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.

New Year Feasting III: NYE Steak Dinner

When you dine at Smith & Wollensky, you have apparently arrived. When you show up dressed as we were, you have arrived in style. Keep in mind, our neighboring diners were clad in t-shirts and jeans. As it turns out, showing respect by just dressing in a civilized manner (according to the prices/establishment) and merely acknowledging the professional manner of a polite and knowledgeable waitstaff (by acting like civilized humans) can earn you some brownie points in places such as this. As an example, the manager approached us to take the above picture without any initiation on our part.

In this broken civilization, it is socially acceptable for any given college student with a trust fund to assume that his/her wealth translates to absolute power. Perhaps it does, but I just think that paying for a $50 steak should entail an experience absent of seeing people act like over-privileged children that never grew up.

The responsibility of finding a special place to dine on New Year's Eve was cast upon me, so I went for the obvious choice that was worth the money: steak. Perhaps I'm just a glutton for all things "beef." Still, I've always found steakhouses to be the classiest of restaurants that still maintain some sense of character, while serving any given customer with the understanding that each dollar in the bill is spent for a purpose. This appetizer consists of some combination of tomatoes, mozzarella and olive oil. Have I had better cheese? Probably. Was the oil a little too thick for my own taste? I must confess, it was. But was it worth the price? Absolutely.

At this point, I should mention that our waiter had the spitting image of George McFly, of Back to the Future fame. The epitome of a true professional, George (henceforth, he as shall be known as such) paid attention to every detail. Aside from serving the Filet Mignon for Megan and NY strip for me, George and his understudy plated our sides. It's that extra bit of effort on the part of the waitstaff that makes the exorbitant cost of the meal seem somewhat worthwhile --if you're paying this much, you really shouldn't have to deal with extra inches between your side dishes and your plate. Following the general rule that steak should be accompanied by something green and something deriving from potatoes, we ordered asparagus and "whipped" potatoes.

Despite stuffing ourselves on the main course, a dessert seemed inevitable. Catering to the bossy and overpaid, this establishment did the homework for its consumers by suggesting a particular dessert wine to be paired with each delicacy. It was at this point that I truly appreciated the service of George. We ordered the comically over-sized (the picture does no justice) chocolate cake, accompanied by two glasses of the "recommended dessert wine." I watched as he scribbled on his pad, nodded, and then came to an abrupt stop after walking ten feet. Upon scurrying back, he leaned over to tell us that, "while the 'paired' drink goes excellently with this dish, I should note that the '[some name I can't possibly recall]' might also complement the dish quite well. [pause] Shall I fetch one of each, or two of what you ordered?" His suggestion was actually cheaper, but only by a small amount. A quick exchange with Megan of looks that conveyed the reckless sense of, "what the hell?" solidified the deal. As it turns out, each of us quickly gravitated toward a different glass, disliking the alternative. Perhaps George was a sexist bastard that assumed all women just preferred sparkling wine, but I actually prefer to think that he knew exactly what would suit each of us by our individual steak preferences. Either way, it worked out quite well for each of us... until we had to walk again.

New Year Feasting II: Giacomo's in the North End

[...the second part in a trilogy of gluttony inspired by the New Year]

Personally, I don't care much for lines --especially those that form outside of an establishment more than thirty minutes before the doors open. It makes me think of going to the DMV, or perhaps worse, waiting with a clan of hipsters for the newest Apple product. For the record, I don't have to deal with the DMV again for several years, and the only iDevice I own is an outdated mp3 player that I bought with the convenience of my own internet access. I thought I'd graduated from this uncouth sort of behavior, so I was skeptical about waiting in a queue that formed outside of Giacomo's in the North End of Boston. Surely no pasta could redeem this inconvenience.

Perhaps I was still reeling from the satisfaction of eating two sandwiches from the birthplace of the hamburger. Whatever the reason, as soon as Megan and I got into Boston proper, I insisted that we attempt to dine at Giacomo's. I was promised an Italian meal that would make all others seem inferior. With twenty people ahead of us and thirty minutes before the doors opened, it felt like P.F. Chang's on any given Saturday night in the Raleigh-Durham area. For reasons I still don't understand, I ignored my cynicism and looked forward to something special. As my therapist tells me, when you open up to the Universe, the Universe usually responds. I can't confess to understand what that really means, but what I do know is that this turned out to be a meal to remember.

We were among the first wave of patrons allowed entry. This alone made the endeavor worthwhile, because given this place's tendency to throw food at you and then throw you to the street, it meant that we'd be out looking for our next adventure within the hour. I have a weakness for calamari, so that's how the meal began. I like calamari because it's fried. With many fried foods, the mark of exceptional quality is usually an entire lack of discernible flavor, and I've come to expect this squid experience to be nothing more than eating a particularly chewy funnel cake. First lesson of this meal: that's not how it has to be.

This fried squid was pretty spectacular. It wasn't painfully chewy, and it actually had flavor. It wasn't especially fishy, and it had a more chicken-like taste. Yes, we got the "family size" portion. Yes, the waitress tried to convey the gargantuan portion this entailed. And yes, we finished it. Quickly. At this point, the humiliation of waiting on the street had been entirely nullified, and I was already willing to recommend this place to anyone with a pulse. Pulse optional, really.

Of course, this was just the beginning. I played it safe and went for the Chicken Marsala, which a tiny cultural step up from my usual Chicken Parmigiana order. Megan ordered the Pumpkin Tortellini, which just looked to me like pasta with some type of white sauce. Opaque sauces are deal breakers for me. White sauce is an of unforgivable sin. I could try to compare my dish to a similar one served at Carrabba's, Olive Garden or even Macaroni Grill, using a bunch of adjectives that I'd have to look up in a thesaurus, but I think the best way to put it is as follows: this was so good that it gave me the courage to try a bite of her white sauce infused pasta. Damn if it wasn't delightful as well. The gravity of that last point might be lost on people who haven't had the pleasure of watching me squirm at stray mayonnaise, ranch dressing or tartar sauce that lands within six inches of my dinner plate. Really, that's a big deal... and yes, I'm still a child.

Full of chicken, pasta and squid, we excused ourselves from this establishment as soon as the check was dropped. Given the efficiency of the staff, I feared a guillotine awaited those that lingered for too long. Despite its significant initial depletion upon the restaurant's opening, the line of patrons on the sidewalk had somehow grown during our meal. For a place that is only open for several hours each day, this must be necessary to make ends meet. I wish I were cultured enough to offer some witty gem about why this was truly the best Italian meal I've ever had... but my expertise lies in trashy American food. So in that spirit, I distill all of this into two points: (1) go to this place, (2) get there early.

New Year Feasting I: Louis' Lunch

This is apparently my first post in over three months. Instead of writing about sandwiches and everything else that makes America the greatest country (consider waistlines as a metric) in the world, I've been buried deep in physics literature. As it turns out, I completed a thesis in theoretical condensed matter physics and will be defending my dissertation this May. The interested reader can check out my publications for further details about my closet passion for non-equilibrium dynamics in interacting quantum many-body systems.

Actually, don't do that. If you're one of the ~10 people reading this, then I'd rather make a poor attempt at keeping your attention without distraction.

With that obligatory attempt at pretending this is a legitimate use of my time, let's proceed to examine what I've been eating. An impending sense of doom has been setting in recently: by summer's end I probably won't be living in New York. A reasonable person would start getting affairs in order and securing a job by all means necessary. That kind of thinking stresses me out, so I've been assembling a bucket list of places in which I need to dine by June. Peter Luger is already scheduled completed, and I'm certainly going to revisit Katz's Deli at least once. In this spirit, let me now discuss some eateries between NY and Boston I had the pleasure of visiting with Megan for during the New Year's weekend.

Our journey began here, in New Haven, CT. At this point, either Megan or my brother would chime in to remind me that the journey actually began when we opened my car doors in the parking garage. Still, anyone who has driven this stretch of I-95 between The Bronx and New Haven will back me up by agreeing that there's absolutely nothing of interest between the city and Yale. We left New York around 9:30am in hopes of reaching Louis' Lunch around by opening time of 12pm. The traffic was so sparse that we were parked within several blocks of the joint by 11am. As it turns out, one should arrive early at this place.

Louis' Lunch is the eatery that invented the hamburger. Tucked away on the edge of Yale University campus, it's not the kind of place you just stumble upon by pulling off the highway in search of a quick bite. In addition to high incomes and insane motorists, Connecticut boasts an abundance of interesting hamburger stands. Anyone who recognizes this place from a Travel Channel or Food Network show will also recall Ted's Restaurant, located just minutes north of New Haven, as the joint famous for its steamed hamburgers and closely guarded cheese secrets. Until this blog really takes off, I'm going to focus on the more touristy meccas with more conventional ways of cooking tasty burgers: those broilers are the originals, which have been in service since almost 25 years before my grandfather was born.

The building hosts a sign that reads, "established 1895." That's legitimate. Venture into suburban North Carolina, and one finds all kinds of similar signs dating back to 2002, or maybe the wonder years of 1992. Old Navy claims to be an old-timer, dating back to 1991. The fabled Mitch's Tavern in Raleigh, NC looks like an ancient relic with its roots going all the way back to years before my birth. Let me repeat: 1895. I'm spoiled because I live in New York where there are bars old enough to have hosted Abraham Lincoln, but I still recognize a true relic when I see one. This place is for real.

Megan and I arrived early enough that she could secure seating for us while I waited in line when they opened the doors. This place has character. The most complex burger they serve is a "cheeseburger" with tomatoes and onions... on white bread toast. Putting ketchup on these patties is an unforgivable sin. This isn't mentioned explicitly, because anyone who has the devotion to find and get into this place already knows the proper rules of etiquette. As a friendly reminder, a sign hanging in the background reminds you that, "This is not Burger King. You don't get it your way. You take it my way or you don't get the damn thing." You get the idea.

Being puritanically minded in terms of condiments and meat, I opted for two absolutely plain hamburgers. With such a fuss about ketchup ruining the experience of their burgers, I had no qualms about sampling them in the purest way possible. Megan went for the all-out variety with cheese spread, tomatoes and onions. All I can say is that anyone expecting an exquisitely crafted Kobe burger or something surprising will be genuinely disappointed. Is it good? Absolutely! But let us not forget that this place hasn't changed much since 1895, when food was more of a necessity than an enjoyable experience. They claim to cook these medium-rare unless otherwise specified. The centers of my burgers were slightly beyond medium with the edges quite well done. Those outer regions brought about memories of the cube steak I was fed when either my mom was too exhausted to cook something real (or perhaps, when I was an especially irritating child). Having said that, it's a slab of meat between two pieces of toast without any remorse or self-doubt. I do enjoy that, and I quite savored eating both of them. It's like eating a US history book, but slightly tastier --enough to make it worth the $5 charge on each burger. Think of wanting seeing the Statue of Liberty up close... experience of a lifetime the first time. Beyond that, you're just a tourist... desperately in need of a new routine.