Last Thing I Ate: Burek

Karry Lu  

Slovenia…shit. I’m still only in Slovenia. Every time I close my eyes, try to catch a bit of shuteye, I’m still in the forest, the endless forest. It was very pretty when I first got on the 6am to Budapest, when the sun was first starting to break over the trees. I remember thinking that Ljubljana Railway Station was the nicest, most modern one I’d seen since I landed on the continent, German-engineered steel beasts with their sleek, silver lines humming along high-speed rails (Deutsche Bahn is somehow involved with Slovenia’s train system). But it’s still 500 kilometers to the end of the road.

I spent around a total of 30 days in the Balkans, and for about 25 of them I ate burek, sometimes twice a day. Of originally Ottoman extraction, burek is essentially a flaky handheld pastry made with phyllo dough and some kind of savory filling. They come in a variety of shapes and sizes and could easily be mistaken for some of the more familiar “meat-wrapped-in-carbs” foodstuffs enjoyed by Americans on a regular basis: croissants, knishes, pierogis, 3am taquitos from 7-11. In a land of unfamiliar histories and impenetrable Cyrillic script, burek is extremely comforting for the averaged cosseted Westerner.

The first time I had burek was in Sarajevo. In second grade I used to play this weird Risk-like game using our geography workbooks, with this kid named Tommy Schnurr; coincidentally the Yugoslav Wars (i.e. the Siege of Sarajevo, the Srebrenica massacre) were raging at the very moment two dumb schoolkids were blithely moving imaginary armies across the face of war-torn Central Europe to commit imaginary atrocities. Almost two decades later, I suppose you could say I was back among my former stomping grounds. In an effort to hide my gaping ignorance, I had read most of the Wikipedia entries on the subject during the short ride into town from Croatia. But obviously, the first thing I did was duck into a bakery and look for something greasy and salty to fill my maw.

“You should get that,” a man loitering by the counter said, in perfect, Midwestern English.

“What’s that?”

“It’s good. Burek. That one has potato in it,” he replied, pointing at a seemingly arbitrary tray of specimens. “I teach English here. Everyone eats this stuff.”

It’s hard to go wrong with anything involving spiced potatoes, and this one was particularly satisfying in the way that unhealthy, heavily seasoned street food typically is. Eventually I would try feta cheese and spinach (marginally better for you), unidentified ground meat (lamb, I think), apple (a step above McDonald’s apple pies), and even sour cherry burek fillings (actually really good), but I think potato is still my favorite. Different countries, primarily around the Balkans, have their own preferences, but the common theme is that burek is sold everywhere, in a manner that rivals the way that pizza and bacon, egg and cheese sandwiches are sold in New York. At every hour, at any time, perfect for those leisurely walks through twisting alleys and hawker bazaars, in dingy apartments camped around a bottle of homemade rakia, before or during train journeys snaking across the Balkans.

On the train from Sarajevo to Zagreb I had spent my last remaining konvertible marks on train station burek and shots of dark Turkish coffee at the nearby cafe. Old Bosniaks sitting next to open windows and “No Smoking” signs quietly inhaled unfiltered knockoff Camels in between scanning their newspapers and sneaking bemused looks at the random Asian kid with the lime green board shorts. A few meters from my seat, tacked prominently on the wall, was a plaque that read, “Gift from the Swedish Government, 1972.”

Outside the world seemed condensed, untouched. Verdant valleys followed winding rivers and mountain tracks as we plunged into the bush. Every so often the train compartment would descend into darkness as we hit one of the tunnels scattered throughout the Bosnian countryside, the ones that the Serbs used to occupy during the war. No one spoke. The three spinach and cheese bureks I had bought earlier went quickly, only to be washed down by a few helpings of warm Sarajevsko beer.

About a week later, the RailJet I took from Ljubljana to Budapest happened to cross some of the more heat-wavey stretches of Central Europe. Once we emerged from the woodlands, the temperatures spiked. I walked into the aisle and stuck my head out the window for several minutes at a time, canine-style, in a desperate grasp at relief from the sweltering temperatures. Acres of nondescript, yellowed grassland rushed by without much comment, punctuated every so often by an isolated barn or cottage or nameless, sad-looking rail station. Bushes and small trees along the side of the tracks came perilously close to smacking me in the face. Somewhere between Maribor and Nagykanizsa, people started moving around the cars to ward off boredom and prevent heat stroke.

In order of appearance, here were the people I met and would never see again: the British teachers, the Norwegian DJ, the Swedish mother/daughter duo, the shirtless French bros, the Hungarian clown/guy who worked at a non-profit. Down the hall, an unseen twenty-something Belgian girl recounted tales of all-night bar crawls and extended hostel stays to another group of bemused travelers. Peals of laughter echoed through the car. The Norwegian dude and I smirked to each other and killed half a bottle of vodka while eating various store-bought shortbreads.

There was a dining car on board, and we decided to go pay it a visit. Various sandwiches, soft drinks and alcoholic beverages were for sale. I switched to Lasko, a light yet slightly bitter lager, to ease me into Budapest.

“So where are you headed afterwards?” I had forgotten his name already.

“I’m visiting a friend in Budapest, then flying back to Trondheim,” he replied.

“Oh cool,” I nodded. “Back home, huh?”

He shrugged. “It was nice, having this break. I went to see my family in Turkey.”

“You’re Turkish?” He certainly seemed a bit browner than the average Norwegian.

“I was born in Ankara, but moved to Norway when I was very young.”

“Cool. Do you visit Turkey often?”

He frowned. “When I can. I travel a lot for work anyway. But I don’t get the chance to play very often in Turkey.” He swiftly polished off the rest of his sandwich. I checked my watch. 7pm, and the sun still stood strong over the horizon.

“I wish I had a burek right now,” he mused.

“For sure. Would really hit the spot,” I agreed.

“I love that stuff. You know burek came from Turkey originally? Unfortunately they don’t really have it in Norway.” He looked out the window and watched the land recede steadily before him.

When we pulled into Budapest station he gave me his business card, a simple, worn one with a MySpace and cool graphic design. I ran into the clown a few minutes later, and he helped me buy a city metro pass, before hauling his bags up and wandering off into the night.

The Past-a

Kaitlin Schuler  

Mostaccioli. Orecchiette. Cavatelli. Macaroni. Tortellini. All these words rhyme, of course. But more importantly, all are types of pasta noodles, one of the most popular foods around the world today.

Pasta remains a staple to the diet of college students and lazier people of all ages. Boil some water, drop the dried noodles in, and wait only a few minutes before you’ve got soft, delicious shapes to serve with whatever suits you—vegetables, sauces, or (my personal favorite) olive oil. Boxes of any shaped noodles come reasonably priced: a two-pack of Barilla Angel Hair pasta costs $2.56! Macaroni noodles are famous from their use in Kraft Mac and Cheese, or for the on-the-go college kid, Kraft Easy Mac.

Where did this food come from, though? We all know that pasta came from Italy, but that’s about as far as the average person can go into the history of pasta. Let’s take it a little further here, so we can all be better informed about the food that aids us in our laziness and our desire to make a decent meal without too much effort.

Pasta is traditionally associated with Italian food, but it is actually extremely difficult to trace the origins of pasta. It is likely that the Italian version of the noodles were influenced by Asian noodles, commonly thought to have been brought to Italy by Marco Polo in the 13th century. Asian noodles were made with a barley-like substance, however—different from the process the Italians developed.

What we will refer to as pasta is made from unleavened dough consisting of water or eggs and ground durum wheat (see the PBS website below). The durum is what sets pasta apart from other noodles; it helps pasta have a long shelf life when dried and makes it easy to cook with just water—two qualities all stereotypical Americans like to have in their food. The less time it takes to cook, the more time we can spend being productive and changing the world! (Or, watching the last five episodes of House of Cards while thinking about starting your paper due tomorrow…)

In what was his most important contribution to American history, Thomas Jefferson actually helped pasta gain popularity in the United States while he was serving as Minister to France, where he fell in love with macaroni. This could have been any shape of pasta at the time, but he returned with two cases of the pasta and sent for more from a friend in Naples when he ran out.

Pasta was made to be eaten fresh and soon after it was made, but Americans have grown accustomed to eating dried pastas that we’ve imported from Italy. In actuality, many of the pasta companies now have outposts in the United States. Barilla, for example, makes most of the pasta sold in the United States at a plant in Iowa, with a few exceptions of pastas made in and shipped from Italy.

Like most foods when they initially became popular in America, pasta could only be afforded by the upper class until the time of the Civil War. Today, pasta can be dressed up extravagantly with a slew of seasonings and sauces that can include fancy wine and expensive spices. It can also go casual with just cheese or olive oil poured on top. There is a type of pasta out there for every person, even the pickiest of toddlers or the friends with gluten allergies.

Pasta has remained fairly the same throughout history, but Italian immigrants made some changes when they brought the noodles to America. First, meatballs were created because meat was less expensive in America than in Italy. Americans also added large portions and the seasonings of garlic, oregano, and chili pepper flakes to the tradition of pasta.

So, whether you like your noodles plain and simple like me, or covered in meatballs and sauce, we’re brought together by these simple strips and shapes of delicious dough. Next time you eat your Easy Mac for the fifth meal in a row, make sure to remember the history behind it.

References: http://civilwartalk.com/threads/history-of-pasta-in-america.75951/
http://www.barilla.com/faq
http://www.pbs.org/food/the-history-kitchen/uncover--the-history-of-pasta/

Super Bowls, Seahawks, and ¡SALSA!

Zoe Bauer  

If you’re a Broncos fan, salsa dipping and chip munching may have been the highlight of your Sunday evening. But for all viewers, salsa is a necessary component of Super Bowl Sunday. Scooping it is fun, eating it is delicious; what more could you want from a Super Bowl snack?

Yet it’s that question that irritates culinary enthusiasts, who long for the “all American” sports snack to return to its roots as a meticulously prepared, traditional Mexican dish. Here in the States, there aren’t any guidelines for salsa. Even the ordinary tomato-based salsa at the supermarket comes in countless varieties: spicy or mild, sweet or savory, thick or thin, and chunky or finely chopped. Outside the realm of tomato-based salsas, there are also black bean, peach, mango, pineapple, and even olive oil variations of the dip. And, as the variety in salsa ingredients has increased, so has the diversity in salsa’s dipping partners, ranging from the typical corn tortilla chip to celery or even to fried chicken. But despite the impressive creativity of American salsa producers, salsa aficionados should understand the true origins of the dip before plummeting their chips into it.

In its classical form, salsa is a delicacy. It’s used to complement the rich flavor of dense meats, such as veal or chorizo, or to be drizzled over a dish that may lack flavor, like a simple taco or tortilla. The word delicacy is key; salsa is used in moderation. In other words, people raised in Mexico would be shocked at the American tendency to load chips with spoon-full amounts of salsa.

Additionally, Mexican salsas possess a depth of flavor that American-made salsas often fail to mimic. Traditionally, each salsa ingredient is added merely to highlight the brilliant flavor of chili peppers. First, the type of chili is chosen; if fresh, chefs typically choose from serrano, jalapeño, poblano or habanero, and if dried, they have their choice of guajillo, cascabel, ancho, morita or chipotle. Different chilies are often mixed together in one salsa, but fresh chilies are almost never combined with dried ones. Then, additional ingredients are selected to emphasize certain aspects of the chilies that were chosen. Whether it has a salty, sweet or acidic vibe, the finished product includes a minimal amount of ingredients and gives off an intense amount of heat.

The depth of the salsa’s flavor is developed in its preparation. Ingredients can be soaked in spices or oils before the dish is put together, or the entire blend can be stored for multiple days before serving so that each element has time to influence the others. Chefs also play with variations of heat usage while making salsa. The sauce can be made completely in raw form (salsa cruda), with no ingredients that have been heated during or after the ingredients are combined, or can be prepared by cooking certain elements, either together or one at a time (salsa cocida). Julia Moskin discusses the difference between raw and cooked salsas in her article “Rediscovering Salsa, the Soul of Mexico in a Bowl”. She describes how raw salsas are “explosive, setting off fireworks of heat and acid in each bite”

So maybe authentic salsa isn’t meant for mindless dunking while rooting for your favorite team—for that we have American made salsas— but for your next “Taco Tuesday,” try incorporating a more authentic salsa into your Mexican-influenced meal. Check the labels for very few ingredients and some of the chilies mentioned above to know that a salsa is authentic; or try making your own! I recommend this recipe; it’s a salsa cocida using jalapeño peppers!

I Don’t Always Drink Beer, But When I Do…

Zoe Bauer  

I can handle its foaminess, its stickiness, and even its smelliness, but the taste of beer is the reason I abstain from drinking it. I strongly dislike beer for its monotonous and bitter flavor, but more than that, I hate that I hate it. It’s tragic to attend the University of Michigan, an institution that undeniably has the best football tailgates in the country, and have to refrain from the social, carefree environment that beer creates for the students.

Beer, more than just an alcoholic beverage, is an activity. Instead of involving grimacing faces and extinguishing chasers, it breeds a “lets all be friends” type of attitude. People play games with beer, watch games while drinking it, talk about beer, talk while drinking it; the combinations are infinite. So, as last semester closed, I imagined begrudgingly the three beer-less football seasons that were still in store for me.

But my spirits were lifted when BuzzFeed introduced me to an entirely new role for this fermented drink. To my excitement, beer can be used as an ingredient in a variety of foods, sweet and savory, to enhance the dishes’ flavor and complexity. The BuzzFeed article presented 10 mouthwatering recipes that take the bitter, monotonous substance and transform it into soup bases, glazes, dips, and batters.

My favorite recipe calls for sautéing shallots and Brussels sprouts in a light beer and smoky bacon glaze to create a delicious and aromatic twist on a relatively bland vegetable.

A more conventional use of beer simply involves adding a bottle or so to a frying batter to create a thick gold coating on fish. Since beer is dense, the batter will encase the fish while keeping moisture in, so the fish won’t become dry or chewy.

After discovering the BuzzFeed article, further research led me to a plethora of beer-based recipes for all occasions. Turns out that including beer (of all kinds) is a simple and delicious solution for anyone trying to amp up a meal at an affordable cost.

But why does it work so well? Beer is becoming a popular flavor enhancer due to its relatively low alcohol content and its subtle flavor compared to cooking wines and liqueurs. The malty additive complements the ingredients it’s paired with, whether it’s adding a richer and deeper flavor to a sauce or glaze, or incorporating a clean, earthy taste to balance an overly sweet dish.

One small word of advice is to follow a recipe closely when it calls for a specific type of beer. Though it may be tempting to use whatever beer is already in the fridge, light and dark flavors often make a large difference in the end result of the dish. If the recipe doesn’t specify, it’s safe to assume that lighter beers work well with chicken, fish and dessert, while darker beers pair nicely with heavier meats like pork or lamb.

Next fall, while others are busy re-racking and keg standing, I’ll be hard at work filling my solo cup in preparation for a game-day dinner of Beer-Can Chicken and Hoppy Hush Puppies. Go Blue!

Doing Spaghetti with Style

Andre Bshara  

While you’re eating a bowl of this stuff, expect to get a little something on you. As you try to keep this food from falling off your fork, it’s almost impossible not to soil your brand new white t-shirt with some sauce. The food that I’m talking about, possibly one of the most entertaining foods to eat, is spaghetti. Spaghetti with meatballs is a go-to meal for many chefs, but you can prepare your spaghetti in so many other ways. Notice that none of these methods make eating spaghetti cleaner. In fact, they create a very chaotic dish.

If you’re in the right mood, getting messy with spaghetti is, strangely, fun. The getting down and dirty portion of your meal should occur during, what I like to call, the “slurpation” process. Quite self-explanatory, slurpation is when you vacuum up pieces of spaghetti one strand at a time. While you do this, the tail end of the pasta hanging from your mouth tends to swing back and forth—the faster you slurp, the more violent the swing. Slurp with caution, if you’re a little girl. I’ve heard of some people going through great measures to avoid getting messy. These measures usually involve putting a napkin on their laps and even cutting up the pasta into smaller, more controllable pieces. Although I can’t bash these people’s livelihoods, I can tell them to loosen up a bit. Have some fun—get some food on your clothes.

Some people put ketchup on their spaghetti, though I don’t understand it. If you want more tomato, add more sauce, which has ingredients to make the spaghetti better. Better yet, get a hot dog and put ketchup on that if you love ketchup so much.

Personally, I like garlic bread with my pasta. And no, I don’t eat it like a high-class woman who is afraid of anything slightly unsanitary. I make a spaghetti-garlic bread sandwich. I usually end up licking sauce off of my hands, just because I don’t want to waste any. By doing this, I use one less napkin, and I get more sauce in my belly, benefiting both nature and my mental state. Get at me.

If you’re feeling pretty crazy, then you may follow in the footsteps of Buddy the Elf from the famous Christmas movie, “Elf.” Make it a savory and sweet experience by adding Pop-Tarts, chocolate syrup, and any variation of candy you can think of to your noodles. If you’re wild enough to try this, then you probably won’t mind eating it with your hands. And while you’re doing that, put on an elf’s suit and some green tights. That’ll make you feel ridiculous.

A New Addiction

Bianka Kristen  

We all know food is addicting. That bag of chocolate pretzels you just can’t stop eating. Those cheesy chips that turn your fingertips orange, but somehow your hand keeps on reaching into the bag. One after the other, you keep eating your delicious food until there’s none left. Afterwards, tears may form but you hold them back, mostly because you’re embarrassed that you finished your entire stash of food by yourself.

Lately, I’ve gained a new addiction: a nice warm cup of Rooibos tea.

Rooibos, which means Red Bush in Afrikaans, is a tea that is native to South Africa with a unique red color. With it’s sweet yet earthy taste, the tea has spread to cultures worldwide.

Though Rooibos has always been sitting in my cupboard, waiting for someone to drink it, I never truly appreciated all that it had to offer until I became sick. One night, when my sore throat was becoming a distraction from my all-important school work, I decided to make myself some of the tea that had been standing in my cupboard all semester. With steam rising from the cup, I squeezed in some honey. It not only soothed my sore throat, but it soothed my spirit, allowing me to relax—at least until my cup was empty.

Though tea in general has a reputation for helping with relaxation, I’ve found that Rooibos does even more. Rooibos has a wholesome quality overall, with health benefits that cannot be missed. As a caffeine-free drink, Rooibos also has many antioxidants, making it one of the “healthier” teas. It has even been known to help with allergies and asthma: perfect for the ever-changing Michigan weather.

To add to it’s list of amazing qualities, Rooibos is the tea of adaptation. One can drink Rooibos with a variety of added ingredients. In South Africa, milk is added to the tea, along with sugar to taste. Honey can be substituted, and many times it is. When drinking Rooibos without milk, sometimes a lemon is put in, to enhance the tea’s natural flavors.

Whichever way you drink Rooibos, you will not be disappointed. Pair it with a cookie or two, and soon it may become the same delicious addiction that it has for me.

Adventures in New York

Karry Lu  

Source: Flickr

Adventures in New York: Eating Tacos for 48 Hours, Plus Some Drinking

Last weekend I had the opportunity to go back home for the fall break. Naturally, my first order of business was to take the first 7 train out of Queens and embark on a two day taco binge. In the interest of science, here are a few tasting notes.

Reyes Deli & Grocery, Gowanus

Wedged between Boerum Hill and Park Slope is Gowanus, which is the area surrounding the eponymous canal that used to be both cargo route and sewage line for the tonier inland neighborhoods that border it. Fortunately, it’s managed to eclipse its shit-ridden past and like so many other previously undesirable areas before it, has kickstarted the gentrification process in earnest (yes, there will be a Whole Foods soon, and yes there will be a bar, restaurant AND commercial vegetable garden on the roof). But in the quiet moments before the inevitable waves of boozy brunches and bars with bocce ball, we can patronize places like Reyes Deli & Grocery on 4th Ave and 14th, which is basically what it sounds like: a deli that serves tacos, tortas and quesadillas, and also a grocery that sells bodega staples, BIMBO-brand Mexican snacks, and Lindens Oatmeal and Chocolate Chip cookies, which I used to eat a lot of when I was nine but haven’t seen in over a decade. It’s another entry in the long, proud lineage of deli-cum-taco-joints that are scattered across New York, and I came in with high expectations, given that some of the best meals of my life have come surrounded by random Catholic paraphernalia and the constant hum of Spanish soap operas.

Tacos are $2.25 each here, so get any and everything. Upon receiving your order a guy next to the cashier, face partially hidden by a rack of Cheetos, will start working on your food on the flattop. In the meantime you can stake a claim to one of the five stools provided, read an article or two in a copy of Mexican Maxim, maybe overhear the cashier and the 13 year old shelf stocker gossip about you in Spanish. Takes about 10 minutes but eventually the tacos will come, served on pliant, supple steamed tortillas and with the standard onion, cilantro and lime wedge. The salsa verde is on point, spicy with sharp tangy bursts of tomatillo goodness, and absolutely mandatory. Carnitas, beef, and cecina (salted beef) are juicy, well-seasoned and generously supplied. Wash it all down with a bottle of neon-orange Jarritos. Everything just works together. This sort of meal is the platonic ideal of “satisfying”, like scratching a deep itch, or completing a particularly difficult problem set. Would’ve liked a bit more variety on the menu (some goat or chicharrones would’ve been sick) but otherwise, no complaints at all.

Recommend if: you just moved to Brooklyn from the Midwest and need to rack up some street cred, you are okay with the idea of spending anywhere from 30 minutes to two hours on public transportation to buy a $7 lunch.

Calexico Cart, Flatiron

I try not to think too hard about “authenticity” in food. Fuzzy concepts like “tradition” and “cooking with love” are really just lazy synonyms for “having lots of practice.” It doesn’t take Pierre from Gascony to make coq au vin or an Italian nonna to crank out the perfect orecchiette, it just takes some work and experience (which explains why half of all professional kitchens are staffed with Mexican immigrants). But I may need to revise that opinion for white people, specifically white people who open up food carts for ethnic cuisine. I get that it’s hip and cool now to sling fancy, spruced up street food out the back of a truck like some tattooed James Dean/James Beard motherfucker, but it wouldn’t hurt to spend a few minutes on Google researching the basics before crumbling some bacon on that shit, charging a 50% premium and calling it a day.

Calexico was started by brothers from California who seemed unmoved by the Mexican food already on offer in New York (and who apparently never ventured west of 9th Ave or into any part of Queens) and eventually started up their own cart/restaurant with locations in Lower Manhattan and (obviously) Brooklyn. While I applaud their perhaps uniquely American entrepreneurial spirit, I remain less than impressed with their (also maybe uniquely American) failure to understand the cuisine they are getting involved in. Tacos, and food in general, are all about maintaining balance: each element (tortilla, meats, onion/cilantro, sauce) complements and accentuates the others in an intricate choreography of flavors, textures, and temperatures. This seems intuitive; indeed, Thomas Keller knows this, McDonalds knows this, and Miguel from Oaxaca knows this. The brothers Calexico do not.

This much was clear from the two tacos I purchased from the new Calexico cart next to Madison Square Park. Perhaps even more alarming was the casual disregard for the laws of physics; turns out that wrapping steaming hot tacos in tin foil causes them to become extremely soggy due to the trapped moisture, a lesson that was borne out when the first taco completely split apart at the seams. Then again, that could’ve also just been a failure to Wikipedia the right way to prepare a tortilla. The structural integrity wasn’t helped much by overloading with too much crap: warmed-over shredded chicken, cheese, pico de gallo, ambiguously-labeled “crack sauce.” I ordered both the pollo tocino and the chipotle pork, but it didn’t matter much in the end because they both tasted like indiscriminate meat product with some tomatoes and lettuce chucked in. At some point I switched to a fork and spoon to finish the job because I lost faith in the second taco to hold up much better, which while not a tragedy like global warming, is still a pretty sad way to go. On my way back past the cart I spotted an increasingly long line forming up. New York, I love you but you’re bringing me down.

Recommend if: you live in Murray Hill and think venturing into Greenpoint counts as edgy, you are bored of Chipotle but still want your server to speak English. But seriously, fuck these guys.

Nightcap: Dutch Kills, Long Island City

One day I’ll know that Queens is officially hip when Lena Dunham films herself smoking crack out in Jackson Heights in front of bemused Indian grocers, but until then, I can always head over to Dutch Kills. Incidentally, I should note that LIC is home to the Queensbridge housing projects, which, according to its Wikipedia entry, produces at least 70% of the city’s rappers (Capone-N-Noreaga representing Queens to the fullest).

The neighborhood is kind of an interesting one: it’s directly across the water from some of the swankier parts of Manhattan and Brooklyn, it’s where the 7 train coming from Flushing intersects with about six other lines and the Long Island Expressway, it’s where yuppie-approved date spots like PS1 and Socrates Sculpture Park sit on the same block as boarded-up warehouses and autobody garages. Around the way at Hunter’s Point, a bomb-ass mural of the Notorious B.I.G. scowls disapprovingly at all that he surveys, the corner where he used to sling rock now sporting a boutique organic pharmacy. Back in the day, I used to wait tables in nearby Astoria, and it is genuinely surprising how fast the luxury condominiums and starry-eyed twenty-something transplants showed up in the area, lured by a breathtaking city view and the promise of $2700 apartments that are actually nice.

Luckily, what’s not yet crossed the East River are the alcohol prices. You can expect to routinely pay upwards of $16 per drink, not including tax and tip, in some of the frillier temples of mixology in Manhattan, but thanks to a combination of cheaper rent and a clientele that can’t yet afford to stand for that nonsense, Dutch Kills manages to offer basically the same quality of booze for $11 a pop, $8 during happy hour, which is basically unheard of anywhere that invests in its own custom ice cubes. The vibe is “industrial speakeasy”, the lighting is dark and blemish-hiding, the bartenders rock the vest and mustache look, and it’s almost always packed with the young and flippant, as these types of places generally are.

I got there early, spent a few minutes hovering awkwardly near the bar eavesdropping on at least three first dates, but the waitress was kind enough to eventually find me a seat. Over the course of four hours my fashionably late lawyer friend (who also just happened to move into the neighborhood) and I held court at a booth, sipping whiskey-based beverages and periodically entertaining our female callers. The drink list isn’t huge, but I wouldn’t hesitate in going off-menu, since the bartenders certainly seem to know their Fernet Branca from their Lillet Blanc. The cocktails themselves are fairly straightforward, and lean towards well-executed variations on the classics, which honestly, I am okay with, because sometimes you just want to unrepentantly drink nothing but Old-Fashioneds (or Old-Fashioneds made with Islay scotch and maple syrup) for the entire evening, and if you are that kind of guy, Dutch Kills is here for you.

Recommended if: you’re a first year associate at a law firm but want to meet some hipsters, you’re dating a first year associate at a law firm but are basically a hipster.