We had just come from Rockaway Beach, after a mini surprise party congregating at the boardwalk. Cake and friends and waves and dogs filled the day and I headed back with everyone feeling birthday happy.

There was rumor of another thing coming though and I excitedly boarded the a train back as my friends told me the dress code at this next spot was “dress to impress.”

I laughed as my BFF pulled out one of my favorite dresses from her beach bag. It was a little black dress covered in tiny cloth black roses.

“just in case we ran late at the beach” was her reason.

“when did you even go into my room and take that??” I exclaimed.

“I have my ways.” she smiled. “Anyway, you don’t have to wear this one if you don’t want to now that we have time to go home, but they said dress to impress.”

I took the dress from her. “I’m wearing it.”

I picked out a set heels to go with the dress and we met up with a few others before heading to the mystery dress to impress spot.

We got off the train at Times Square and I had even less of an idea of where we were going. Heading west, we hit Port Authority and then walked… behind Port Authority.

“There it is.”

“There is what?” I asked.

We walked towards to a small door with a velvet rope and i was able to make out the word Frames, and what I thought was–

“oh my gosh we’re going bowling?? In this dress??” Yes!

A little background – I was a an avid bowler for ten years as a child. And by avid I mean lessons, league, shoes, and a ball named Ruby Red. My family and I used to go bowling every Sunday morning before church to catch the one dollar a game specials.

Yeah, bowling.

A bouncer (hahahahaha) waved us towards the elevator which opened up into exactly what you’d hope a luxury bowling alley would look like. Ladies in heels and short skirts greeted you behind a bright red counter with some art deco type glass wall behind them, the kind you see at a three-star hotel trying to look four-star. To our left, every single lane had a giant screen above it projecting the music video of the current club/house/pop hit.

To our right, we were led into their gourmet-like restaurant, more of the glass deco stuff partitioning it from the lanes.

“Any table you want,” the hostess said. “Just make sure you’re back around 10 for your lane. You can check back in here when you’re ready to bowl.”

There was a five person round table right in the center of the restaurant with our name on it and I took my hot pink slingbacks over and settled myself in one of their cushy red seats.

We were handed menus by our waiter but everyone else waved them away.

“We have the burger bowl beer deal,” they told him.

The waiter smiled. “Great, then you have two choices – beef or veggie.”

“I’ll have mine medium rare,” I said immediately.

After all the orders were taken, he asked if we wanted our beer tower here or at the lane.

“Beer tower?” I almost choked on my water as they told him at the lane.

The waiter pointed behind us to the other group enjoying their beer tower with their meal. “Yes, beer tower.”

I was still reveling at where we were when the food arrived. I couldn’t believe we were about to have gourmet burgers at a bowling alley and then go bowling in cocktail dresses. (What is my life??)

The burgers certainly look worth the deal, I thought, as they all arrived in succession. Along with a mountain of fries, the burgers nestled on beautifully bronze sesame seed buns, lettuce and tomato on the side, and the cheese, bleu.

I took my first bite and have to admit I was surprised at how good it was. The burger was perfectly juicy and the spices were subtle and complex, enhancing the flavor of the high quality beef they had used without distracting it with heavy seasoning. The bleu cheese, which I normally don’t enjoy on a burger, or in general, was the perfect salty, creamy topping. It didn’t make me miss the fact that there was no bacon.

The fries were not too shoestring and not too steak, well fried, and accompanied by a delicious golden mustard that didn’t make anyone reach for the ketchup. All in all, we had great meals. At a bowling alley. I was loving this luxury bowling thing already and I hadn’t even knocked down a pin.

The package also came with two hours of bowling, including shoe rental. I happily took off my heels and changed into the familiar–albeit cleaner looking than most–pair of red, white, and blue shoes and picked out a ball that would suit me for the night. If I did badly, I would just blame it on the fact that it’s not the same without your own ball.

A bartender came by and asked us what beer we would like to fill the tower with. “We have Coors, Coors Light, Budweiser, Bud Light, and Yeungling.”

“Yeungling!” everyone said in unison, sighing with relief.

The beer tower slowly drained as we rolled balls down the lane and it took about half a game for me to remember how to throw the things. We told one of the bartenders that it was my birthday and we turned around and five shots magically appeared! Those were drained a bit more quickly than the epic beer tower.

“Is that the bass from the music?” I said when I felt a rumble. “Or are we all throwing the bowling balls down the lane too hard?”

Everyone laughed. “No,” someone chimed in. “We are actually literally inside Port Authority. Those all all the buses driving away under us.”

The two hours flew by and we couldn’t believe it had been that long when the lane shut down on us. Everyone who served us was beyond nice and I can’t remember the last time I had just pure fun.

From the burgers, to the beer, to the luxury bowling, I couldn’t have asked for a better way to turn 26.

For a few weeks I made fun of him every time he pulled out his Nook to tell me a new thing he learned (the day he got to the chapter where it asks “Can you drink coffee on the Mediterranean Diet?” (answer: yes, the people of the Mediterranean do enjoy their coffee, you can just skip the milk) was a good day). He was a bit cranky and complained about wishing he was eating pizza right now instead of not eating pizza.

Then, in that magical third week, he waltzed in with his milkless coffee and said actually, he’s been feeling a lot better.

Of COURSE he was – when you cut out processed flour, red meats, other fatty animal products, and change the focus of your meals to veggies and good fats, you’re going to feel better. All diet advice really boils down to that, right?

Here was the kicker that got me to go on amazon.com a buy a copy of The Mediterranean Diet at the very moment the kicker happened.

He said, “My grocery bill is cut in half.” Turns out cucumbers, tomatoes, lettuce, chickpeas, and couscous are pretty cheap, especially when 4 out of 5 meals consist of these very ingredients.

Sold.

Okay, maybe you’re thinking, Didn’t she just write a blog entry about eating a lobster roll where even the bread was slathered in butter? And now you’re definitely thinking that.

That day may have been my anti-Mediterranean apex – breakfast burrito that morning, cheeseburger for lunch, lobster roll for dinner. But I swear I’ve been good, mostly. Partly, it’s because the diet is both intuitive and has some sensible rules around it as well. Check out the food pyramid. It breaks down food you can eat daily, weekly, and monthly and doesn’t put eggs, beans, and red meat in the same category just because they’re all sources of protein.

It was a rainy Monday when I made dinner plans with my bff and was feeling maybe not as committed to the Mediterranean lifestyle as I’m intending to be. Really, I wanted a burrito from Calexico Cart and fuck if a restructured food pyramid was going to stop me.

But then, the rain persisted and I slowly started to take it as a sign that greasy, delicious, juicy, cheesy, non-Mediterranean cart food was probably in my immediate future.

We had also had plans to walk across the Brooklyn bridge to obtain said burritos, so new plan was proposed to walk across the Williamsburg bridge, which was actually on the way home, and perhaps eat somewhere a little more in line with beautifully illustrated pyramid above. Angelica Kitchen was decided on based on price, proximity to the bridge and bff endorsement of “ooh, let’s go there, it’s really good.”

I walk down to the East Village from midtown (getting in that daily physical activity part of the pyramid, woot) and arrive around 7 pm to a bustling veg restaurant with friendly wood decor and smiling wait staff. They gesture for me to take a seat after they take my name and ask me to tell them when my friend has arrived.

Mouthing sorry through the window, the bff is here and we are seated. We haven’t seen each other in weeks (and we are also roommates so this is really a feat) so the waiter comes by several times before we’ve even opened the menu as we catch each other up on pretty much everything.

I decide on the daily special, after I find out what a croquette is and like the description. The croquettes are filled with brown rice and veggies and surrounded by veggies and covered in two different kinds of sauces made from veggies and legumes. My Mediterranean food pyramid is going to fill up nicely.

The bff gets a giant bowl of chili with a side of cornbread and lime-jalapeno tofu sour cream WTF and we return to our steady stream of non-stop talking. I can’t help but eye every dish that comes out of the kitchen though. Each plate looks and smells not only delicious, but beautiful. Then our plates (and bowls) arrive and I get to see one of these creations up close:

Yes, it is just as delicious as it looks. The croquettes are ridiculous – a mixture of vegetables, spices, and crispy outer shell that with the pureed carrot mousse thing WTF on top is a perfect, delightful bite. The steamed green beans and what taste like baked cauliflower are great side dishes and the surprise salad (which I could very well have just missed on the description because there were too many other things listed) was a nice way to round out the plate.

I, of course, had a bite–or several–of bff’s chili and it was just the right amount of spicy. Their cornbread though, stole the show. And I am hugely critical of cornbread even since having my boyfriend’s 70-year-old-raised-in-North-Carolina aunt’s Thanksgiving cornbread. Yeah.

They claim that it’s “southern style” on the menu but, well, the restaurant is vegan, so you do the no-butter math. It also looked like they used wheat flower instead of white flour. It did look as fluffy as cornbread should look and I was definitely going to take a taste. How? Did they do this? You didn’t miss the butter at all. This cornbread wasn’t just good-for-being-vegan, it was good. Real good.

Surprisingly, I could only get through one of the croquettes and the bowl of chili was only halfway finished when we were ready to ask for doggy bags. Who knew non-meat-based food could fill you up so fast?

Or maybe we were just leaving room for dessert. We settled on a raspberry lemon tart with a pecan crust (vegan!). Yep. Real good.

It was nice to walk out of the restaurant feeling pleasantly full and still ready for a walk. We walked to the bridge, over the bridge, and under the bridge, stream of talking non-stop since we sat down at the restaurant. We even took an extra walk around the block when we got home because we were still talking.

There’s nothing like a good best friend dinner date at a Mediterranean-diet-friendly restaurant. Now I’m off to have fried potato pancakes for brunch.

(So the mediterranean diet thing is still a work in progress.)

Veggie Croquette – super Mediterranean-diet-friendly shimmy
Chili and Cornbread – good AND vegan shimmy
Lemon and Raspberry Tart – disappeared off the plate too fast shimmy

Angelica Kitchen
300 EAST 12TH STREET,
New York, NY
(212) 228-2909

“So.”

“So?”

“There’s a few things we can do tonight. You can say no if you want to.”

“Haha, okay.”

“There is an early thing going on. The Danger List is holding a press party for their series of events and shows at the Palms.”

The Danger List is infamous in the NYC party scene for throwing parties in places where you don’t expect people to have parties. The last Danger party we went to had a hot tub stoked by what looked like a campfire. The first Danger party we went to had us dress up like pirates, get in an unmarked windowless van, and had us walk the plank onto a Pirate ship. They’re a crazy bunch.

“What does press party mean?”

“It means they only invite press and their friends to preview the party.”

“So it’s not going to be as crazy as their parties usually are?” (Their parties are usually a bit overwhelming for a 9to5er like me who often considers Friday night her night of rest.)

“No.” He pauses. “And it’s a pool party.”

Put down burger-not-worth-mentioning-that-made-me-feel-a-little-gross-afterwards. “Done. Let’s go.”

“Really?”

“Hell yes. Pool party is always a yes.”

I run home to change into a bathing suit and my towel dress (yes, I did just use towel as an adjective to describe a dress) and we rally at his house. Our friend who got the press invite knocks on the door and we J to the G it to Jackson Heights.

The stop for the spot is the same stop as PS1 and 5Pointz and we wander around the graffiti mecca/hall of fame/etc. of 5 Pointz before heading to the party.

“Hey, is that our photographer friend?” one of us says, noticing two women glamor-shotting it in front of some art.

He starts yelling her name. Then we all start yelling her name. Then she turns around and it’s not her.

“Sorry! We thought you were someone else!”

5Pointz walkabout ends and we head over to the Palms NYC without much trouble as we can hear the DJ from five blocks away. We are waved in by the security guards and walk through the wood-paneled lobby. The hotel check-in counter is actually a bar and beers are purchased before we make our way to the back area.

To the right of us are the dumpster pools (yes, I did just use dumpster as an adjective to describe pools). There are crossing-guard-orange lounge chairs in a line in front of the dumpsters. There is a DJ to the left of us and in the back is–

“Red Hook Lobster Pound, best lobster rolls in NYC??” I squeal.

Yes, the best lobster rolls I’ve ever had in NYC are within 50 feet of where I’m standing.

The bf puts his hand on my shoulder. “That was going to be my final bribe if you weren’t sure about coming.”

Plan is already formulating in my head as I’m still digesting rock-of-a-burger I had for lunch. Lounge on chairs, wait for beers to be finished (no alcohol in the pool area, funny), swim in pool, eat lobster roll, lounge on chairs. In that exact order.

We each take a lounge chair, firetruck engine red dumpsters behind us, watching people watch us in the giant glass office building directly in our line of vision. At work on a Friday night at 7:30 pm while a pool party is going on block away? Torture. Cruel and unusual punishment. Glad I’m down here and not up there.

Beer cans are discarded of and we look at each other, nodding that it’s time. The lifeguard greets us with wide smiles and and inviting gesture to pick a pool. Because there’s three of them.

Towel dress comes off faster than you can say lobster roll and I’m making my way down the ladder of the middle pool, where one of our friends has already warmed up. The water is cold but we power through and do water aerobic sprints for the first few minutes of the holy-crap-we’re-in-a-dumpster-and-a-pool time.

We marvel at the trashy-classiness of the whole affair. We catch a lifeguard testing the chlorine levels at some point and note that the sides are lined just like a regular swimming pool, complete with ladders to get in and out, signs that indicate how deep they are (4’3″ in the shallow end, 4’6″ in the deep end in case you were curious) and–

“Oh my gosh, is that a jet??”

Yes, the dumpster pool has jets. Yes, I realize this is probably the first time anyone has ever put those words together in a sentence.

We stay swimming until the air outside has gotten colder than the water and suddenly I’m cold AND hungry.

I turn to the bf.

“Lobster roll time?” he asks.

Nod. “Lobster roll time!”

We jump out and run like penguins (logic – if we keep our legs together as much as possible when we run, our legs will keep the other warmer) to our pile of towels and clothes. Towel dress to the rescue. The sun has fully set and dusk is quickly disappearing and taking the warmth with it.

The food truck has one customer standing in front of it, looking at bit confused. He steps away when we sees us approaching with a mission.

“Two lobster rolls, Connecticut style,” we order, after we notice the other style is served cold and slathered in mayonnaise. CT style is warm and slathered in butter. Mmmm, slathered in butter.

We can’t contain ourselves when we walk over to our friends, lounging in the same spots we left. We wave the lobstery goodness in front of them before we have a seat on the fake grass to dig in.

The bf takes a bite. “Oh, THAT is good.”

“I’m going to go get one right now. How much are they?” our friend ask.

“16.”

“6?”

“No, 16.”

“What?! Never mind, I’m not that hungry.”

I am personally invested in the lobster rolls at this point. I had them for the first time last year at the Atlantic-Antic and they were as good if not better than the ones we had in Maine.

“But it’s so much lobster! Where else are you going to find this much lobster in one sandwich? Also, it’s right here. Otherwise, you would have to go all the way to Red Hook to get these rolls.” I go into ultimate peer pressure mode. It’s like I’m trying to convince him to drink for the first time at his first high school party.

I take my first bite now and am even more adamant. “This has been voted the best lobster roll in all of NYC! You’re here and you’re hungry.”

He shakes his head.

I shrug. After the second bite, I don’t care who I convince. I have one in front of me right now that needs all the savoring attention it deserves. The bun is toasted with butter on either side and has that perfect crisp on the outside with a softness on the inside that acts not just as a vehicle for the lobster, but a part of the bite that enhances in the lobster-to-mouth delivery. I’ve had lobster rolls where hot dog buns were used. Red Hook’s bun situation was clearly taken much more seriously, as it should be.

The lobster is seasoned with what looks and taste like a little bit of paprika, but mostly, it’s just butter and lobster. They don’t include the extra helping of butter like I’ve had before, but I feel like that just shows a confidence in their butter-to-lobster ratio that I can’t argue with.

I am about halfway through the roll when our friend just yells, “All right, I’m getting one!” It must have been the mmmm sound I made after each bite. Mmmm.

There is so much lobster it’s fallen out of the bun and I am left with a small pile that I get to revel in after the bun is long gone. When was the last time I had lobster just falling out of my sandwich? All I know is that it’s been too long since that’s happened.

Our friend takes his first bite. “Mmm. That’s pretty good.”

By the time he is licking his fingers, pretty good has become really good has become worth it.

Whttp://nycfoodadventures.wordpress.com/wp-admin/post.php?post=322&action=edit&message=10e let the night linger a bit longer as we take in the slight breeze that is winding its way around the party.

When we are ready to leave, towel dress a bit more soaked, stomach a bit more full, brain a bit less fried, I take one last look at the view – lobster truck in front of me, dumpster pools to my right.

Good summer.

Lobster roll – shimmy shimmy shimmy shimmy shimmy shimmy shimmy shimmy

Red Hook Lobster Pound
284 Van Brunt Street
Brooklyn, NY
646-326-7650
http://redhooklobsterpound.com/
Find the truck on twitter @lobstertruckny

A chuckle is managed as we nod, yes, inside please. The hostess gestures towards a booth and before our butts hit the 100% recycled polyester vinyl, a large carafe of water hits our table.

“Thank you,” we both squawk and begin to pour out water immediately. One of us has our senses about him still and gestures for my very empty water bottle.

“Let’s fill this up first.”

“You’re a genius.”

We have been here before, thanks to a burger-themed Groupon, and I took the risk of buying two at once so we were here to redeem our second Groupon, already discussing how this could become a regular burger spot.

Reason #1: Meat selection round-up: beef, chicken, turkey, ostrich, bison, elk
Reason #2: all meat is either organic or all natural, grass-fed, and pasture-raised
Reason #3: So are their cheeses, breads, sauces, and vegetables. Heck, their tables are made from trees felled in storms and their tin roof is from leftover siding from barn raisings.
Reason #4: Curry ketchup dipping sauce.
Reason #5: Can their waitresses be any nicer?

We ooh and ahh over the meat-cheese-bacon combo options and finally decide.

“The baby blue with ostrich, please,” I tell the waitress.

“What kind of bread?”

Whoa, pop quiz time. I didn’t notice they even had a bread selection. “Uh, brioche.” First thing on the list, never a bad call.

“Western bacon burger with bison on a multigrain bun.”

“Oooh, wait, me too! Can I switch to a multi-grain bun?”

Our waitress nods, concentrated look on her face as she tries to maneuver the electronic PDA-like order-taking contraption with her stylus (wow, I really had to pull that word out of my 2002 memory word bank).

“Can we also get assorted pickles and an order of fries?” Good call, boyfriend.

She nods, brows still furrowed. “Don’t mind me,” she jokes. “I got it.” One final flourish of her stylus as she asks us if we’d like anything to drink.

“Just more water,” I say -

“And a beer for me.”

A few minutes later, the beer arrives and seconds after that, another carafe of water and a glass full of ice is in tow.

“Ahhh, you’re the best!” I exclaim and promptly whisper, “give her a big tip,” as she walks away.

“She just earned it right there.”

Our burgers, pickles, and fries basket (“good thing you remembered not to order two,” he says later in the meal) arrive, and well, look at them!

Photo 1: ostrich burger with danish blue cheese, applewood smoked bacon, lettuce, mushrooms, sauteed onions, and peppercorn steak sauce on a multi-grain bun
Photo 2: bison burger (it’s bison month!), pepperjack cheese, applewood smoked bacon, fried onions, cole slaw, and peppercorn steak sauce on a multi-grain bun
Photo 3: pickles! So many pickles! (wow, that’s a lot of pickles!) – regular, spicy, and garlic, and a side of slaw

And yes, they were as good as they looked. I never had ostrich before and it was love at first bite. It’s everything you love about a burger minus everything you hate about a burger. It tasted like red meat but you feel like you had turkey. The blue cheese was a small kiss at the end of each bite and the bacon rounded out the meat-fest with a sweet, crunchy hello.

I had a bite of the bison burger and managed to find one that didn’t include the hot sauce flood and pickle pile-up that it was subsequently slathered with and wow. All the flavors met in that happy middle place of everything-belongs-here.

“This might sound crazy,” he says, halfway through the burger, “but I might order another one.”

By the time we get to the end of our burgers, his mind is changed. He shakes his head. “Not getting another burger.”

For the next hour, we sit there in a vegetative state (ironic as we’ve just eaten so much meat), attempting and giving up on attempting to move or get up. We paw at the fries occasionally, shifting them around in the basket more than actually eating them.

“You know, we should really eat at places like this more often,” the bf says. “We talk about eating well and eating consciously and if we who are so passionate about this can’t do it ourselves, then how can we expect other people to do the same?”

“When you’re right, you’re right.”

Vegetative state continues as we do one of our favorite things – shoot the shit.

Our waitress checks in periodically to make sure we are doing all right, insisting that we take our time.

About two hours from when we first walk in, we feel adventurous enough to stand up and ask for the check. We have the pickles and the fries packed up (we made a small dent in the  basket and still have about three potatoes’ worth of fries left over) and lumber to the door.

We muster up enthusiastic thank you’s and brace ourselves for the heat. It’s gone down about 10 degrees and feels comfortably below 100.

Next time, I’m trying the elk.

Ostrich burger – unexpected and delighted flavor shimmy
Bison burger – perfectly crafted shimmy
Pickles – didn’t-try-them-but-they-looked-good shimmy
Fries – make-sure-you-only-order-one-basket shimmy

Bareburger
535 LaGuardia Place
New York, NY 10012
(212) 477-8125
bareburger.com

“Yeah, I’ll show you the minutes tomorrow,” I jokeas I depart her office. Another head shake and laugh as she waves goodbye.

We all convene at the F train – this week we’re venturing into another burrough, crossing the Manhattan bridge to run around Brooklyn in search of our next burger. 5 Napkins is going to be a lot to live up to.

It is counter service, we realize, as we arrive at the spot, and the slew of options has us pause for a second. In the end, I decide to stick to my have-the-burger-in-the-picture rule and get the original 67 burger – a hefty 7 oz. burger topped with blue cheese and crispy bacon. The fries selection is also rather copious and we all have a hard time choosing among the curly fries, regular fries, sweet potato fries, or onion rings.

Summer is just beginning to kiss fall and four numbers on sticks litter an outside table where Burger Club #2 convenes. One of us reveals he has never had a sweet potato fry (amidst cries of “whaaat?!” and shrugs of “well, I never really liked them”) and has made today the day to try one for the first time. Our burgers arrive rather quickly in succession, numbers removed from the table as burger hits the chrome table top.

“Why are there five burgers on the table?” one of us notes and we all turn to the member notorious for polishing off upwards of 3 burgers in one sitting without breaking a sweat.

“I decided to replace the fries with a veggie burger,” he explains. He is also the one who ordered broccoli with his last burger. We leave him to his double burger action.

Curly is my fry of choice today and I am not disappointed. I eat a few before I have my first burger bite. Which has a little too much blue cheese. Which I remember I don’t really like very much in the first place. Hmmm. The burger is good, the bun is decent, the fries are magical. Two of us have gone for the original while the other two accidentally ended up with the same burger choice as well – melted cheese and BBQ-braised onions, the Western as it is dubbed.

The sweet potato fries look amazing and I can’t help but ask for a taste, to which the sweet-potato novice replies, “Please do!” He is polishing them off quickly, I think he likes them. These turn out to be especially good sweet potato fries – usually sweet potato fries are cut too thickly and come out of the fryer a slightly soggy mess. Delicious yes, napkin-free eating, no. 67 takes into account the extra water held by the sweet potato and cuts them accordingly. These fries are crisp, hold their shape, and emit a satisfying crunch at each bite. Best of all, the flavor is not compromised.

The blue cheese continues to be unnecessarily overpowering to an otherwise delicious burger and the saltiness of the bacon and blue cheese together pack too much of a punch. I am almost tempted to scrape it off for the last fourth of my meal, but decide against it – is no cheese worse than blue cheese? Yes. I wash down the last bite with a handful of curly fries, which make me wish for a Jack-in-the-Box on this coast.

We all agree on the superiority of 5 Napkin at the end of the night, though the two Westerners seem happy with their BBQ-braised onion selection. The neighborhood that houses the burger spot is adorable and we wander around for a while half-heartedly in search of dessert, but possibly just to let the burger/fry/blue cheese combo settle and check out a neighborhood that most of us did not know existed. The streets fork into each other and reveal three-to-five story buildings with store fronts that make you feel like you can’t possibly be in New York right then.

Finally, we give up when we reach a major road that parallels a highway and turn back around. One final burger club group hug takes place before we fan out to our various subway stops. Next time, we are shortening our wait time to three weeks. One month has proven to be too long.

67 Burger – too blue-cheesy for a shimmy
Curly fries – a solid chair dance throughout the meal
Sweet potato fries – impressed head nod

67 Burger
67 Lafayette Ave
Brooklyn, NY 11217-5500
(718) 797-7150