Re-post: Shake Shack Review

from my livejournal, about three weeks ago:

After running through a buttload of epicurious NYC website, I twice ran across ecstatic reviews of this place called Shake Shack in Madison Square Park, which is where I happened to run into yesterday coming from work. Damn is that a sweet park. People are chill, there's a refreshing non-profusion of attitude, and the middle fountain lines up perfectly with the Empire State Building if you're a dork like me, and taking a picture with your cellphone camera.

Anyway.

People. I come from the West Coast. We got In and Out and Sonic and Fatburger, y'all, and I have in my day consumed many a White Castle. There's this place called Oasis in the East End of London that makes 16 ounce behemouths of burgers that not only moo when you bite them but writhe in your mouth, Douglas Adams-style. I mean, not like he writhes--it was in his book--never mind. And I just ordered what seemed like an obscenely expensive plain burger, no trimmings.

My. God. In Heaven. It's no exagerration to say that is the best burger and damn near the best red meat I've ever EVER had in my life. It pretty much grabbed my taste buds, ripped them out, and took them to Paris while I sat there on the seats, surrounded by birds, thwacked into food bliss so wide and so deep, you could have hit me with a hammer and I wouldn't have noticed. Lemme put it this way; if God transubstantiates, I'd take a good bet he would turn into this and not some dry cracker.

That said, the bun's pretty good too. It was soft and an inoffensive orange, and the texture overall reminded me of challah bread. I am a big believer in toppings on burgers, especially onions but it's a strong testament to say just the bread and just the glorious meat with some lavish swipes of ketchup are all one needs. BABY. I can't even like, go there again for awhile. This, despite its seeming bargain (against say, mainlining heroin) is something I need to save for when I've been a very very good girl. Or a very naughty one. So next time? It's their hot dogs.

*

I took a lap around the park after that, went into a comic book shop in a daze, picked up and put down Watchman (I dunno, I feel like with me a principle component of me reading comic books has to be some visual brio, despite being a writer, and I didn't see it there. Looked like matrix print Archie dots to me, and...feh.) and then walked up Madison Avenue to burn off the energy from having a spiritual experience with a piece of dead cow. Then I passed a fairly nice church, Madison Baptist or something and I glanced at the sign, expecting some well trodden platitudes about faith. Instead it said:

God needs spiritual fruit,
not religious nuts.

HA. MADISON BAPTIST PWNSU. What the hell? It's like dissing your audience before they even come in. This is religion, not Cheech and Chong! Or is it? Hee. I almost went in, drawn by the snark, but though one of my goals (and I do mean this seriously) is to sample different religions in the city (a beautiful mosque is right by my house, in fact, though I have little to no information on how to attend), I know I don't want a sarcastic church. A knowledgable and wise one sure, I don't want buckets of sap or electrodes put on my nuts, but in my experience, the more hip a church presents itself, the more facile and transparent the whole facade gets. Let's not keep it real okay? Put the electric guitar away, Father Brogan and tell me about sin sans power ballad.

*

Just as I was approaching the 6, I pass an animal shop with little birds hopping all around. Then I hear, up ahead of me- "COO." I look around; other people seem to have heard it too but are being cool about it. I walk on, thinking either there's another pet store or there was an exodus and I hear again- "COO." A man appears, white t-shirt, black jeans and a fedora with two remarkably huge feathers, a foot tall waving through the air. He cups his hands and yells up at the pigeons on the ledges- "COO." I'm thinking one day, he'll be their god. Or their bitch.

I have noticed a new male trend, and I think maybe I should encourage it, but let me run it past you. I would loosely call this trend Utter Fop. To wit: This ...man came on the subway. I can't even say for sure he's in business, but I'm pretty sure the giant PDA and briefcase gave him away. But. He was wearing, a cream colored pinstriped seersucker suit. Say that three times fast. Cream colored pinstriped seersucker suit. Extra long, with two vents in the back, like a tuxedo. It was riotously ugly, as if he had decided to dress as a sugar cone.

Then he had a pastel checked shirt underneath that and a green and blue paisley necktie and white sunglasses. If he had only had an ivory walking stick, the whole British Tourist In Africa, Old Chap look would have been complete. Hemingway underground, and all that. He's not alone either; he just seems to be the apex so far. But I think it's a good thing, I guess, overall, seeing men with a bit of dash. Shall ascots be far behind? Pocketwatches? Monocles? I do hope so. Just uh, if I laugh, I'm merely appreciating the full effect.

On the other hand, I got my eyebrows threaded today and the sweet Indian lady was utterly horrified by my catipillars. So I'm not exactly couture here, lessay.