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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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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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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My New York Magazine freelance pieces have finally been posted on their website! Read all about Shanghai Cafe and The Soup Spot.

After reading NYC Food Guy’s post on the stuffed burgers at the East Village’s Serbian haunt Question Mark Cafe, I was determined to get over there ASAP. Succulent beef patties stuffed with (that’s right..they’re INSIDE the burger, not on top) provolone cheese and bacon? Yes, please! With my post-work voracious appetite and two Serbian friends in tow (and Lammy, last but certainly not least) I trudged through the night’s angry winds to 1st Ave. and St. Marks for dinner.

The trepidation which thwarted my longstanding desire to sample Schnipper’s Quality Kitchen turned out to be quite justified today. After sifting through cream-based soups whose unblended contents yielded mealy clumps of flour, sandwiches with rubbery cold cuts, and (the last straw) sushi which may or may not have caused a bout of nausea earlier this week (to which I attribute my own foolishness for selecting buffet sushi on a Monday), I’ve decided to throw fiscal caution to the wind and pay more for quality lunches.