It started with a joke. On our way to Washington Square Park, struck by the startlingly warm – especially for November – air, we saw a falafel stand. I turned to my friend Daniel and remarked to him with complete sincerity – sorry, artificial sincerity, I was completely lying – that it was the best falafel in town. It was probably no more the best falafel in town than the hot dog stand at St. George and Bloor produces Toronto’s finest hot dog. It probably tasted the same as every other falafel in the city; all falafel-related street vendors probably get their falafel products from exactly the same central location and probably make strikingly similar if not exactly the same falafels. That was the joke.
But the joke evolved. Soon, the four of us – the two Daniels, Paul, and Pat – were finding clever ways to describe everything as the best something in the City. Some salon called Tommy Guns – you’re welcome for the free advertising, Tommy – on Ludlow Street?
It’s the best haircut a 20-something law student can get on the Lower East Side. The M train from the Delancey Street – Essex Street station? Bar none, it is the finest and most reliable train you can catch in the City.
The next day, we took a scenic walk across the Williamsburg Bridge – I won’t try to joke about this being the best bridge in New York, because it’s probably the shittiest – on our way to a quiet, responsible night in Brooklyn. We needed to stay hydrated for the walk, though, so we entered a 7-11 at the foot of the bridge to stock up. As we entered the 7-11, though, we couldn’t help but notice the glow. It was the glow of fast food heaven – Burger King, located at the intersection of Delancey and Essex, just steps from 7-11. We knew that we had found something that we could accurately describe as the best something in the City. This was no joke; not like that shitty falafel stand, or Tommy Guns, or even the M Train. This was the best hamburger in New York City.
Two days later, we attended the Museum of Modern Art. MoMA is great, even for someone who doesn’t fully appreciate or understand art – there is something aesthetically overwhelming about seeing a wall-sized Monet or that guy with the mutilated ear’s interpretation of a starry night. Seeing artistic masterpiece after artistic masterpiece made us hungry for another type of masterpiece – a gastronomical masterpiece.
There was talk of Dorsia or Gramercy Tavern, but then it came to us: Burger King. Feeling the same way Einstein must have felt after he finalized the formula for mass-energy equivalence, we made like Usain Bolt and sprinted to the aforementioned glowing Delancey-Essex location.
When we entered its hallowed halls, the aroma was overwhelming, an intoxicating mix of childhood obesity and fries. I won’t try to spin the service as particularly good, as Daniel waited for his meal for close to 25 minutes, giving the rest of us time to finish most of our meals. What was interesting about this long wait was that he ordered a fairly common menu item – a cheeseburger with bacon, or something similar – and people who had ordered similarly popular items well after him had received their order within minutes. I blame his typical Canadian passivity for the fact that he received neither an explanation nor an apology for the wait. One Foursquare review of the restaurant states that “Whenever Grim Death comes to end me, I hope to God that it will take me faster than these people take a food order.” This, I admit, is also a hope of mine.
The food, though, was alarmingly good. The hamburgers were charred beyond recognition, the toppings sparse, and the onion rings as circular as deep-fried onions can be (they were more oval than circular, really). There was no discernable atmosphere in the restaurant, but the screams of one particularly upset customer (the poor lady was hoping that Whoppers were still “buy one, get one free” but they were not) was music to my ears. And the hamburgers were the premium, super unleaded fuel we needed for our final night on the town.
Our Reading Week trip was a success, and memories were made that are sure to stand the test of time. But not all memories are created equal, and the memory that stands out the most to me is the one comprised of good friends, ice cold Coke Zero, and the best hamburger in New York City – the moment when joke and reality intersected in a manner that no one could possibly have anticipated just days earlier.
Editors’ Note: We’re really sorry. We promise the regular guys will be back next issue.