weeks ago I went to Pies ‘n’  Thighs in Williamsburg, the fried chicken and pie establishment whose name also functions as a suitable porno title. The menu’s rhubarb pie option was my main reason for going, not only because I love the tangy fruit (a classification that Wikipedia just confirmed for me), but I suppose I’ve succumbed to the crimson deluge of rhubarb crisps, pies, and crumbles on food blogs lately.  The fried chicken platter I ordered for dinner, priced at a fair $11, consisted of 3 generous hunks of chicken (I believe I got 2 breasts and a thigh) and a side of cheese-and-tabasco-covered elbow noodles that encompassed half the plate. The chicken was a pleasant surprise — it was crisp and juicy (especially that fattier dark meat that I prefer), and infinitely more satisfying than the overpriced ($25!) fried chicken dinner at the lauded Blue Ribbon.

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For some ungodly reason I was awake at 10 a.m. this past Saturday. The best way to take advantage of such a predicament is NOT to hang the contents of the bag of clean laundry from which you’ve been fishing for underpants for the past week (true story), but to get brunch at a local restaurant that uncomfortably overflows with your fellow sleepyheads come 12 p.m. Harefield Road on Metropolitan Ave. in Williamsburg is such a place — the sidewalk crowds make it impossible even to inquire about the estimated wait on Sunday afternoons. Saturday at 10:30 a.m., however, is a whole ‘nother story. We waltzed right in.