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.

(more…)

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.

(more…)

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.

(more…)

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.

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.

I’d had my eye on the newly-opened M Noodle Shop for a while and decided I was in the mood for something warm and soupy for dinner tonight. They deliver, but I’m cheap and takeout means you’re off the hook when it comes to doling out the tip dollars. Before I left, I conducted some perfunctory Yelp and Menu Pages research to get an idea of the tasty dishes and those that should be avoided. I tend to take yelp (or any other review site, for that matter) comments with a grain of salt — the message-leavers seem to be frustrated, pretentious food writer wannabes who complain readily and praise reluctantly.

I recently moved from Kensington to Williamsburg (real original, I know), a transition which significantly boosted my dining out and delivery options. Kensington’s few decent eating and drinking establishments are neatly contained on a modest strip of Cortelyou Rd., while Williamsburg’s streets are brimming with trendy restaurants and dive bars. Though I’m knee-deep in banh mi enclaves and Thai hole-in-the-walls, the one thing I do miss about my old stomping grounds (besides the ENORMOUS ShopRite on Avenue I, of course) is NYC Icy.

This Italian ice and sherbet shop is a straggler — its exotic flavors (i.e. mango basil and Mexican chocolate) appeal to a younger, more adventurous crowd, yet it remains isolated from its hip Cortelyou counterparts. The menu is divided into two types of cold treats: ices (sans leche) or sherbet (con leche). I was a real sucker for the apricot ginger sherbet. A pale peach color, the dessert is flecked with hunks of crystallized ginger and fresh apricots. The apricot is tangy, and the refreshing ginger always manages to clear the old sinuses a bit. Sometimes I’d go REAL crazy and pair it with the Mexican chocolate, a sherbet with some serious cajones. It’s infused with chile, which prickles the tongue and gives you a healthy dose of the chills (perfect for summer!). The one thing that NYC Icy can improve upon is the texture of the sherbet. The consistency is resilient and putty-like, making spoon insertion a cumbersome task.