I read once that New York is a great place to go if you're single, because they're so many other single people, but when you've been married for almost four years like I have, it's hard to know what that feels like. Well, except when Sarah jets off to Milan for a week. Then it sort of feels like I'm single again, but for one fact: When I was single, I never lived alone. I lived with a couple of guys in a decrepit, unsafe building that was torn down the month after we moved out. Then I moved with a bunch of guys into a townhouse in which we staged tournaments of the poker and Halo variety, and occasionally slept (that is, when we weren't trying in vain to deactivate a housemate's car alarm in a torrential rainstorm at 4:00 AM).
So I don't quite understand what it means to be really single; I've never lived alone. But this week, with Sarah in Italy again, I decided to see what it feels like being single in New York. Naturally, I started by going to a bar.
A couple I knew invited me to hang out at 230 Fifth, a rooftop bar, on Sunday night, the night Sarah left. It was perfect! I thought I'd arrive two hours late, chat for a bit with friends I hadn't seen in a while, and drink a couple of beers. Then I'd go home and congratulate myself for being social and convivial. And the best part was that the day after was Memorial Day, a national holiday.
I tried calling and texting the people who were supposed to be there, but no one was answering their phone. Must be so noisy that they can't hear, I thought.
It's a good thing I bothered to wear a button-down shirt and nice shoes, because when I arrived at the place at 11:00 PM, there was a sign at the door ordering me to "dress to impress" or something like that. Eight bouncers stood at the door. Okay, maybe there weren't eight, but there were at least three, which still seems to me like a lot. Obviously, this was a classy joint. They checked my ID and waved me through, and I got in an elevator with a yuppie and a hulk of a man who -- surprise -- was another bouncer. "Couple of marines threw a bottle of water off the roof," the hulk said, shaking his head. It was Fleet Week in the city, so it didn't seem out of the ordinary that a bunch of military men might have gotten frisky at a club. "The guys downstairs said it sounded like a garbage bag hitting the sidewalk."
"I thought you guys only used plastic bottles up there," I said.
"We do," the hulk said, looking at me like a pitbull looks at a nugget of dry dog food. "You think a plastic bottle can't kill a man from twenty stories up?"
And with that, the door slid open. I followed the yuppie -- who obviously knew where he was going -- up a flight of stairs, through a small crowd waiting to use the bathrooms, and out onto the roof, into a crowd of beautiful people.
Here is why I don't normally go to places like rooftop bars in Manhattan: Half the people seemed to be checking out the other half, which is exactly what you do in bars when you're single. But I wasn't single; I was merely pretending! I wasn't looking to pick anyone up. I wasn't even there to meet new people. So it was a little annoying being on the receiving end of four hundred pairs of judgmental eyes as I snaked through the crowd trying to locate the couple I knew and failing miserably. Why wasn't anyone answering his or her phone?
Here's another reason why I don't do the rooftop bar thing: A quarter of the people were wearing red bathrobes, which are apparently handed out to patrons to stave off the chilly air. Even the guys were wearing red bathrobes. I couldn't think of a less manly thing.
I decided that since I was already there, I'd get a drink at the bar and wait around to see if my friends showed up. Big mistake. My Sapphire and tonic cost $13. The bartender was generous with the Sapphire, but this was rooftop robbery served in a plastic cup.
There were some nice things about the place. The view was impressive, especially since the Empire State Building, just a few blocks away, was lit up spectacularly in red, white and blue for Memorial Weekend. The place was spacious and comfortable and well designed, which is boring in theory but not in practice. It would've been a great place to hang out for a few hours if you were with friends. But alone and married, I was feeling like 98-pound nerd at a pickup game in Rucker Park.
I took a swig of my drink and called my friend one more time. He finally answered and told me that he and his wife had made a last-minute trip to Indiana because his sister was having a baby. "Great," I said. "Is anyone else going to be here?"
"I don't know," he said. I imagined him at a hospital in Fort Wayne. He would not be wearing a red bathrobe. "AW and JC are supposed to be there. Sorry we didn't tell you that we wouldn't be there. It was a last-minute trip."
AW and JC were two guys I didn't know that well, but I tried calling AW's number anyway and got nothing but voicemail. That's it, I told myself as I downed my drink, I'm leaving.
My attempt at living it up single-style had completely flopped. I took the elevator down, left through the back entrance, and proceeded to walk in the opposite direction of home for four blocks before I realized that I was going the wrong way. It was almost midnight. I needed to pick myself up from my sour mood. So, naturally, I went to a restaurant and ate dinner alone.
Believe it or not, this was kind of a happy ending to my night. While I consider it slightly sad to dine solo, there's also something romantic about doing it, and only the most secure people can truly enjoy it without the benefit of a distraction, such as a book. Location has everything to do with it, so I picked a 24-hour French cafe called L'Express on Park Avenue. The gentle arches and lazy ceiling fans made me feel like I was in Morocco, but the bottle-festooned bar was straight out of a Manet painting. I ordered a prosciutto omelet and briefly considered asking the chef to hold the scallions, but thought better of it.
I was the only solo diner in the place who wasn't drinking an alcoholic beverage.
But the omelet was superb, the accompanying fries and salad were good, and I decided to forgo ketchup to keep the experience as authentic as possible. This must be what it's like to live the life of a single artist in Paris, I thought. I was Toulouse-Lautrec. I was Picasso. I was Ewan McGregor in Moulin Rouge.
Then I paid for my authentic French experience with a portrait of Andrew Jackson.
Friday, May 30, 2008
Friday, May 23, 2008
I'm going to need a bigger pan
I was at Whole Foods today when I came across some ostrich eggs for sale, nestled in a straw-lined wooden crate. Holy smokes, they were huge. I picked up the biggest one and cradled it in my hands -- it was like holding something primeval. They were going for $29.99 each, which is astronomical in my opinion, especially since one 3-pound egg is the equivalent of 18-24 chicken eggs, which go for $3.79 a dozen. I didn't buy any, but I haven't stopped thinking about them all day. I'll try and take pictures next time.
Tuesday, May 20, 2008
Save the earth -- live in New York
You should read the current issue of Wired for the cover story on how nothing else we are doing to help save the environment will matter if we don't do everything we can to stop global warming. But here's the shocker: Things that we used to think as harmful to the earth are now the very things we should be doing. Like cutting down forests. It sort of makes sense. Read the story here.
The thing that got my attention was the section on urban living. Apparently, "urban living is kinder to the planet, and Manhattan is perhaps the greenest place in the US. A Manhattanite's carbon footprint is 30% smaller than the average American's." That makes sense too. Sarah and I don't own a car, so our commutes don't contribute to greenhouse gases. We live in an apartment building, among "the most efficient dwellings to heat and cool." We have easy access to local produce, recycling facilities and electric buses and trains. These things are hardly within our realm of responsibility -- they're simply incidental to our geography.
The thing that got my attention was the section on urban living. Apparently, "urban living is kinder to the planet, and Manhattan is perhaps the greenest place in the US. A Manhattanite's carbon footprint is 30% smaller than the average American's." That makes sense too. Sarah and I don't own a car, so our commutes don't contribute to greenhouse gases. We live in an apartment building, among "the most efficient dwellings to heat and cool." We have easy access to local produce, recycling facilities and electric buses and trains. These things are hardly within our realm of responsibility -- they're simply incidental to our geography.
Saturday, May 3, 2008
Taco swell
Man I love Mexican food, and that's a problem. It's a problem because there are no good-n-cheap Mexican places in New York, and especially not in lower Manhattan. In Los Angeles, it seemed like you could get two-dollar fish tacos anywhere, and they'd be good.
This is the part where I'm supposed to say: "So you can imagine my joy when I discovered two-dollar fish tacos available just down the street in NoLIta." Alas, I cannot say such a thing. The next best thing is to report that I've been enjoying the food at Pinche Taqueria, a new-ish Mexican hole-in-the-wall just a block away from my apartment.
The weirdest thing about Pinche Taqueria is it seems to be run by people who skipped elementary math in kindergarten. A co-worker of mine, the first person I know who ate there, reported that when the cashier rang him up for three tacos, she charged him $14, much more than the $10 that it should have cost. When he pointed out the discrepancy, she just shrugged her shoulders as if to say that it was $14 because the cash register said so in bright green LCD numbers, no question about it.
Tonight, when I ordered a carne asada burrito, one fish taco, and a cup of horchata, I should have been charged a little over $14. Instead, the guy running the register quoted me $26.18.
"Wait a minute," I protested, credit card in hand. "I ordered a burrito for $6.95, a fish taco for $3.75 and horchata for $2.75." Even with sales tax, $26.18 was an obvious mistake.
"I must have added your order to the previous customer's order," the hoodie-clothed guy said. He re-entered my items and everything came out fine, but he never apologized, and never gave me the slightest confidence that he wouldn't make the same mistake with a customer less alert than me. It was such a glaring error that I'm sure he wasn't trying to rip me off on purpose, but the fact that this has happened more than once is worrying. If they're careless with their accounting, what else might they be careless about?
Still, the food is great. I wish I could describe the quality of the breaded mahi mahi in the taco tonight, but it was so good that I ate the whole thing in three bites, so I have no idea, really. The burrito was good as well, though the beef was very dry and needed more sauce; it's a good thing I took the two free containers of green salsa I was offered. The burrito also came with corn salsa chips, which I've always enjoyed eating with the rest of the food instead of as an appetizer.
If you love spicy Mexican food like I do, you'll need to order a horchata, which, at Pinche Taqueira, is made with organic rice milk, cinnamon, nutmeg and sugar. Nothing washes down better.
The best things I've had are the breakfast burritos. I really wanted one tonight (preferably with chorizo sausage and scrambled eggs) but when I asked if they were still serving them, the hoodie guy had to turn to his kitchen staff and ask. They said no. It was 7:00 PM. Evidently, unlike at IHOP, breakfast is not served around the clock here.
This is the part where I'm supposed to say: "So you can imagine my joy when I discovered two-dollar fish tacos available just down the street in NoLIta." Alas, I cannot say such a thing. The next best thing is to report that I've been enjoying the food at Pinche Taqueria, a new-ish Mexican hole-in-the-wall just a block away from my apartment.
The weirdest thing about Pinche Taqueria is it seems to be run by people who skipped elementary math in kindergarten. A co-worker of mine, the first person I know who ate there, reported that when the cashier rang him up for three tacos, she charged him $14, much more than the $10 that it should have cost. When he pointed out the discrepancy, she just shrugged her shoulders as if to say that it was $14 because the cash register said so in bright green LCD numbers, no question about it.
Tonight, when I ordered a carne asada burrito, one fish taco, and a cup of horchata, I should have been charged a little over $14. Instead, the guy running the register quoted me $26.18.
"Wait a minute," I protested, credit card in hand. "I ordered a burrito for $6.95, a fish taco for $3.75 and horchata for $2.75." Even with sales tax, $26.18 was an obvious mistake.
"I must have added your order to the previous customer's order," the hoodie-clothed guy said. He re-entered my items and everything came out fine, but he never apologized, and never gave me the slightest confidence that he wouldn't make the same mistake with a customer less alert than me. It was such a glaring error that I'm sure he wasn't trying to rip me off on purpose, but the fact that this has happened more than once is worrying. If they're careless with their accounting, what else might they be careless about?
Still, the food is great. I wish I could describe the quality of the breaded mahi mahi in the taco tonight, but it was so good that I ate the whole thing in three bites, so I have no idea, really. The burrito was good as well, though the beef was very dry and needed more sauce; it's a good thing I took the two free containers of green salsa I was offered. The burrito also came with corn salsa chips, which I've always enjoyed eating with the rest of the food instead of as an appetizer.
If you love spicy Mexican food like I do, you'll need to order a horchata, which, at Pinche Taqueira, is made with organic rice milk, cinnamon, nutmeg and sugar. Nothing washes down better.
The best things I've had are the breakfast burritos. I really wanted one tonight (preferably with chorizo sausage and scrambled eggs) but when I asked if they were still serving them, the hoodie guy had to turn to his kitchen staff and ask. They said no. It was 7:00 PM. Evidently, unlike at IHOP, breakfast is not served around the clock here.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
One thing I thought I'd never do
I thought I'd never do this: Eat those White Castle burgers from the freezer section of the supermarket.
But living in New York will change a guy. Listen, I love White Castle. When I lived in New Jersey, there was a White Castle two miles down the road. At 2:00 in the morning, when you're hungry as all get-up after a night of playing Halo, White Castle is the greatest thing in the world. When I was in college, I routinely got a sack of ten cheeseburgers (plus fries, plus Coke) and ate it in one sitting. Usually I washed it all down with Tabasco. But I never, ever thought I'd stoop so low as to buy a box of frozen sliders.
So what drove me to it? Well, it all started with a Saturday night party at the Bowery Hotel. And then a few drinks were involved, including, uh, tequila shots that someone else bought for us. And then there's the need to soak up that alcohol with something really greasy and salty. So wifey suggests we go to the deli and get Hot Pockets. But then I see something that looks about a hundred times better than Hot Pockets:
[Okay, I know that we should have just gone to White Castle and gotten fresh-made sliders, but the closest WC was 36 blocks away. Plus, on the entire island of Manhattan, there are only three WC franchises, according to the website.]
So I bought a box, took it home, and nuked them. And then we ate. They were -- much like deep-fried Twinkies -- absolutely delicious and disgusting at the same time.
Some notes about the burgers:
But living in New York will change a guy. Listen, I love White Castle. When I lived in New Jersey, there was a White Castle two miles down the road. At 2:00 in the morning, when you're hungry as all get-up after a night of playing Halo, White Castle is the greatest thing in the world. When I was in college, I routinely got a sack of ten cheeseburgers (plus fries, plus Coke) and ate it in one sitting. Usually I washed it all down with Tabasco. But I never, ever thought I'd stoop so low as to buy a box of frozen sliders.
So what drove me to it? Well, it all started with a Saturday night party at the Bowery Hotel. And then a few drinks were involved, including, uh, tequila shots that someone else bought for us. And then there's the need to soak up that alcohol with something really greasy and salty. So wifey suggests we go to the deli and get Hot Pockets. But then I see something that looks about a hundred times better than Hot Pockets:
[Okay, I know that we should have just gone to White Castle and gotten fresh-made sliders, but the closest WC was 36 blocks away. Plus, on the entire island of Manhattan, there are only three WC franchises, according to the website.]So I bought a box, took it home, and nuked them. And then we ate. They were -- much like deep-fried Twinkies -- absolutely delicious and disgusting at the same time.
Some notes about the burgers:- They came out of the box in plastic-wrapped packages of two. I don't know why they didn't just package all six of them in one plastic wrapper. Who eats only two White Castle burgers at a time?
- They had only the meat patty, cheese and onions between the buns. No ketchup like the fresh-made ones do. I added my own.
- They tasted exactly like they're supposed to.
- They reminded me of this.
Saturday, April 5, 2008
Waiting to hear a voice
You know how Kanye West once said that he'd have cut off a piece of his finger to have a voice like Wu-Tang's Ol' Dirty Bastard? Well, that's almost exactly how I feel about Mike Doughty's voice.
I'm 90% sure that you have no idea who Mike Doughty is, but that's okay. In 1996, I heard a song by a band named Soul Coughing, and the lead singer had the most arresting alternative rock voice I'd ever heard. I mean, it's the kind of voice you never forget, and never mistake for anyone else's. So, 11 years later, when my friend BM played some dude's solo record in his car stereo as we drove toward Union, NJ, on a Wednesday evening, I recognized the voice. And it turned out that the dude's name is Mike Doughty, and he used to be the lead singer of Soul Coughing. And it turned out that last night, BM and I went to see a Mike Doughty show at the Highline Ballroom.
I met BM outside the Highline at 7:45, which was 45 minutes after wait-list tickets were supposed to go on sale. He was still waiting, but at least he was first in line. There were about ten other poor souls behind him who liked Mike Doughty enough to wait for wait-list tickets but not enough to have bought tickets in advance.
BM really wanted to see the show. I am not nearly as a big a fan as BM -- I don't have any Mike Doughty albums, and I've only heard four Soul Coughing songs ever -- so I wouldn't have been terribly disappointed if we hadn't gotten in. But at 8:30, we finally did get in, plunked down $25 each for tickets, and shuffled into the Ballroom, a small-ish performance space with the requisite black walls and a stage low enough that you could step onto it from the floor without much trouble, but not, of course, if you were five feet tall.
A bunch of guys in fake beards and funny hats were already on stage playing some vaguely interesting music. The music seemed improvised, but it was like the band was making it look more improvised than it really was. Two of them sang into various microphones, but as far as I could tell, they weren't singing a lick of English, or any other intelligible language. If Tenacious D were from Lithuania, and had a bassist and a drummer, they'd have sounded just like this. Then they stopped playing, and BM went to get some beers, and while waiting for the real opening act to take the stage, I commenced my favorite pastime at rock shows: I people-watched.
But then I got distracted because the heavyset guy standing in front of me had really bad body odor.
You know what's annoying? When you're standing in the crowd at a rock show, waiting for the opening band to show up, and you're so busy talking to your friend that you don't notice the six-foot-three dude with jug ears moving into position directly in front of you. And then when the band comes on, there's a living totem pole blocking your view.
After stepping to the left, however, I thoroughly enjoyed the opening band, the Panderers, who apparently are "from the great state of Indiana!" Never mind that it's a three-piece act, and two of the guys in the band aren't from Indiana. They played gritty southern rock and were catchy as all get-up. On one of the songs, singer Scott Wynn pronounced the word "iron" (as in iron bars) like "eye ron" which I thought was one of the greatest things I'd ever heard. And the drummer looked like Dave Grohl! They were hilarious and knew how to rock out, and I would have bought their album on iTunes if they'd made Scott Wynn's voice on the recording sound exactly the way it did at last night's show. Unfortunately, it sounds like a completely different guy.
At one point, Wynn asked if there was anyone in the audience named Sheila, and since there didn't appear to be any, some dude in the back started yelling and jumping and claiming he was named Sheila. Then the band played a song called "Sheila" and Wynn sang it to him anyway. I guess new artists will do whatever they can to sell records.
After the Panderers had left the stage, BM and I started talking to the excitable 23-year-old kid with a goatee standing in front of us. I never got his name, but we'll call him Jake. Jake was a huge Doughty fan; he said he considered Mike Doughty the third-best live performer he'd ever seen (the best was System of a Down, and the second was Tool). Then he told us that he'd be happy if Doughty played a Soul Coughing song called "True Dreams of Wichita." Jake could tell that I wasn't a true fan of Doughty's, so he spent most of his time addressing BM. Later, when Jake wandered off to the front, BM turned to me and said, "Have you ever met someone who just refused to stop talking?"
Another 25-minute wait, and Mike Doughty himself took the stage. Shockingly, his drummer was the same Dave Grohl-looking character. And his bassist was also the Panderers' bassist. As it turns out, two-thirds of the Panderers are also half of the Mike Doughty Band. How convenient.
Doughty was warm and funny and good, and that voice is largely undiminished in its character. He opened the set with "Busting Up A Starbucks," as good an opener as any, but throughout the night, he took requests from the audience, which, I'd learned, is common practice at a Mike Doughty show. Of course, Jake yelled out "Wichita!" multiple times, until Doughty said into the mic: "Wichita? No, not tonight." That shut up Jake for the rest of the night, but he continued to dance like a flailing maniac through songs like "I Just Want the Girl in the Blue Dress" and "Put It Down." It's a blessing and a curse to be a true fan.
Doughty closed the night with "Looking at the World from the Bottom of a Well," the only song I really knew (apart from "I Hear the Bells," which the band did as well, but poorly -- a buzzy, badly tuned mess).
One more thing... you know those guys with the fake beards earlier in the night? They were the Mike Doughty band in disguise. Who else could they have been?
If you've never heard the voice, this is hardly the best way to listen to it, but watch this anyway:
I'm 90% sure that you have no idea who Mike Doughty is, but that's okay. In 1996, I heard a song by a band named Soul Coughing, and the lead singer had the most arresting alternative rock voice I'd ever heard. I mean, it's the kind of voice you never forget, and never mistake for anyone else's. So, 11 years later, when my friend BM played some dude's solo record in his car stereo as we drove toward Union, NJ, on a Wednesday evening, I recognized the voice. And it turned out that the dude's name is Mike Doughty, and he used to be the lead singer of Soul Coughing. And it turned out that last night, BM and I went to see a Mike Doughty show at the Highline Ballroom.
I met BM outside the Highline at 7:45, which was 45 minutes after wait-list tickets were supposed to go on sale. He was still waiting, but at least he was first in line. There were about ten other poor souls behind him who liked Mike Doughty enough to wait for wait-list tickets but not enough to have bought tickets in advance.
BM really wanted to see the show. I am not nearly as a big a fan as BM -- I don't have any Mike Doughty albums, and I've only heard four Soul Coughing songs ever -- so I wouldn't have been terribly disappointed if we hadn't gotten in. But at 8:30, we finally did get in, plunked down $25 each for tickets, and shuffled into the Ballroom, a small-ish performance space with the requisite black walls and a stage low enough that you could step onto it from the floor without much trouble, but not, of course, if you were five feet tall.
A bunch of guys in fake beards and funny hats were already on stage playing some vaguely interesting music. The music seemed improvised, but it was like the band was making it look more improvised than it really was. Two of them sang into various microphones, but as far as I could tell, they weren't singing a lick of English, or any other intelligible language. If Tenacious D were from Lithuania, and had a bassist and a drummer, they'd have sounded just like this. Then they stopped playing, and BM went to get some beers, and while waiting for the real opening act to take the stage, I commenced my favorite pastime at rock shows: I people-watched.
But then I got distracted because the heavyset guy standing in front of me had really bad body odor.
You know what's annoying? When you're standing in the crowd at a rock show, waiting for the opening band to show up, and you're so busy talking to your friend that you don't notice the six-foot-three dude with jug ears moving into position directly in front of you. And then when the band comes on, there's a living totem pole blocking your view.
After stepping to the left, however, I thoroughly enjoyed the opening band, the Panderers, who apparently are "from the great state of Indiana!" Never mind that it's a three-piece act, and two of the guys in the band aren't from Indiana. They played gritty southern rock and were catchy as all get-up. On one of the songs, singer Scott Wynn pronounced the word "iron" (as in iron bars) like "eye ron" which I thought was one of the greatest things I'd ever heard. And the drummer looked like Dave Grohl! They were hilarious and knew how to rock out, and I would have bought their album on iTunes if they'd made Scott Wynn's voice on the recording sound exactly the way it did at last night's show. Unfortunately, it sounds like a completely different guy.
At one point, Wynn asked if there was anyone in the audience named Sheila, and since there didn't appear to be any, some dude in the back started yelling and jumping and claiming he was named Sheila. Then the band played a song called "Sheila" and Wynn sang it to him anyway. I guess new artists will do whatever they can to sell records.
After the Panderers had left the stage, BM and I started talking to the excitable 23-year-old kid with a goatee standing in front of us. I never got his name, but we'll call him Jake. Jake was a huge Doughty fan; he said he considered Mike Doughty the third-best live performer he'd ever seen (the best was System of a Down, and the second was Tool). Then he told us that he'd be happy if Doughty played a Soul Coughing song called "True Dreams of Wichita." Jake could tell that I wasn't a true fan of Doughty's, so he spent most of his time addressing BM. Later, when Jake wandered off to the front, BM turned to me and said, "Have you ever met someone who just refused to stop talking?"
Another 25-minute wait, and Mike Doughty himself took the stage. Shockingly, his drummer was the same Dave Grohl-looking character. And his bassist was also the Panderers' bassist. As it turns out, two-thirds of the Panderers are also half of the Mike Doughty Band. How convenient.
Doughty was warm and funny and good, and that voice is largely undiminished in its character. He opened the set with "Busting Up A Starbucks," as good an opener as any, but throughout the night, he took requests from the audience, which, I'd learned, is common practice at a Mike Doughty show. Of course, Jake yelled out "Wichita!" multiple times, until Doughty said into the mic: "Wichita? No, not tonight." That shut up Jake for the rest of the night, but he continued to dance like a flailing maniac through songs like "I Just Want the Girl in the Blue Dress" and "Put It Down." It's a blessing and a curse to be a true fan.
Doughty closed the night with "Looking at the World from the Bottom of a Well," the only song I really knew (apart from "I Hear the Bells," which the band did as well, but poorly -- a buzzy, badly tuned mess).
One more thing... you know those guys with the fake beards earlier in the night? They were the Mike Doughty band in disguise. Who else could they have been?
If you've never heard the voice, this is hardly the best way to listen to it, but watch this anyway:
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
A hamburger today
You may or may not care to know that I ate three cheeseburgers in the span of two days last weekend. I couldn't help myself, really. The bad part was that two of the three were eaten at popular fast food joints not known for their gourmet standards. The good part was that they were delicious.
As much as I like a good hamburger, I'm somewhat befuddled by the New York restaurant trend of serving a pricey burger. I'm not even talking about Chef Daniel Boulud's $29 DB Burger (stuffed with short ribs and foie gras). Today came news of an $81 kobe beef burger at the Old Homestead steakhouse. I bet they don't call it the Recession Special. Gothamist reports that it does come with homemade ketchup and, uh, tater-tots. Because nothing says "I'm eating the most expensive burger in New York" like a side of tater-tots.
As a point of reference, the most expensive burger I ate last weekend was the always excellent Nolita House cheeseburger, served on brioche with boursin herb cheese and fries. The damage? $12, plus tax.
As much as I like a good hamburger, I'm somewhat befuddled by the New York restaurant trend of serving a pricey burger. I'm not even talking about Chef Daniel Boulud's $29 DB Burger (stuffed with short ribs and foie gras). Today came news of an $81 kobe beef burger at the Old Homestead steakhouse. I bet they don't call it the Recession Special. Gothamist reports that it does come with homemade ketchup and, uh, tater-tots. Because nothing says "I'm eating the most expensive burger in New York" like a side of tater-tots.
As a point of reference, the most expensive burger I ate last weekend was the always excellent Nolita House cheeseburger, served on brioche with boursin herb cheese and fries. The damage? $12, plus tax.
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