As May is indeed the month of the hamburger, it’s the time of year when a man must ask himself, where do I go for the best burger in town? To me, the Burger Joint in Le Parker Meriden and Corner Bistro in the West Village spring to mind, then off course there’s the surf shop Island Burger in Hell’s Kitchen.
I dare not argue or presuppose what ingredients are required to make the best burger, rather I rely on one simple rule: If it tastes good, it usually is. And the tastiest I’ve had in a while was at The Dram Shop Bar in Park Slope, Brooklyn, located on 9th Street between 5th and 6th Avenues.
The bar is elegant and high-minded with a pool table located in back, a shuffleboard on the side, TVs and lights fixed appropriately, so they’re easily found, but not in your way and music that is familiar and new and in a word, cool.
The Dram Shop Bar has a selection of good, not obvious, beers on tap with fine whiskeys and vodkas decorating a bar, whose mirror the mighty Jack Nicholson could possibly deceive himself in. The six unisex bathroom stalls demonstrate a change in the paradigm of modern restrooms, where privacy can be had and the long lines women endure due to bottleneck avoided.
The bar menus are simple and to the point and feature a blurb about how this delightful concoction originated in Dallas and found its way to Brooklyn three generations later by a dude named Clay, presumably the proprietor. Admittedly, I thought this tale rather self-indulgent along side a nine-dollar price tag, but my hunger prevailed.
The Brooklyn version of this beauty consists of two thin patties, slightly charred like good bbq with fixins that are crunchy and full of zest and served in a basket with a healthy portion of hand-cut fries that are crispy and lightly dusted with kosher salt. The first bite is kind of like the first bite you take of an IN-N-OUT Burger in SoCal, where your appetite wells up like a tsunami and crashes down on anything in its path. Oh, and they serve their beer in frosty mugs, too!
I encourage everyone to stop in The Dram Shop Bar in Park Slope, Brooklyn (take the F Train to 7th Avenue) for a beer and a taste test and who knows, maybe I’ll challenge you to game of shuffleboard.
Hyannisport Holiday
It was the summer of 1997 and my friend Tom invited me up to the Cape for a weekend to see some of his old college buddies and attend the Robert Malfi Third Annual Summer Extravaganza, where the boys played soccer on a lawn over looking the ocean and the girls pranced around the ample grounds in summer dresses, drinking catered cocktails from bendy straws.
On the drive up from New York, panic set in when I asked Tom what time bars closed in Massachusetts and he wasn't sure if it was one or two. I suggested we stop in a package store where we picked up a case of beer, a bottle of Jack and a bottle of Absolut. We would, after all, be spending the night.
Tom and I checked in our ram shack, rent-by-the-hour motel, complete with mirrored ceilings and a rather large bureau and vanity mirror. We unloaded our stash into styrofoam coolers and doused it in ice to keep it cold, then we drove to a clam shack and had a bucket of steamers and a couple of cold brews amidst a cool sea breeze.
I recall pulling up to the Malfi mansion and thinking I was woefully underdressed. My polo shirt had a tear in the bottom where a friend's over zealous pit bull jumped on me and my pants, although khaki, had traces of paint on them from my work as a janitor. I remember meeting these splendid looking, healthy creatures and shaking hands reluctantly after a shard from one of my calluses got stuck in a debutante's palm.
The party was a blur. Music, stiff cocktails and a cacophony of laughter as the sun set. Then there was a scramble to the driveway and Tom and I ended up in Robert's Jeep doing about 90 mph down a back road in what had suddenly become the pitch black night only to come upon an oasis of light and sound, a roadhouse that was crawling with preppies and magnificent gold diggers.
I was standing at the bar when it erupted in applause and whistling. I turned around to see Michael Kennedy escorted in by two six-foot blonde bombshells you'd expect to see hanging on Hef's arms. This was only days after the news that he had been sleeping with his underage baby sister was smeared all over the national press, but there he was, a hero, or better yet, a royal.
He ended up in the spot on the bar next to mine and drinks were lined up faster than then they could be poured. His eyes were glazed over, but his grin stretched ear to ear. I moved away from him as quickly as possible and found Tom in the corner smoking and pontificating on Cape life although it all sounded like gibberish in hindsight.
Whether that bar closed or became too crowded, the party moved back to our motel, where security would come by the room and scatter people, who would only reappear once the coast was clear. The locals commended me on my foresight in gathering a stockpile of booze and a ragged woman was questioning me on whether or not I liked the mirrors above the bed. I woke up the next morning slumped beside said bed and there were arms and legs and smoldering cigarettes and the dull moaning of a woman emanating from the bathroom. At first I thought she might be sick, but the shower was running. One by one, those scattered in the room got up and departed. Those who stayed, fixed their eyes on the door.
It opened and a swath of steam pushed out. Then Tom's friend P.J. walked through the cloud with a towel wrapped around his waist. The girl who had been moaning appeared moments later pulling a tank top over her bare breasts before kissing P.J. and vanishing into the morning sun.
P.J. was invigorated and suggested we all go for breakfast before Tom and I headed back. We followed him to a private club where we were admitted without question and seated poolside in a moment. I remember ordering a mudslide and it being the best damn thing I've ever tasted. There were sandwiches and fries, too. The club was situated nearby the ferry that shuttled people to Martha's Vineyard and the crowds would wave to one another as casual as any neighbor you might happen upon.
The sun was hot and I was sticky, so I slid out of my chair and dove in the pool, realizing only then that I still had my sunglasses on, smooth. The deck was crawling with beautiful, taut, tan, privileged women. I fixed my stare on one who had an ass that leaves me stammering for words and she waved it around like a child who finds his father's gun, oblivious to its power to slay men in an instant. I made it back to my seat just as a Dave Matthew's song came on and I remember P.J. saying in a heavy Boston accent that Dave Matthew's was a star.
Unfortunately, the evening caught up to Tom and sitting in the sunshine spoiled his stomach. He suggested we leave and stoically tried to drive us out of there, but became violently ill after a quarter mile. I took the wheel and pointed south. Not sure where I had been or what I had done, but damn glad I wasn't the one who had to stop each mile and puke my guts up.
I recall Cracker Barrel in Connecticut helping Tom regain some composure. And, I recall, a few months later Michael Kennedy ran into a tree while playing football on skis in Aspen.
On the drive up from New York, panic set in when I asked Tom what time bars closed in Massachusetts and he wasn't sure if it was one or two. I suggested we stop in a package store where we picked up a case of beer, a bottle of Jack and a bottle of Absolut. We would, after all, be spending the night.
Tom and I checked in our ram shack, rent-by-the-hour motel, complete with mirrored ceilings and a rather large bureau and vanity mirror. We unloaded our stash into styrofoam coolers and doused it in ice to keep it cold, then we drove to a clam shack and had a bucket of steamers and a couple of cold brews amidst a cool sea breeze.
I recall pulling up to the Malfi mansion and thinking I was woefully underdressed. My polo shirt had a tear in the bottom where a friend's over zealous pit bull jumped on me and my pants, although khaki, had traces of paint on them from my work as a janitor. I remember meeting these splendid looking, healthy creatures and shaking hands reluctantly after a shard from one of my calluses got stuck in a debutante's palm.
The party was a blur. Music, stiff cocktails and a cacophony of laughter as the sun set. Then there was a scramble to the driveway and Tom and I ended up in Robert's Jeep doing about 90 mph down a back road in what had suddenly become the pitch black night only to come upon an oasis of light and sound, a roadhouse that was crawling with preppies and magnificent gold diggers.
I was standing at the bar when it erupted in applause and whistling. I turned around to see Michael Kennedy escorted in by two six-foot blonde bombshells you'd expect to see hanging on Hef's arms. This was only days after the news that he had been sleeping with his underage baby sister was smeared all over the national press, but there he was, a hero, or better yet, a royal.
He ended up in the spot on the bar next to mine and drinks were lined up faster than then they could be poured. His eyes were glazed over, but his grin stretched ear to ear. I moved away from him as quickly as possible and found Tom in the corner smoking and pontificating on Cape life although it all sounded like gibberish in hindsight.
Whether that bar closed or became too crowded, the party moved back to our motel, where security would come by the room and scatter people, who would only reappear once the coast was clear. The locals commended me on my foresight in gathering a stockpile of booze and a ragged woman was questioning me on whether or not I liked the mirrors above the bed. I woke up the next morning slumped beside said bed and there were arms and legs and smoldering cigarettes and the dull moaning of a woman emanating from the bathroom. At first I thought she might be sick, but the shower was running. One by one, those scattered in the room got up and departed. Those who stayed, fixed their eyes on the door.
It opened and a swath of steam pushed out. Then Tom's friend P.J. walked through the cloud with a towel wrapped around his waist. The girl who had been moaning appeared moments later pulling a tank top over her bare breasts before kissing P.J. and vanishing into the morning sun.
P.J. was invigorated and suggested we all go for breakfast before Tom and I headed back. We followed him to a private club where we were admitted without question and seated poolside in a moment. I remember ordering a mudslide and it being the best damn thing I've ever tasted. There were sandwiches and fries, too. The club was situated nearby the ferry that shuttled people to Martha's Vineyard and the crowds would wave to one another as casual as any neighbor you might happen upon.
The sun was hot and I was sticky, so I slid out of my chair and dove in the pool, realizing only then that I still had my sunglasses on, smooth. The deck was crawling with beautiful, taut, tan, privileged women. I fixed my stare on one who had an ass that leaves me stammering for words and she waved it around like a child who finds his father's gun, oblivious to its power to slay men in an instant. I made it back to my seat just as a Dave Matthew's song came on and I remember P.J. saying in a heavy Boston accent that Dave Matthew's was a star.
Unfortunately, the evening caught up to Tom and sitting in the sunshine spoiled his stomach. He suggested we leave and stoically tried to drive us out of there, but became violently ill after a quarter mile. I took the wheel and pointed south. Not sure where I had been or what I had done, but damn glad I wasn't the one who had to stop each mile and puke my guts up.
I recall Cracker Barrel in Connecticut helping Tom regain some composure. And, I recall, a few months later Michael Kennedy ran into a tree while playing football on skis in Aspen.
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