North of Carolina

As of this week, I'm officially living in the great state of Virginia... sort of. My new job requires that I reside about two hours north of Greensboro during the work week, while everything I love and hold closely is back in Carolina; North Carolina, as in "where the Bojangles are plentiful." In some well-intentioned attempt to ease the transition to a quasi-long-distance relationship, Megan and I even acquired a second puppy to ensure that things didn't get boring. Well, it isn't boring for her.

As for me, it's pretty bland and free of affectionate animals. I'm living up the college student lifestyle in this fantastic 1BR apartment I've secured for my work week. In the first several hours, I found dead wasps and dead spiders in places you don't want to find lifeforms that can bite or sting. Death seems to be a persistent theme in this dwelling, though. When my mind quiets down and I just try to relax, I really begin to notice the absence of certain conveniences to which I'd grown accustomed... like ice makers and a paint color that isn't just some shade of white or "beige."

What I will say about this area is that there's a fantastic Chinese take-out spot on the edge of town. Sesame Chicken is the great equalizer among Americanized Asian dishes. It's not at all a Chinese dish. Let us recall that Sesame Chicken (a close relative of the famous General Tso) is just fried chicken, some sort of brown-and-sweet sauce, and rice. My policy has always been to opt for the steamed rice when the fried meat is doused in a heavy sauce. Don't get me wrong, I'll totally drown that steamed rice in a flood of soy sauce. It's not a health decision to forgo the fried rice, but I think it's a necessary choice that brings a better balance to the meal. Sweetness and saltiness should play nicely with the savory. Still, speaking of bad decisions, I got the "combo" that included an egg roll. It turned out to be quite forgettable and much unlike the life-changing appetizer I found back in the city. Still, the meal as a whole was quite satisfying. Not because it was particularly exquisite, though; it was good. But more importantly, it was reliable. I could walk into a new place in a new town and walk out with a meal that tasted exactly like I expected it to taste. For that, I commend the chef (and his thousands of counterparts all over this great nation).

Speaking of reliability, one should toss all expectations out the window when shopping for groceries at Walmart; a lesson I should have remembered from my younger days when going to Walmart was the thing to do on a Saturday. But when you're 31 and trying to [minimally] furnish a small apartment in a small town, it's inevitable that you're eventually lured into the doors of that monstrosity which evolved from Sam Walton's original five-and-dime. It's highly likely that in the process of throwing some $0.97 ice cube trays into your cart you might hope for the best and snatch some turkey burgers and freezer fries, thinking "hey, for this price, how bad can they be?"

Throwing all caution to the wind, you might even attempt to cook these items using your highly-unpredictable new oven and decades-old George Forman grill. (Well, surely I could have shot lower, but it turns out my weekday apartment didn't come furnished with a microwave.) I don't claim to predict the exact results of your particular situation, but I'll admit that it didn't go so well for me. Whether it was the meat quality or the unreliable grilling surface, I don't know. Something went wrong. Even melting some legitimate name-brand cheddar on the bun didn't really make this a tasty meal. Surprisingly, tossing the freezer fries in just a splash of olive oil made them the highlight of the meal. The rest was just cardboard-masquerading-as-turkey. Tolerable... but, eh. Actually it was quite reminiscent of the overall picture of being two hours from the only person in the world that matters to me... and the six seven four-legged critters. To be fair, it's only night two. Things will hopefully improve on the cooking front soon.

Skittles Reunion

It occurred to me recently that when Skittles slipped in green apple to replace lime a few years ago, it wasn't just a temporary nightmare. In spite of all the uproar, it actually stuck. Suddenly a part of my childhood was really dead. Just like North Hills Mall and the Bubble Beeper, the real Skittles were no more. It's not like the green apple is a terrible flavor on its own, but lime just jives a lot better with the rest of the flavors. Sure, I was a strange child and carefully ate the flavors one at a time when I could. But in a dark movie theater? You just took a handful and marveled at how well everything worked together (and strangely tasted just like Tropical Sprite Remix). With the new green apple, it's like Van Halen after Sammy replaced Dave. Some folks will always like Van Hagar better, and that's their choice. It's just a poor choice.

The current loophole is that lime made a stealthy comeback last year in the new Orchards blend. It's absolutely possible to recreate a bag of the original Skittles mix by investing in two bags of candy. Nostalgia doesn't come cheap. Annoyingly, normal bags of Skittles are a bizarre 2.17oz, while the Orchards variety are 2oz exactly. This means (on average) you're going to come up short on lime flavor by about ten percent. Of course, King Size Skittles come in 4oz bags, which should mix flawlessly with two bags of Orchards. So now you need three bags of candy.

As a trial run, I took the incommensurate quantities provided by regular size bags (2oz Orchards, 2.17oz Original). Before a carefully orchestrated recombination, I did sample the new flavors. The lime is everything it used to be, cherry tastes somewhat like cough medicine, orange is more or less the same as in the "original" mix, and red apple is less tart than the green invader. The red and green apple flavors pair quite well, and I take strange pleasure in reuniting them, far away from all the original flavors. Peach is the worst Skittles flavor I've ever encountered. It's the buttered popcorn of Skittles, and fans of Father John Misty probably love it.

Swapping out the green apple for lime reunites Diamond Dave with the band (*) to play a greatest hits show without incident. It's like going back in time. I used to eat the flavors in order of increasing preference, and while the top spots would shuffle around a bit, grape was always the first to get out of the way. With green apple polluting the mix for the last few years, I'd forgotten how poorly I used to think grape fit with the original mix. Since I already started to change around the recommended combinations, I figured this was a great time to go a step further... what could I switch with grape? It then became clear that this operation would have to involve three different assortments of Skittles.

A local gas station stocked the King Size Share Size bags of both original variety and the Wild Berry mix. Wild Berry was one of the three alternative blends I remember from the 90s. The Tropical mix had some kind banana, which I found disgusting. Tart-N-Tangy Skittles were absolutely impossible to find in my old haunts, and they later evolved into the now-ubiquitous Sour Skittles that just burn your mouth. Wild Berry is perhaps the least-changed from its 1989 debut and has always the most tolerable of the remixes to me. Still, it's a bit of a dud on its own. Breaking down the walls and allowing flavors to move back and forth, I see some potential with the other cherry flavor and the raspberry. Darkside Skittles would also offer pomegranate, but I'm already blowing too much cash on Skittles right now to bother trying to track those down.

I got curious looks from Megan, our dog and several of the cats as I sat on the couch with four bags of Skittles and a number of bowls to facilitate the sorting. The best super mix I could obtain was orange, lemon (from Original), lime (from Orchards), strawberry, cherry and raspberry (from Wild Berry). Strawberry is in the original bag, but it has exactly the same color as the Wild Berry cherry, so I used the other lighter version for visual effect (who knew that would matter?). This mix contains a nice balance between citrus and berries, but I can't say I like it any better than the original Original option. Actually, I don't even like it as much as the classic mix. Skittles had the perfect combination and had to mess it up by involving Granny Smith. In the end, the days of the real original variety being affordable are truly over. It's just too much effort to create the past on a regular basis.

Epilogue: After reviewing my Skittles receipts from the last few days and noting the piles of undesirable flavors still sitting around the kitchen, I told Megan that, having binged so severely, I'm likely done buying Skittles for the next six months. She looked up from her laptop just long enough to say, "good, that was annoying."

(*) I'm aware it's not a perfect analogy. Michael Anthony did defect to the Hagar camp, and his duties were taken over by Eddie's son, Wolfgang. So imagine grape left with green apple and got replaced by raspberry or something. I already regret the running Van Halen reference.

Positive Jams

I first heard about The Hold Steady as a sudden monsoon struck I-77 just outside Mayberry Mt. Airy in the summer of 2010. Heading back to NY from my mother's house in the NC foothills, I remember having to pull over to the shoulder to avoid hydroplaning because I was driving a Pontiac Trans Am with bald tires. Rising above the cacophony of the precipitation making violent contact with GM metal, an interview with frontman Craig Finn on Wait Wait... Don't Tell Me was playing in the background. Turning my attention from the road to the radio, I recall hearing Craig speak about his skeptical dentist not believing someone with his accountant-like appearance could be in a rock band. I was intrigued. After getting back home, I downloaded the latest album, and just like that, NPR had introduced me to an alcohol-fueled dive-bar band. To be fair, it was also a band with a fan-made Wiki devoted [in part] to a full annotation of the numerous references that weave their song's lyrics together. NPR loves that kind of band.

Over the next few months, I worked my way back through their extensive catalog. As I dug deeper into their history, the vocals became less melodic and more abrasive. It was eerily similar to discovering the Goo Goo Dolls through Name and then back-reading all the way to this polished beginning. The Hold Steady's published work begins chronologically with the droning "Positive Jam," that kicks off their 2004 debut album, Almost Killed Me. Craig seems to begin shows a few beers deep. By the time they launch an encore, some lyrics become quite slurred, and it's safe to say that beer mixes well with The Hold Steady. For a band out of Brooklyn with strong midwestern roots, it's only fitting that Champion Brewing of Virginia made a commemorative "swiggable" beer called A Positive Jam. Just like my late discovery of the band, I was a few years off in realizing that this existed and originated in the town of Charlottesville, VA.

Charlottesville happened to be on Ryan Adam's tour schedule this month at a quaint outdoor amphitheater at the edge of the downtown mall. There's an Omni Hotel at the other end which has become just outdated enough to be quite affordable. Between the two are numerous bars, restaurants and breweries. Included in that list is the birthplace of A Positive Jam. Quite naturally, a perfect day involving food, drink and live music was assembling itself. Megan and I just had to get to Virginia. Having lived in Harrisonburg for while, I was quite familiar with the desolation and misery that is Route 29. While Route 11 has its own potato chips, Route 29 has only pain (see left). It's just about three hours of drive time from Greensboro to Charlottesville, and we made the amateur mistake of stopping for lunch in Danville. Somehow in my four years of traveling this corridor I had successfully avoided the angsty town that is Danville. Just to up the ante and make this a real game of Russian roulette, we really took our lives into our own hands by opting for a meal at Sheetz --that is, the gas station that's also its own fast food counter.

Sheetz is kind of like JetBlue in that it's an excellent experience until one thing starts to go wrong. Then the whole operation just unravels. This time, someone stole our food from the counter and we had to wait another 15 minutes for our bag of grease. This setback was probably the Universe strongly hinting that the "Big Mozz" chicken sandwich I ordered was not the wisest of selections, especially for road food. Maintaining no association with the reputable mozzarella producer in Brooklyn it predates, this "sandwich" is actually a filet of fried chicken in a bun with marinara, provolone and several fried mozzarella sticks. It is to Sheetz what the bacon-wrapped deep-dish pizza was to Little Caesers. Curiously, the Big Mozz is the only menu item besides "pizza" that naturally contains the letter "z" (i.e., wingz, burgerz and cup o' fryz). This unforced spelling appealed to me on a grammatical level, and the deal was sealed.

I can now say that the best way to coast up US 29 is during a full blown fried food coma. Everything north of Liberty University was a blur, and ignorance is bliss in this area. Arriving in Charlottesville with a couple of hours before Ryan and the Shining took the stage, we made our way to Champion on foot. I was somewhat bummed to learn something after a three hour drive that the Internet would have told me at home for free: Positive Jam is a spring seasonal and not offered on tap (or otherwise) in late July. Fortunately, the Against Me!-themed stout --everyone's favorite summer beer style-- was on tap. A good beer based on a band I could not care less about is likely a better experience than a potentially awful beer associated with a band I do enjoy, so I consider this a win. Perhaps it's a slightly-muted victory. Nothing screams 90-degree summer weather like a stout that's darker than Guinness.

Ryan took the stage just before 8:30pm with several images of cats scattered throughout the stage. Oversized Fender amplifiers, a vintage Dr. Pepper vending machine and 80s arcade games filled the space between the musicians. It was like a Rush stage setup but less functional. The highlight of the show was probably witnessing as Ryan very publicly berated the woman in front of us for repeatedly screaming song requests in unnaturally high pitches. If it turns out that the show was taped, a shrill "SIXTEEN DAYS!" should cut right through the crowd noise leading up to "Oh My Sweet Carolina."

After blazing through 17 songs (counting the three improvised bits), the house lights came up. It was barely 10pm when the band left the stage for an obligatory encore break before running back to knock out three final songs. There was a song about purple houses and purple trousers, but my personal favorite oddball song lasting less than two minutes didn't make the final cut. It was a significantly shorter show than the one he played there last year, and this year's selections were mainly repeats from last year's show. I don't really mind the repetition because I like reliving the past, but I do feel somewhat cheated out of five songs... and most of the ones we were told to expect on Twitter. I never thought a scenario would emerge where this would be an appropriate statement, but I am kind of bummed that there were no Taylor Swift covers.

Once the band launched into the closing number, we slowly made our way to the gate to beat the crowd to the dinner hot spots. After standing in the summer heat for several hours, Megan was weak enough that I was able to strong-arm her into a late-night visit to that one place we always go when in Charlottesville: Miller's Downtown. I first dragged her here years ago because this is in some sense the birthplace of the Dave Matthews Band. A young Dave Matthews was once a bartender here and according to legend stalked the local musicians, cherry picking his favorite musicians to form everyone's favorite band to hate. Probably the most spectacular aspect about the place is the complete lack of reference to anything about Dave Matthews. Miller's was doing just fine before DMB, and they're continuing to stand on their own as just a really well-put-together tavern with phenomenal local musicians. John D'Earth (frequent DMB contributing musician/guest) still plays a weekly show there with his five-piece band. It's real, and it's awesome.

Miller's has a late-night kitchen which was quite appreciated after our concert. My usual bar order of a burger did not disappoint, and Megan was able to grab two corn dogs. Their beer selection rotates frequently, and I was pleasantly surprised to see my all-time favorite coffee ale featured. Brewed just down the road in San Diego, Ballast Point's Calm Before the Storm first caught my attention in the store because I generally like buying beer that features skeletons on the packaging. Ballast Point is notably expensive, and this pint set me back a cool $8. For those looking to pinch pennies, Miller's also serves the fairly appropriate Miller Light. I couldn't help but try to imagine David J. Matthews explaining to a customer that $8 is a reasonable price for the beer given the exquisite varieties of hops used to brew it. Well, I suppose Dave probably did not have to fill out this extensive application back in 1990.

Getting our orders in before the rest of the rabble stumbled in from the show, we capped off a perfect evening well before midnight. The one nagging issue was the disappointment from not finding the beer I originally sought at Champion Brewing. Figuring some run-down bottle shop might still have a few cases lying around from the distant spring, I turned to my dear friend, Beer Menus. Then I came to the alarming discovery that of the four places carrying this in late July, two of them were in Greensboro. So taking a quick trip after the trip, I was able to snag a can to enjoy with my collection of books from Gate City Growlers, a mere mile from my home. In the end, our ears stopped ringing and our food was digested, but I still have a beer based on The Hold Steady sitting in the refrigerator. Rock on Ryan Adams and all the best to the Goo Goo Dolls (circa 1994).

Update (07/24/2016): As the weekend winds down, I can now report that I've actually tasted Champion Brewing's Positive Jam. The casual beer fan I am, I read "wheat ale flavored with spices" and thought it would be refreshing and predictable, like Sam Summer Ale or The Force Awakens. Instead, the "lavender and coriander" are a bit overpowering, and it kind of feels like drinking very smooth, liquefied potpourri. Not at all what I expected, and fairly highbrow. Well played, Champion.

Oh, Canada

In the nearly sixteen months since the last post, life has changed a bit while somehow also staying the same. I got a Twitter handle and published a few papers, but the Lancaster household hasn't acquired any more cats. And truthfully, I've only used Twitter to keep up with like-minded people and to join the club of academics who tweet when one of their papers is published. I'm much more of a lurker when it comes to the social realms of the Internet. Exhibit A is my proud twelve year membership at AntsMarching.org with only one forum posting to date but a meticulously curated profile of every Dave Matthews Band show I've seen since 2000. Why? Because I like hoarding stuff and avoiding conversations with people who proclaim themselves fans of the Dave Matthews Band.

In some very real ways, it's been a rather turbulent year. To "get away from it all" in the most literal sense possible, Megan and I went on a four day cruise to Canada last week. Well, we barely made it east of Maine, but transactions still took place in Canadian dollars (most of the time). To drag out the dreadful drone of our usual daily existence as much as possible before boarding a cruise ship in New York, we chose to fly into Newark. There's nothing quite as disappointing as watching your dramatic descent into the NY metro area from a window seat and then dying a little on the inside when the plane turns to give you an excellent view of Staten Island and then lands beside the 12-lane turnpike in Jersey. To be fair, this is also the airport where I had to learn how Southwest boarding works on the fly after an airport bartender spilled someone's Long Island Iced Tea on me in what I refer to as a "carbonation-related explosion." It's really not a "shaken" drink, and if you insist, you really shouldn't dump in the cola first. Newark never really had a chance after that.

The hourlong train delay on the way into the city didn't really help things either, but all that was okay because I can always order a late breakfast at any given midtown diner. And there was no way we could schlep our bags on foot from Penn Station to the west side without stopping at one of those dated greasy spoons. There's something comforting about an oversized 20 page menu, even though I only ever get the bacon & cheddar omelette or cheeseburger deluxe.

There is something very surreal about living for several days on a modern cruise ship. It's kind of like living in a Vegas hotel, but instead of seeing the Nevada desert you get views that look like this. I must say that everyone should experience the wind beating your face as you stand aboard a ship cutting through the North Atlantic while listening to Immigrant Song on full volume (headphones help here). It doesn't even matter that you're only a few miles off the coast of North America and nowhere near Iceland; you feel intimately connected to Viking ancestors you may or may not actually have. Plus, aboard the Carnival Sunshine you can do this while sipping a Caribbean Colada and wonder whether that dizziness is caused by the ship's motion through the waves or the well rum floating in that $8.95 coconut-flavored slushy.

Saint John, NB is a rather quaint place. In this photo I'm standing by the river which is actually forced to flow backwards when the Atlantic dumps a deluge of salt water into it during high tide. Megan will be the first to note that I was seemingly annoyed that she insisted on taking five shots of me in this pose. She was quite pleased to show me that this was the only one to feature me with my eyes open. I'm a work in progress. This annoyance was short-lived, because it's hard to suppress my excitement for weather that demands a light jacket in July. I daresay we had found the perfect destination for when the mercury is pushing triple digits down home in the Old North State. One should note that many of the kind people in this picturesque tourist destination will gladly accepted US dollars and quote temperatures in Fahrenheit so Americans can think almost as little as we're required to think back home.

With only six or so useable hours on shore (i.e., we slept in), we had modest aspirations for excursions. A big pink bus showed us around town and took us to the aforementioned reversing rapids. After a few hours of sightseeing, we devoted most of our remaining time to sampling the local beer and accompanying bar food. Beef seems to be a funny meat on cruise ships, because it's the only one that always feels or tastes just noticeably off from how it would be if prepared identically but on land. In other words, it was a burger-plus-ground-beef-nachos kind of day. Even if we weren't much closer to Ireland than in the states, something about seeing the metric system and using coins for dollars makes it feel like you're really close to Ireland. As such, I insisted we end our day in a proper Irish pub. Much to my delight, I found my old friend, Kilkenny. The only two places I've found Kilkenny on the east coast have been in an overwhelmingly overdone faux Irish pub in Times Square and in the even more cartoon-like Grogan's Pub Busch Gardens (of all places) in Williamsburg, VA. My excitement for this moment was so contagious that Megan forgot she didn't like it and joined me in ordering a pint of this Smithwick's-esque ale that goes down like Guinness. A perfect end to the perfect chilly July day.

After another day at sea, listening to Jimi play along to a drum machine in the piano bar and tricking myself into thinking Guy Fieri's Burger Joint was a good idea, we were back in New York. There was a day-long blur involving Penn Station and Newark Liberty Airport before we arrived back at our adorable hometown PTI airport. It's so devoid of activity that Air Force One practices maneuvers there. Finally back home, we have a handful of photos and an annoying pocket full of Canadian coins that no one in North Carolina wants anything to do with.

It's Guinness Season

Another St. Patrick's Day has come and gone without my indulging in green beer or other nonsense. To be fair, I did scribble my math lecture at JSNN in green marker, so all was not lost. But in the days leading up to this glorious day, I found myself with number of Guinness-themed options.

Apparently Guinness flavored chips now exist... (and they're made in England). I once commented to a gentleman in Cork that either Guinness travels poorly or they just ship the skunk batches to the states. He simply said, "No. We keep the best for us, but we send the worst batches to England." I snagged a single bag from the local Harris Teeter, but if commitment is your thing, you can order a large case from Amazon.

Like many all of my favorite foods, this is "not suitable for vegans," as is clearly printed on the back. A proper side dish for this side seemed like a thick-cut bacon & white cheddar grilled cheese sandwich. I've never been much for flavored potato chips, but all the strange extract powders combine to create a potato chip that tastes as if it were dunked in Guinness and then flash dried (but in a good way). It's like eating Guinness... with bacon and cheese and locally brewed beer on the side ("the best beer").

For a proper ending, we have a Guinness flavored cupcake, courtesy Maxie B's, Greensboro's own frilly bakery. Supposedly, there's Guinness in there, but it just tastes like a $3.50 chocolate cupcake. It would have been $2.50, but the "decorations" tack on an extra dollar. Pictured beside it is a 7Up cupcake, which, quite fittingly, tasted like a $3.50 "yellow" cupcake with a zap of citrus. Luckily, this one was not "decorated," so it only fetched $2.50.

So here we are in the post-St. Patrick's Day portion of 2015. 2014 feels like just yesterday, but Easter is just around the corner. Here's to a happy March onward.

Three years later....

I started this indulgence of a blog just before starting to write my PhD thesis. Suffice it to say, I got distracted somewhere along the way. In early 2012 I was a young bachelor, making my living as a graduate student. Yes, if you stay in school long enough, they will eventually PAY you to remain a student. But for only so long. Now, I am a married man with five cats (the picture on the right depicts what having five cats looks like when you go to brush your teeth in the morning), one dog and a house. Somewhere along the way I even ditched the Oxford comma.

What hasn't changed is my adoration of the food that will surely lead to my untimely demise. In a brilliant twist of irony, part of my current work at JSNN focuses on understanding the development of atherosclerosis through simple physics.

Hopefully I will unravel the mechanism and develop a cure before I succumb to the diseases caused by the beautiful dish pictured on the left (courtesy Pack's Tavern in Asheville, NC). Not only is that bacon and a sunny-side-up egg on a burger... there is also a crispy hashbrown tucked neatly between various layers of protein. The only shame in a meal like this is the wasted space occupied by those cowering vegetables.

As fate would have it, I've made it back to my old college town (and Megan's hometown) of Greensboro, NC. As it turns out, it's not so bad after all. There's the new, with breweries popping up out of the woodwork. But there's also the old, like Tex and Shirley's Pancake House, where you could be like everyone else and just get a giant stack of pancakes... or be just cruel and enjoy a plate of grilled chicken and eggs.

So here's to 2015 being the year of my triumphant return to spending a lot of time writing a few words that no one will ever read about food that has already been consumed.

Gentlemen, this is Peter Luger

A good friend of mine was preparing to move away in January, and we realized that we had precious little time left to make our pilgrimage to Williamsburg to feast upon the legendary cuts of beef at Peter Luger Steakhouse. As it turns out, we beat the odds by getting a reservation on a Friday night with less than a week's notice. Granted, it was a 9:30PM reservation, and our table wasn't ready on time. According to the legend, none of this matters. And the surly staff? The inconvenience of having to bring enough cash to buy a decent car? All this would be forgiven.

Indeed, all my unease melted away upon experiencing their take on "bacon" with as many of my senses as possible. I think a reasonably sized pig contains a great many potential slices of bacon. This slab contained several pigs. It weighed more than the thick ceramic plate upon which it rested. It sizzled when it was placed in front of me. It smelled so good that a gentleman sitting ten feet from us looked at it with such longing that his date became jealous. This was mythical. A number of other local establishments also serve novelty sized slabs of bacon, and I've tried the version at Keens. Don't get me wrong, I'm really partial to Keens. This was just better.

The waitstaff here has a reputation for being... well, offensive. The trick to dealing with them is apparently to stroke their egos and ask what to do. A simple, "what's the real Peter Luger experience?" did the trick. The choices were made for us. It turns out that the real experience is "steak for [insert party number]; medium rare," German fried potatoes and creamed spinach. Two among us had no appreciation of steak and opted for medium. Our waiter --let's call him Klaus-- shot a look, as did I. Disaster was averted by splitting the order: steak for two and burnt dead cow for two.

Klaus and his assistant returned shortly to plate our meals. I generally like my potatoes in french fried or baked form. If I have to eat greens, I usually settle on asparagus: of all the vegetables, it mostly resembles french fries. As it turns out, there's a reason THIS is what they suggest. I don't think this place does many things well, but they make THIS meal extremely well. This was one of the best steak meals I've ever had. They don't treat you like a valued customer here because they know that enough people like what they do well enough to replace you if you storm off complaining about your dignity. Welcome to Brooklyn.

The meal ended with some sort of chocolate mousse cake and several cups of coffee. Something about a cup of coffee after a nice dinner really makes you feel like an adult. As a 26-year-old student, I need reminders like this. Around midnight, Klaus suddenly told us he was leaving. We assumed that was his way of kicking us out without telling us directly, so we assembled our wad of cash. Against all odds, the four of us found the strength to walk back to Manhattan across the Williamsburg Bridge. This is about the only way one can get a sense of accomplishment about partaking in such a decadent experience.