Pork! aaaand

David Ives Foreplay (or the Art of the Fugue) reference in the title aside, it's hardly weather for miniature golf. Probably not weather for walking many blocks on your lunch hour to get a sandwich either, especially a heavy one. But Oxley's British-style pork sandwich is delicious. The bun looks small and hamburgerish, but winds up with a nice crisp texture except for when the pork begins to sink in. The pork itself is freshly carved and surely dripping with enough fat to keep you full for days; it's finished off with some spicy slaw (not too spicy but hits the spot, even for those of us who aren't really into coleslaw) and apple chutney. Alas, they have no seating area but you can relocate to the benches in front of McNally Jackson and admire some new book titles as you eat. Or, y'know, contemplate the idea of getting Oxley's to deliver next time, so you can stay in your office and avoid the 95+ degree heat.

A spot of tea

Today I'll talk about Steve's Ice Cream. I first tried a diminutive "mini" scoop of strawberry ricotta from Steve's at New Amsterdam Market. For an early Sunday morning, that was about as much ice cream as I wanted, and it was creamy and maybe not outstanding, but pretty darn good. So I kept in mind that Steve's was opening a store in midtown, and then, apprised by R.-- that it had opened, determined to set my sights on it.

When I arrived at the 42nd Street shop, most of the flavors were sold out. I decided to go with Tea Time, with black tea and orange, which sounded like the most interesting of the remaining options. I was a bit wary because it has a coconut cream base, and I'd had some dreadful coconutty concoctions in the past. But my fears came to naught, and it was smoky and spicy and orangey and refreshing for a 90-whatever-degree day, particularly when paired with a chocolate-hazelnut Ovenly cookie. Did I mention Steve's is one of those places that sells a whole host of trendy Brooklyn-local items?

All in all, a great success, especially since I dropped in between work and work-softball, and at the softball game I had my first run of the season. I'll have to go to Steve's to pregame again soon.

Just peachy

You may know (particularly if you are A.--) how much I love Robicelli's cupcakes, which change on a weekly and seasonal basis and are purely delicious. They're sold at a variety of fancyfood shops around Brooklyn and Manhattan and yesterday, since I was heading for Battery Park to see a concert (the strange charismatic Shara Worden with my-favorite yMusic), I thought I'd check out Battery Place Market...

Where I wrongly accused the guy behind the counter of giving me the wrong cupcake, only to find out that he had given me an extra! The tastes of peach cobbler and peach bellini nicely bookended the concert, even if I missed the Goldilocks moment of cupcake eating--the one I ate immediately's buttercream was a bit chilly, and the latter's, melted. Still and all, what better taste to accompany a temperate summer night looking out across the harbor?

Vroom (a belated post about July 4th)

There's no better way to celebrate America than to head over to Hill Country Chicken for a Texas wrap. Fried and decadent, it's filled with chicken and avocado. Normally I don't like the whole coleslaw business but HC ameliorates it with slivered almonds. The whole sandwich is drippy and juicy and Southern-good.

As another all-American accompaniment there's my read of the day, Earl Swift's The Big Roads. What's more American than a giant system of highways? Seriously, can't think of anything. Though as you will know I don't drive or like cars or or or...I find the book an interesting counterpoint to reading along the rails. Plus it can be a fun read--example tidbit: Upon having to retire, Thomas MacDonald, former driving force (har har) behind much of the system of interstate highways, allegedly tells his secretary, "I've just been fired, so we might as well get married." And then of course there's daredevil Carl Fisher, creator of the Indy track and stuntrider of bikes and cars galore.

Fried chicken, entrepreneurship, the thrill of the open road. It's all as American as appl--well, let's say double cherry pie, the perfect end to a perfect Fourth dinner.

Say cheese

An out-of work-early Friday is a good time to make your way out to Astoria and hipster-new Queens Kickshaw. Last, and first, time I came here I took my parents and had the curious gouda sandwich complete with guava and black bean—pretty good!—as well as a iced matcha tea. Now they’re apparently equipped with a full beer-and-cider menu, and open ’til 1 AM, so I am looking forward to coming back for that.

Today is simpler though—just a blueberry shrub for me. I hadn’t heard of shrubs before but apparently they are a sort of sparkling juice drink with vinegar. Pale pink and refreshing, it’s just the thing to accompany you at a copper table at the back of a countertopped wooden room while you reread the next installment in your old favorite Bad Girls. Oh, the drama of middle school. Much better to witness it from this cozy corner.

Feast of (Regularly) Kings

So I decided I'd like to get back into writing a little bit more, and what better way to do it than to write about food? I said to C.-- yesterday that I'd call this section of the blog Feast of Kings because the eats would come from Brooklyn, but of course the inaugural post isn't going to come from Brooklyn at all, so I present to you:

Feast of (Regularly) Kings or FoRK.

Last week on Serious Eats, where I no doubt will get many of my future inspirations, I read about the breakfast sandwich from Cheeky's on the Lower East Side. I'd first been to this Louisiana-style sandwich place with M.--, who told me about it last year. We met for lunch and I had a tasty fried chicken biscuit. But it's a little bit of a trek for lunchtime so I was glad to realize there was a breakfast option as well. If I actually got out of bed when I tend to wake up in the morning (about 45 minutes before my alarm goes off), then there'd be plenty of time to pick up a sandwich before work. Which is exactly what I did this fine morning, walking at the blue beginning of an early summer day from the B train to Orchard Street to friendly blue and white Cheeky's. While waiting for my sandwich, I read (appropriately enough) Claire DeWitt and the City of the Dead, a detective novel I'm enjoying set in, yep, New Orleans. Though I've never visited that city (I would like to), I felt I could almost imagine myself there, amidst Claire's talk with wheelers and dealers and the warm smell of freshly cooked bacon.

At my desk I unwrapped the sandwich. It's on a nice dense biscuit, and the bacon, as Serious Eats reported, is of a good consistency. There is a bit higher of an eggs-to-rest-of-sandwich ratio than I'd like, but then, I haven't been a huge fan of scrambled egg sandwiches ever since I ate one while I was sick a couple years ago. (Not that it made me sick, mind, but the association is still there somehow.) The layer of muenster cheese at the bottom of the sandwich goes a ways toward making up for the eggs--glorious flashbacks to the muenster bagel lunch days of high school past. Overall, the sandwich is salty and peppery and would probably be washed down better with the chicoried very creamy coffee that Cheeky's sells than the diet orange soda I've got in the fridge here...but I've given up coffee because of the headaches. But that's a story for another feast...

Sunrise Park

On 37th Street there’s no sidewalk next to the cemetery, so you walk alongside the railyard. The windowless train car—“not in service” where a letter bubble ought to be—approaches, dragging its chain of flatbeds, and a man steps out like it’s the front door of his house. He climbs down, picks up something from the tracks I can’t quite see, and gets back on board, easing up to the end of the line. More “not in service” cars proliferate, then the yellow-and-black striped work cars, some red-and-white ones. Notices on the sides warn that no crew member is to get on a crane car while in motion. A crane car! The cranes are slumbering, though, in the early morning heat, alongside the warren of trailer cars and mysterious little boxy buildings. A D train emerges out of the greenery on the other side of the yard, heading for the elevated tracks of New Utrecht Road. Not so delightful as my favorite Old New Utrecht Road, but not half bad.

Heading downslope, the railyard expands until you reach the open gates. An orange security guard sits idle near the entrance. So many people are out sitting on stoops and ledges this morning, and it’s not even 8. What do they do all day? The headstones sit, too, awash in foliage, neat wrought-iron signs denoting idyllic lanes. Not to be outdone, the railyard has a sign too: Burma Road, it announces, black letters on white.

Last week, filming for Men in Black III rendered downtown Brooklyn years younger, proliferating vintage subway signs and the borough’s old blue-and-white street markers. Stepping off the bus and noticing the first green subway entrance, still dazed with sleep, I did a double-take, half-believing I’d entered another world. The railyard too is another world, less artificial but just as unusual. Coming out onto Fourth Avenue—oh, okay—I reenter reality: crush of the N train, tunnel, Brooklyn Bridge. The day’s already heating up but somewhere work trains still rest within the shade.