TDL’s Sports, Wrestling, & Otherwise

There are three universal rules for dining in New York City.

1. Your busboys will be Latin
2. Your waiter/waitress will be some combination of the following: gay, a music major, a theatre major, or an aspiring comedian. The jackpot is a gay, musical theatre major who’s an aspiring comedian.
3. The dumpier the place and the more abject health code violations you find, the better the food will be.

My amazingly adventurous Saturday began, as it usually does, at the crack of 11:30. Made coffee and watched the afternoon EPL game on Fox Soccer. After that, since it was a balmy 40 degrees, I decided to head up to K-Mart to get cat stuff.

The glamorous life of a Manhattanite.

Regardless, when I headed to K-Mart, I decided to wander around the East Village a bit for lunch. While wandering, I managed to stumble across Paul’s: Da Burger Joint on 2nd Avenue. Walking in, the place looks like your standard greasy diner: white counter, small tables, scary wait-staff, and giant grill. It’s also filled with odd little signs and decorations, like plaques that say “If assholes were airplanes, this place would be an airport” and “Prices negotiable based on attitude”.

According to rule 3 above, the food here was going to be tremendous. According to a sign in their window, they have been rated the Best Burger in New York by Time Out NY. Two thoughts occurred to me. 1) I have to try anything that was rated best in NY and 2) This place was going to be filthy.

As mentioned, the interior of the place did not disappoint. Filthy. Points were scored. I decided to go with the bacon/cheddar burger (with a turkey patty since I decided to give up red meat for lent). Of course, I made the mistake of sitting at the counter, which meant I got to watch the food prep process. This involved watching the chef grab a hunk off meat out of a giant vat of meat, followed by him unabashedly getting my roll, cheese, lettuce, and onion ready with his raw meat covered hands. Most sane people, at this point, would probably feel a little ill, and I did. But still following rule three… this just further assured me that this was going to be one of the best burgers ever.

Of course, it was. The half-pound burger was cooked to perfection, perfectly melted cheese, and fried onions. The French fries (and I also got to see them dump a fresh 5 pound block of fat into the fryer, something I could go my entire life without seeing again) were not cooked perfectly. The egg cream (my first) was delicious chocolately-carbonated goodness and the whole thing only cost ten bucks. Fortunately, the after-effects were mild. I wasn’t nearly as bad off as I thought I would be and I’ve totally found a new destination to take visitors conveniently located near two other handy destinations. Pomme Frites, which is a take out place that only serves French Fries with various kinds of sauces (and the only place I’ve managed to find authentic tasting Poutine outside of Montreal. And McSorley’s Old Ale House, the oldest continually operating bar in Manhattan.

I went to Boston this past weekend. With the woman in the midst of holyfuck tax season, my weekends from February to April become somewhat boring. This was a trip for two reasons. 1) it gave me something to do and 2) my fellow Beer Snob wanted to start watching Lost. Since I had just gotten season 1 and 2 for my “Not Quite 30″ Birthday Celebration, I figured now was as good a time as any to head out.

I decided, this time, to take Greyhound. Greyhound is a happy medium between cheap travel and preferred travel. The Cheap travel is the Chinatown Bus which goes from NY to Boston for only $15 each way. Funny thing is that Greyhound is only $10 each way more and, for that $10, you get a driver who actually has a license and a bus that doesn’t generally light on fire. My preferred travel is Amtrak. Unfortunately, for whatever reason, they’ve decided that $105 is a fair price to go from Penn Station to South Station… one way. I have yet to hear a valid explanation as to why a four-hour train to Boston is only $30 less than a one-hour flight. The problem with flying is, despite all the goodness in New York City, there is still no good way to get to any of the airports. Even though they managed to build a subway line to Shea Stadium, with an airport next store, they’ve never quite figured out how to extend that train to the airport. With all that, the extra 90 minutes spent getting to the airport makes the train and the plane take just about the same door-to-door time all told.

My friend lives in Brookline, which is not technically a part of Boston while being part of Boston. It’s on a subway line. It’s on the same awful train line that brings people to Fenway Park. This subway actually runs above ground, at grade, and stops at traffic lights. Fantastic transportation.

It gave me an excuse to watch the first season of Lost again. I forgot how cool it was.