Clash of the Titans: Cel Ray vs. Manhattan Special

RC Cola and Cheerwine bring back memories of growing up in North Carolina. Sure, each is just carbonated sugar water. But they're really hard to find anywhere else, and I love a good quest for something arbitrary. Since moving to New York, I've discovered that Key Food stocks RC Cola (the Ave. A location also carries Diet RC, which I didn't even know existed), and Brother Jimmy's BBQ sells glass bottles of Cheerwine. This is one of the perks of living in a place like New York -- you can just keep walking until you find what you're looking to acquire.

[Fair is fair, so I should mention something I haven't been able to get my hands on. Still on the subject of obscure pop, I would sell a kidney for a case of this stuff. A thorough review of the Peter Spanton beverage line can be found here. From what I can gather, it's only available in the UK. The spoiled child in me resents being told I can't have something, but the mature adult is intrigued by grown-up soft drinks. Mr. Spanton's sales pitch was enough to get my attention:

"Like Marmite, I think people will either love it or hate it. I actively hope children will dislike it."

Traveling Anglophiles who want a public "thank you" on a blog read by no more than five people, take note. But, I digress.]

High rent and cramped quarters are among the sacrifices one makes for such absurd convenience. Of course, the door doesn't swing both ways. New York has its own quirky cultural relics that become truly impossible to find in most other places. After a bit of pondering, I set out to find a can of celery flavored pop and a bottle of espresso soda. As expected, I didn't even have to leave the neighborhood; I love this town.

First up is Cel Ray -- made popular by the same folks that censored Elvis' hips and hid important documents in their freezers. Jolt Cola was not your grandmother's drink. Cel Ray was... provided that she never stopped speaking ill of those Cossacks. It's one of those Kosher deli staples, so to speak.

So what does it taste like? Throw some celery into a juicer and mix it with some bland variety of ginger ale. That's the best comparison that comes to mind. I find RC cola endearing because it tastes like flat Pepsi "in a good way." Had I grown up on this paired with pastrami sandwiches, perhaps I'd have a special place in my heart for this substance. Instead, I grew up with Nabs and peanuts + Coke. That's enough bizarre tastes for one boy. I'm too old to start developing new quirks like drinking vegetable-based pop, and the other five cans I had to buy are going to sit in my refrigerator until someone takes them off my hands.

Next up is Manhattan Special Espresso Coffee Soda. Aside from coloring and some preservatives, the ingredients are pure coffee, carbonated water, and sugar. In principle, it's the perfect drink to accompany an ambiguous brunch dish like an omelette with french fries. Is it breakfast or lunch? Should you get coffee or cola? Since 1895, a solution to this dilemma has existed.

I appreciate that these 10oz bottles are just the right size to fill an ordinary coffee mug. Yes, I know it's strange to pour soda into a coffee mug, but I really don't know how to approach this drink. In principle, this beverage is a glorious idea. In practice, there's too much sugar in this drink. The first thing that hits you is a combination of coffee and fizz -- good! Then it fades into some kind of sweet-but-stale aftertaste -- less good! The image I was left with was that of sugary seltzer being strained through week-old coffee grinds. Maybe it's the sugar, or maybe it's the preservatives... or maybe it's just a crummy drink. Don't get me wrong, I'm entirely behind this concept. The execution could just use some improvement. Then again, this is coming from the guy that willingly drops perfectly good peanuts into a glass bottle full of Coca Cola.

Thursday's Lunch: Melt Shop

New York is a city of food fads. Cupcakes were really big for a while. After the novelty of being able to order gourmet dessert at 4AM wore off, people looked for the next decadent thing. Hence, the grilled cheese pandemonium that has invaded most neighborhoods.

A fair account of the history can be found here, but all one needs to know is that this enterprise has morphed into a miniature fleet of trucks and several upscale eateries. It's already so five minutes ago. Ronnie, the underground grilled cheese dealer of the East Village, shut down his operation before I could buy a sandwich in a transaction that could be mistaken for acquiring... well, blow. Apparently the threat of being shut down by the Health Department became too great to press on. What this meant to me is that I had to journey to midtown to catch the grilled cheese train. Bummer.

Melt Shop got a fair amount of press when they opened, so I took notice earlier this year. It just took me this many months to gain the courage to make the journey to midtown for lunch. Of course, what they don't tell you is that seating space here is just a myth during the lunch hour. I took a risk and barreled east as quickly as I could, ultimately finding an empty set of stairs on 1st Avenue in the mid 50's before the molten meal congealed entirely. It's a strange enough sight for some dude to eat a gourmet grilled cheese sandwich while sitting in front of an abandoned building as all the suited folks from the UN walk by. It pushes it over the edge when he takes out a camera to take pictures of his own lunch.

I got a side of tater tots... because I forgot one can only comfortably take so much grease on a hot afternoon. The main course is the bacon/cheddar variety, with some other disclaimers such as "aged" or "maple" that I quickly forgot; they had me at "bacon." What isn't explicit in the description of this beast is the entire stick of butter that they fry this thing with, and that's what you feel when you walk back home on a summer afternoon. However, as I wondered if I was going to expire, I did always came back to, "well... what a tasty way to go."

Verdict: Make no mistake, this is just comfort food in a pretty package. It's good, but you have to stand in line with a bunch of people wearing suits to get it. The Three-martini lunch has officially been traded for the kid's lunch in trendy clothing. It's probably for the best, because I don't like olives, and bacon is apparently my Muse.

Thursday's Lunch: Blurry (and Large) Tomatoes at 'wichcraft

Apparently, water has seeped into my phone's already rickety camera. Things look a little fuzzy for the time being.

The BLT at 'wichcraft is featured at #7 on NY Magazine's list of seasonal foods to try before summer draws to a close. This sandwich features Greenmarket tomatoes, whose availability determines when BLT season (euphemism for the dog days of August) occurs.

Today's lunch comes from the first of two (been to the Dallas area recently?) sandwich shops on my radar that refuses to spell out "sandwich" to the bitter end... er, beginning. 'wichcraft, as we're all aware, was created by one of those Food Network personalities. This alone should price it out of my reach. There's one by NYU whose tenured-faculty/student clientele ratio is approximately three godzillion-to-one. The only other place in this area which such distinction is Knickerbocker Bar and Grill... because who doesn't need a three course steak lunch to spice up his boring Tuesday afternoons?

The sandwich place is, relatively speaking, for the rabble; so I can afford to shell out $14.50 for lunch when I'm feeling lucky. No, it's not absurd. But keep in mind I could almost buy three feet of BLT at the Subway across the street with that money. The sandwich itself comes with a price tag of $9.87, which sounds rather arbitrary until you realize that this makes for a round figure when tax is included. I do appreciate that. However, it also means I paid almost five dollars for a bag containing about four potato chips and a bottle of pop. Okay, so the bottle was made of glass, and the chips were kettle cooked... but THREE FEET, I say!

The tomato was certainly the star of this sandwich, and given the other ingredients, that usually means that the bacon just failed. Even without the delicious distraction of pork, I've never really remembered a particular tomato like I will remember these. It didn't hurt that these "slices" came in roughly the same dimensions as short stacks of pancakes at IHOP. Killer tomatoes, indeed (okay last time).

My only method for assessing how "organic" something (so often do I find this necessary) has always been based on size. I remember pulling toothpick-sized carrots from my grandparents' yard as a child. Never has an unnaturally large, store-bought carrot tasted remotely as satisfying as the shrimpy ones I used to nurse from seed to snack. Maybe the recent sewage spill acted as supercharged fertilizer for these guys, but these were notably large tomatoes. From what I can gather, the Greenmarket name-dropping only suggests that these were "locally grown," and I can find no stipulations about what kind of BLT experience-enhancing chemicals were used in these guys.

Verdict: Well, I didn't really want to like it. When I found out that the tomatoes weren't necessarily hormone free, it started to taste better. Still, if I'm not paying for "organic," then I don't know why I'm paying so much for this smallish sandwich (it could have been three feet long!). Still, at the end of the day, I can't say I don't approve of anything that uses bacon in a constructive way. Constructive and tasty.

Tuesday's (pre-Ireland) Lunch: Ostrich Sliders

In light of the fact that I'm hopping on a Dublin-bound plane in six hours, it seemed wise to use lunch as an excuse to savor some fine, American cuisine. A full blown "burgers and fries" style lunch also makes it less likely that I'll shell out seven dollars for a can of stale peanuts... because that's your only choice when you're thirty thousand feet up, halfway across the Atlantic.

BareBurger is one of those places that just crops up around NYU when no one is looking. It's fairly popular, so maybe it's just that I wasn't looking. If you can get past the simple facts that (1) they're really proud of what they do, (2) they offer agave nectar in lieu of sugar, and (3) so many things have "organic" stickers that it would really be more organic if they just noted the three things that weren't, then you can really appreciate this meat and potatoes experience.


I went here on a whim with my roommate a few weeks ago, and the ostrich had sold out that day. I appreciate a place where your backup choice can be elk. Don't get me wrong, the elk was delicious; I probably wouldn't have ended up adding elk to my list of conquered animals if they'd been well stocked that day. Such a serendipitous experience encouraged our second trip, and wow-e, ostrich was worth the wait.

When done properly, a big slab of meat is a spiritual experience for me. However, variety is the spice of life, and sometimes the same quantity in smaller pieces is just more satisfying (M&M minis, anyone?). I went with the sliders, and they're absurdly good. Rob and I made a respectable dent in that mountain of fries in the background, too. Though not pictured, the recommended beverage pairing for any burger is the (translucent) sarsaparilla.

If bison burgers are the gateway drug of wild game, I think ostrich is something along the lines of cocaine (cokeheads who are also acquainted with ostrich: feel free to call me out on having no basis for saying that). Point being, ostrich is certainly different from your usual grass-fed cow. Gloriously different! I blurted out to Rob that there was almost an essence of jerky, and he nodded in agreement while busily devouring his portion. Thus, that constitutes my official review of ostrich meat.

Verdict: this place makes great food. The service is also disturbingly good, compared to most NYU area restaurants. My advice to anyone is to go find a new animal to eat. It just might be delicious... plus it always makes you feel important when you can buy something on the menu that's labeled "market price."

Thursday's Lunch: Peanut Butter & Co. BLT

So this is the first post. Basically, I needed a hobby... and here we are.

I've decided to document the fabulous sandwiches I encounter in the tri-state area in the spirit of NPR's "Wait Wait Don't Tell Me: Sandwich Monday." There will surely be other nonsense to come, but let's start with modest goals.

It was Thursday afternoon, and I needed a bit of a pick-me-up. I wandered down to PB & Co. to grab lunch. Ten minutes later, I walked away with a brown bag that contained this:

This, my friends, is a BLT with PEANUT BUTTER. Note the bag of carrot sticks and garnish of potato chips that come standard with any sandwich from this place. I appreciate that after serving you enough protein to bench press twelve llamas, they have the restraint to only give you 75 calories worth of chips on the side. Recommended beverage pairing: Stewart's root beer.

Perhaps you've seen the Five Hour Energy Drink commercials that speak of this "2:30 feeling." I had no idea what they meant until I ate this sandwich... at 2:20pm. This is heavy. Only after walking five miles in the evening could I bring myself to even think about dinner. Even then, steamed chicken & broccoli sounded intense.

Verdict: This is incredible. Bacon makes the world a better place, and the only possible way to improve a BLT is by adding peanut butter. It totally works, but if you have any self respect, you'll share this with someone. I have none, and I look forward to trying this again. Soon.