The Girl Who Ate Everything

My posting has been delayed because last Thursday I had a wee lil' party (which will be the subject of my next post) and I was in Chicago from Friday to Monday for Serious Eats-related foodery, but of more non-food-related importance is...

Tristan got in a bike accident last night. He's technically okay—he's back in his apartment having a well deserved rest—but he's got some rough days ahead of him as his abrasions heal and his broken toe becomes unbroken and his index finger becomes whole again. He's been in a few accidents before, but this may have been the scariest one. Any happy vibes/manatee hugs you can send his way would be greatly appreciated.

Overall, it's downright miraculous how uninjured he is considering he was hit by a car and, from what I heard, thrown over the front of the windshield. The craziest thing is that he landed on his head while not wearing a helmet and he didn't have any head trauma. ...From what the seven or so hours in the hospital could discern. (He didn't require seven hours of service; it just took that long to get the "heal Tristan, please" shit together. I know, that's how hospitals work. Sigh.)

In conclusion, wear a helmet. I know a lot of people don't ever wear them, and I know we seem especially helmet-crazy in the USA (I feel like it's not as common in some other countries) but when stuff like this happens all I can think of is "OH MAN NEVER NOT WEAR A HELMET WHILE YOU'RE RIDING YOUR BIKE SO YOUR SCALP ISN'T SCRAPED OFF AND YOU DON'T PUT YOURSELF AT RISK FOR BRAIN DAMAGE AND STUFF AND SO I DON'T GET A CALL FROM YOUR MOM THAT FREAKS THE CRAP OUT OF ME" etc.

We are so thankful that he is as okay as he is. It could've been much worse. Which is a terrifying thought.

This post originally took place on my birthday, August 27. I wouldn't say it's as delayed as others (I'm a month behind) but yes, I continue my blog's theme of "posting things late." I have a pretty good excuse though. Latest thing was that Tristan got hit by a car; previous thing was that I was in Chicago over the weekend (Friday to Monday) and didn't have much extra time to blog. Or email. Or edit photos. Or sleep. But it was great fun and you should be able to read about the gut-busting eating soon on Serious Eats.

He can stop whenever he wants to.

"I put your mail in your room," Lee Anne said. "You should go check it."

There were at least a gazillion signs, give or take a few, that something was being plotted for my birthday. All those times that Lee Anne asked me if I were free or planning anything ("yes" and "no"). That Diana, Erin, and Grace accompanied me home (after making a quick stop at Erin's apartment so I could borrow a piece of luggage) for what I thought would be a small pizookie party. That Lee Anne gave me a nonchalant nudge to go to my room for my mail, which she never does.

But my brain works in funny ways. And by "funny" I mean "sort of slow, like this sleepy kitty."

So I walk to my room with the intention of showing it to my guests, not realizing that I was being followed by no one. I bust open the door and see...darkness. Quite normal.

And then Ken's face. Which is less normal. Because he doesn't live in my room. And Greg's. And Tristan's. And John's. And Lihan's. And then I hear a crack accompanied by an explosion of rainbow confetti curls and a pained look on Ken's face because Greg aimed the confetti tube gun in the not-quite-right direction (that is, towards Ken), to Ken's detriment.

And then I sort of freaked out for the next ten minutes because 1) WHAT THE HELL, I THINK I ALREADY HAD A SURPRISE BIRTHDAY PARTY, and 2) WHAT THE HELL, you guys did this for me again? and 3) WHAT THE HEEEEYYUUULLL I don't deserve this, you guys. Not at all.

After my brain reset itself, I got to enjoy the typical party components.

This entry originally took place on July 30. Here's part 1.

Let's get this started.

I had to get a burger in D.C. And that meant one place: Ray's Hell Burger. Every since it opened last summer it's been known as serving one of the best burgers in the city. Also, it's Obama-approved.

ON DA METRO.

But it's not actually in Washington D.C.—it's in Arlington. Which is just across the Potamic River. AND SO ON THE METRO WE GO!!!...to Rosslyn. (It makes more sense to get off at the Court House station though so you end up walking downhill instead of potentially sweating up a storm uphill. Like we did.)

WORK IT, Lee Anne!

This past Sunday in celebration of Labor Day Weekend and to acknowledge that summer is ending and if I were still pursuing higher education I'd be going back to school now (thankfully, I'm not—and thus my brain continues to rot), I arranged a gathering/picnic/impromptu frisbee game on Governors Island. In particular, picnic point, aka, "the farthest point on the island you can possible go to when you get off the ferry." My friends who didn't have bikes were ecstatic to hear that (especially Tristan, my limpiest friend).

But it's the best place to have a large gathering since it's just a big lawn with lots of picnic tables, benches, and hammocks that happens to be in view of the Statue of Liberty. Nice. Perhaps the only downside is hearing a random song/art piece ever 15 minutes or so (or more, or less), but it's hard to tell after a while because you're like, "WHERE THE HELL IS THAT SONG COMING FROM AND CAN I DESTROY THE SOURCE BECAUSE IT'S DOING FUNNY THINGS TO MY BRAIN THAT I FIND ALARMING."

FORTRESS!

Why is Governors Island cool? Because it's a world away from New York City but only takes about a five minute ferry ride to get there. What was once a military base for the US Army and Coast Guard is now a mostly car-free (and more bike safe) weekend getaway spot featuring colonial buildings, historic forts, acres of grass and trees, and awesome views of Lower Manhattan (...and Jersey City). Wikipedia has way more history if you want it.

If you've never been to Governors Island before or heard of it, you have until October 11th to get your bum over there. The island is open on Fridays from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m., and Saturdays and Sundays from 10 a.m. to 7 p.m., although there are extended hours for the next two weekends because of the New Island Festival. The ferries from Manhattan and Brooklyn are free, so you can't complain too much when you have to wait for 40 minutes to get on one. That would be my warning: you may have to wait for one or two ferries to go by before you can board. The Manhattan ferries are larger than the Brooklyn ones. I've only taken the Brooklyn ferry though (taking my bike on both times), so I'm not sure if Brooklynites are necessarily better off taking the Manhattan ferry.

But enough of this boring information stuff—time to bring on the useless photos and commentary.

This entry originally took place on July 31.

Waking up at Tristan's house in Louisa is worlds away from waking up in my cave-like Brooklyn apartment.

Sheepies.

First, there's the flock of sheep outside the window. Just doing their thing. Being fluffy.

Aw...

And, a bit to the right, Colin in a hammock petting Hoppy, the family dog.

FOOD.

And, in the kitchen, farm fresh eggs (cooked by Olivia!), homegrown tomatoes made into a Caprese salad, and raspberries...not from the farm, but still awesome. My frequent eating out prevents me from keeping much food at home—my fridge is where anything perishable goes to die. Slowly. The Jones family kitchen is full of food, and when it's being raided by five 20-somethings, everything gets eaten.

This entry originally took place on August 1 and 2. HAHA. AIN'T THAT RETARCULOUS? So it's basically a bunch of photos with captions. Real food review-age of stuff I didn't eat one and a half months ago shall resume shortly.

It was the day we had all been waiting for. The reason we went to Louisa in the first place. It was time for...

Oink!

PIGGIES!

Baa!

LAMBS IN SWEATERS!

[insert other noise]

FLETCHER TAMING HIS LAMB!

Is it chomping time?

MOTHUHFUGGIN FUNNEL CAKES!

All this, and more, at the annual Louisa County Agricultural Fair: where boys become men, and deep fried dough becomes another subcutaneous layer of fat.

This post originally took place on August 22.

It's 10:30 a.m. in Flushing. What do you start your day with?

DUMPS.

Pork soup dumplings from Nan Xiang Xiao Long Bao. Thinly skinned, semi-translucent pouches cradling a pork meatball in a pool of porky juice that will burn your mouth if you eat it too quickly, and if you're you're like me, that's what you're doomed to do. Good thing mucous membranes tend to grow back pretty quickly.

There's beef in thar.

Next up at Nan Xiang Xiao Long Bao: beef-filled scallion pancake, a scallion-studded flatbread with a crisp, flaky crust and chewy innards, folded over a layer of thinly sliced beef flavored with a sweet sauce, methinks hoisin. In my world, scallion pancake beef sandwiches would dominate easily accessible breakfast menus instead of eggs, bacon, and pancakes. Alas, that world is probably in China. (Or Flushing.)

The last time I went on a mega-tour of Flushing, Nan Xiang Xiao Long Bao was the last stop of our day, but due to its popularity, we thought it'd be better to start there and beat the crowd. Today's crew of intrepid eaters blessed with digestive fortitude: Greg, Jess, Diana, Tam, Al, and—our new enthusiastic eater ripe for a Flushing devirginization—Foster.

We're going to start a "Top Five Burgers" feature on A Hamburger Today next week, so I figured I'd do my own Top Five as a template to show future contributors. I haven't eaten enough burgers to be the authority on NYC burgers, but here's my list anyhoo.

And after that, gratuitous Shake Shack food porn.

My favorite kind of burger is fast food-style (not actually from a fast food joint), but that preference doesn't dominate my Top 5 List. For a burger to stick in my mind, it should be on a squishy, appropriately-sized toasted bun whose texture doesn't interfere with the meat, and the patty should be well seasoned, have a bit of char on the outside, and be soft and preferably oozing with beef juice. That usually entails being cooked to medium rare, but if a place can cook a juicy well done burger, that's fine with me too.

Shack Burger.

1. Shake Shack: Griddled, buttered potato bun and a juicy, fat-oozing, well-salted patty with a crisp crust = by far my favorite burger in the city, or anywhere else for that matter. The four-ounce patty size is a plus; I like knowing that I can eat a Shack Burger and feel satisfied without going into a food coma. [Review] Madison Ave and East 23rd Street, New York NY 10010 (map); 212-889-6600; shakeshacknyc.com

This entry originally took place on September 12.

What's the first place you should eat at during your inaugural trip to New York City after taking a red-eye flight from Los Angeles, then stumbling around Bed-Stuy in the wee hours of the morning until crashing on your friend's floor around 6 a.m and waking up a few hours later in an uncomfortable daze because your internal clock is still three hours behind and floors are not comfortable sleeping surfaces, unless the floor is made of mattress?

Shopsin's

AWESOME MENU.

Shopsin's, the infamous eatery with a menu [PDF] of Biblical proportions (well, for what can fit on two sides of one long sheet of paper—it makes great use of tight kerning) featuring dishes that seem to have been influenced by brain-altering substances, limited opening hours, limited seating (tucked in the northeast corner of Essex Street Market), a set of rules (the main one being no groups larger than four), and the master of it all—the seemingly disgruntled, foul-mouthed chef/proprietor (and cookbook author), Kenny Shopsin. From what I've observed, Kenny is a nice guy...unless you're a dick. So don't be a dick. (I really wish I had kept more track of Kenny-isms I've heard over the years—the best stuff has come out while eating there with Ed Levine since Ed and Kenny are friends, which means Kenny can repeatedly insult him and it's okay because it's out of love. All I remember is losing count of the number of f-bombs dropped in three minutes of being in Kenny's presence, and the time that Ed brought me to Shopsin's for my birthday; when Kenny found out I wanted to eat there for my birthday, he asked something along the lines of, "Is she stupid?" And then I ate this skillet combo and all was right with the world, aside from my digestive system.)

So. My opening paragraph was not about an imaginary Angeleno. My friend James visited New York City for the first time a few weeks ago for a quick "fit as much stuff as possible into a fun three-day weekend because after that I'll have to immediately go back to the drudgery of work" trip. Considering the stresses of travel he endured, he was a good sport when it came to me dragging his jetlagged body around the city. But maybe it was the magical Shopsin's sliders that started him on the right foot.

It oozes delicious.

Hooyes. The sliders, three mini cheeseburgers with grilled onions stuck to one another by way of conjoined Martin's potato rolls, are the best sliders I've ever had. The simplest things tend to be the tastiest: juicy, seasoned patty smothered in molten meat crevice-filling cheese topped with a layer of tender onions on a pillowy soft bun.