Gut Instinct: Sin and Surf

Are you taking us to the bar surrounded by police caution tape?” my friend Kelly asks, pulling on a Camel Light in the cool, salt-breezed Atlantic City night.

“Umm…” I mumble, transfixed by the dark bar bathed in flashing red-and-blue cop lights.

“Nice choice, bar writer,” says Kelly, a compatriot who’ll soon be betrothed. Our adventure to Atlantic City was planned as one last hurrah, a rampage on Las Vegas by the sea: quarter peepshows, stale-beer dives, all-night pawnshops eager to exchange gold for cash. Let zombie-eyed grandparents pump quarters into the slots—we craved rough trade.

Till this 2:14 a.m. moment, the day was a sordid triumph. After arriving via the clean, comfy ACES train (it knocks the socks off crowded casino buses), we devoured overstuffed coldcut heroes at White House Sub Shop (2301 Arctic Ave.,609- 345-1564), where Frank Sinatra’s used towel is proudly displayed, before slurping hoppy All-American IPAs at microbrewery Tun Tavern (2 Miss America Way, 609-347-7800). At Kelly’s Corner Pub, filled with broken men wearing sweatpants, we chugged seven-ounce Bud bottles, served in an icepacked pail. “It’s six times the happiness,” said one bearded boozer, patting his bucket as if it were his trusty basset hound.

Now, our pudding legs have powered us down the wooden boardwalk to the Irish Pub and Inn (164 St. James Pl., 609- 344-9063). The local institution is outfitted with dark wood, live Gaelic balladeers and recession-cheap burgers. Better yet, the Pub never shutters—well, until now. But like an intoxicated Boy Scout, I’m always prepared: “Plan B,” I tell Kelly, directing us across the block to the Pic-a-Lilli Pub (231 S.Tennessee Ave., 609-344-1113). The elbow-worn saloon contains a scratched horseshoe-shape bar, where several drunken Jerseyites are pretending to be Canadian (“We’ve got nationalized health care, eh,” says one, apropos of nothing) and a haggard duo wearing do rags are enthusiastically swapping spit.

“Love’s in the air tonight,” says the pin-thin bartender, pouring us 32-ounce pitchers of Bud. Against my gut’s better judgment, I also order chicken wings and Buffalo-style onion rings—deep-fried onions swaddled in spicy, oil-thick wing sauce.

“It’s greasy genius,” I tell Kelly, feeling as if I’ve discovered a new and impossibly delicious species of animal.Too bad the rings read better than they taste:These novel ovals are artery-hardening evil.They’re as messy as the meaty, crispy wings but unsatisfying, like getting a lap dance while wearing corduroy pants.

“Shh! Shh! Quiet down, everyone!” the bartender commands, cranking up the TV newscast’s volume.The kids stop mimicking Canucks, the couple ceases tonsil hockey. Kelly and I watch as a reporter stationed in front of the Irish Pub details a tragedy that occurred hours earlier: a psycho stabbed two employees, breaking a bouncer’s heart with his blade.

“You tried taking me to a murder scene,” says Kelly, aghast.

“It’s not like these things were planned,” I reply, soothing frazzled nerves with foamy beer. Danger, I reasoned, is forever intertwined with escapist Atlantic City, an anything’s-possible town where dashed dreams and desperation crash into town like frothing ocean surf. Win big, lose bigger, narrowly miss a murder, meet a biker named Wildman.

“What’re you doing at the Pic?” asks the African-American biker, a septuagenarian wearing a leather coat displaying his name and numerous stained patches.

“We were celebrating,” I say, motioning to our inexpensive suds and gnawed wings. It seems bad form to be festive, what with the nearby crime scene and all.

“This ain’t the spot to celebrate,” Wildman says. “Come with me to La Grande Fromage. I’ll give you a ride in my van.”

“Aren’t you a biker?” I ask.

“Tonight, I’m driving the van.”

“What can we expect at the La Grande Fromage?”—the big cheese, in English.

“Excitement, cheap beer and casino workers,” Wildman says, his eyes drifting off to a faraway, happy place. “I’ll drive you.” He burps beer and awaits our answer. It’s now 4 a.m. La Grande Fromage serves drinks till 8 a.m. In New York City, the night would be lurching to completion. But in sweet, seedy Atlantic City, the night is still young.The eve is pregnant with endless possibilities, both good and, at this hour of irrational judgment, bad.

“Excitement?” I ask Wildman, gathering my coat and bag.

“Excitement,” he says, standing up and leading us into the coming dawn.

Gut Instinct: Hey Nøgne Nøgne

It’s a sunny, breezy spring afternoon, the sort of flawless day that amnesias you into forgetting winter and loving New York City again. But in lieu of flinging Frisbees in Prospect Park or sipping Gowanus Yacht Club’s icy Pabst, I’ve slunk into subterranean beer hall Jimmy’s No. 43 to meet Norwegian giants— of brewing, that is.

“Norwegian beer?” you ask. “Isn’t that oxymoronic, like government reform or MTA’s bus schedule?” Sadly, in that frigid Scandinavian land of reindeer jerky and smoked salmon, more than 90 percent of the country’s quaffs are light lagers and neutered pilsners: Brews about as complex as Coors Light. Moreover, many Norwegian bars pour just one tap beer, providing drinkers as much choice as voting in a dictator’s election.

“Norwegians,” laments bearded giant Kjetil Jikiun, cofounder and brewmaster of Norwegian microbrewery Nogne O, “don’t know much about craft beer.” Consider Jikiun an exception. Since launching Nogne O (naked isle) six years ago, the gregarious, bespectacled Norwegian has begun transforming his country’s carbonated landscape. With an artisan’s touch and missionary zeal, he crafts bold, flavorful porters, stouts, India pale ales and herb-packed oddities more in line with experimental American microbrews than Norway’s watery swill.

In many ways, it’s a return to Norway’s norm. A couple hundred years ago, the government ordered farmers to grow hops and brew beer. If farmers refused, they were fined or could lose their land. Special brews were even crafted to honor deceased Norwegians. “In the summertime, this could be a problem,” explains Nogne O manager Kjell Einar Karlsen. “Because of the hot weather, beers could take six to eight days to brew— and you couldn’t bury the body until the beer was ready.”

Similar to America, the temperance movement, taxation and big brewing killed tradition. Enter Jikiun. Formerly an airline pilot, he sampled suds wherever he landed, developing an affinity for marvelous microbreweries such as Stone and Dogfish Head. He began homebrewing, looking toward American for inspiration. Perhaps too much.

“I brewed what I thought was my best IPA ever,” Jikiun says of his riff on hoppy, West Coast ales. “I entered it in a homebrew competition—only to receive the second-lowest score of any IPA.” To the judges, Jikiun’s brew was as alien as those saucer-eyed Roswell creatures. Still, “everybody else I served my homebrews to liked them, so I though there’d be a market,” says Jikiun. He started Nogne O with more optimism than money. “Our first three years, we were about to go bankrupt every month,” Jikiun says, laughing. In Norway, brewers pay taxes commensurate with their beer’s alcohol percentage: a higher ABV equals higher taxes.

“Our beers are more expensive in Norway than in America,” says Jikiun, whose beers often flirt with an eye-spinning 10 percent ABV. A second factor is that the government restricts sales of beers stronger than 4.75 percent ABV (comparable to a Bud) to specially licensed shops or the state-run Vinmonopol chain—unsurprisingly, it translates to “wine monopoly.” Even crazier is that Nogne O was barred from publicizing its beer online. “The government said, ‘If you don’t close down the site immediately, we’re going to close it down,’” Jikiun recalls. Their decree was as strange as the solution: The brewery could tout its beer provided it was written in the language spoken in Nogne O’s export markets— English. “And Norwegians speak English,” Jikiun says, laughing.

Despite Mount Everest odds, Jikiun re fused to compromise his mission to craft unfiltered, unpasteurized and bottle-conditioned brews. Incrementally, Nogne O found success with spiced Christmas ales like Underlig Jul (“peculiar Christmas”), which is inspired by mulled wine glogg and light, fruity Easter ale God Paske. Now the brews are America-bound, armed with flavor profiles that should resonate with microbrew lovers.

The India pale ale is similar to California hop bombs: bold and rich, the beer’s sweet, malty backbone keeps the bitterness from going overboard. The saison is a funky summertime refreshment redolent of pears and apples. The oil-thick imperial stout packs a coffee and bittersweet-cocoa flavor punch, making it perfect for brownie pairings. Still, the standout is #100, a beer originally unintended for public consumption. “We wanted it to be beer for the brewers,” Jikiun says. “Not many bars in Norway wanted craft beer—but they wanted this one.” Understandably so: The barleywine-like brew possesses a spicy aroma complemented by cardamom and a lovely, lingering belly warmth owing to its 10 percent ABV. It tastes familiar, yet distinctly foreign.

“We’re inventing a Scandinavian brewing identity,” Jikiun says. I’ll drink to that, again and again.

Try Nogne O at Jimmy’s No. 43 (43 E. Seventh St. betw. 2nd & 3rd Aves., 212-982- 3006) or Whole Foods’ Bowery Beer Room (95 E. Houston St. betw. Bowery & Chrystie St., 212-420-1320)

Dollar Grub: Richmond Hill

Ah, the cheapness returns. It never left. In this latst edition of dollar grub, I trek to the hinterlands of Richmond Hill, supping and snacking on blood-sugar-spiking snacks. Eat it up!

Gut Instinct: Shoes Your Own Adventure

“Excuse me, but can I ask you a question?”

I spin on my stool, sloshing white drops of 150-proof Trinidadian rum mixed with milk—the throat-burning specialty at Imperial Bikers MC, the Crown Heights clubhouse for the African-American motorcycle gang. I’m a regular at this buzzer-entry dive, playing pool with fedora-clad gramps and croaking along to Motown soul. Initially, my presence was pure novelty, a dolphin leaping through a flaming ring. But after proving my mettle by ingesting mama juana, a Dominican aphrodisiac concocted by soaking rum in ruddy herbs and tree bark, I was welcomed with handshake hellos, back-slapping good-byes.

At this late hour, with the clock again grown small, I’m sharing drinks with my friend Aaron and his visiting brother, Colin. It’s their cherry-popping visit to dusty, trophy-strewn Imperial. They’re guffawing, having a grand time for the same reasons I always do:The no-bullshit bar is living history, shaped by outsize personalities and layers of grit, not an entrepreneur’s business plan. “And the beers are just $3,” Aaron sighs, sucking on a Bud longneck.

Now, this question has paused our booze-born camaraderie. We face the inquisitor: a hulking giant, with loose shoelaces and a holey overcoat seemingly blasted by a BB gun. Slung across his back is a gargantuan black garbage bag bulging with lumpy objects of indiscriminate origin—thankfully, nothing’s leaking. The giant eyeballs me, his gaze settling on my feet. I sip my courage juice.

“What size shoe do you wear?” the giant asks, gruff as a teenage David Z salesman. Is he a fan of male flesh, researching how I measure on the man scale? The correlation between shoe size and manhood is inconclusive and misleading. Sometimes. Fact is,

I wear an 8, sometimes a half-size larger or smaller, with feet as wide and fat as a halfpound hamburger—reverse clown-foot syndrome.

I give the giant my size. His eyes alight like a pinball machine on tilt. He rubs his papery hands and sets down his trash bag as gently as china. I pick up my drink.

He rummages through the bag, grunting and mumbling, before retrieving a pair of low-rise, brown-leather Pro Keds with Sunkist-orange stitching.

“They’re…they’re beautiful,” I say, like a teen boy pawing his first budding bosom. I’ve long worn old-school Pro Keds, loving the chunky-slim silhouette and vibrant color palette. Plus, they’re far plusher than Converse, which are as comfortable as cardboard duct-taped to your feet. “I know,” the shoe guy says, nodding. He orders a Guinness and drinks deeply. “Try them on.” Alcohol is a magically transformative drug. Under the influence, men become confident conversationalists. Our moods brighten, emotions spill out and, in bed, we last longer than a commercial break. With good comes bad: fisticuffs, urinating on shrubbery and poor decision making.

Sober, I would’ve told the shoe salesman to push off. But three sheets to the wind and staring at 2 a.m., nothing seems more natural than dipping my toes into lightly soiled Pro Keds. Like Cinderella’s glass slipper, the shoes fit perfectly. My toes roam like happy buffalo, while my arches stand tall and proud.

“They look good, man,” Aaron says. “Real good,” the salesman echoes, appraising my feet. “Give them a spin around the bar.” I stroll the room like it’s my private catwalk, sashaying past patrons sipping plastic-cup mixed drinks, past the green-fuzzed pool table and the decommissioned kitchen.

It’s as if the kicks were cobbled for my wide, hirsute feet. I feel pretty, so very pretty! Is this what it feels like to be a belle at the ball? “How much?” I ask. I remove the shoes and place them on the rum-stained bar. Excitement and alcohol preclude me from noticing that the insoles are absent, ripped out as if to erase bad memories or unbecoming stains.

The salesman scratches his mottled chin and fills his mouth with beer. “I suppose, you know, I could stand to take $10 for the shoes. Just $10,” he pleads, desperation sneaking into his voice.

Ten bucks? For the same reason that I worship Vanessa’s dollar pork dumplings and 2 Brothers $1 slices of pizza, I’m unable to ignore a bargain. And despite being of don’t-ask, don’t-tell origin, these shoes— retailing for $60-plus—are a surefire deal. “Sold,” I say, peeling off a wad of ones. He pockets the money and picks up his sack. “Wait,” Aaron calls, eager for his own footwear, “are you selling other shoes?” “What size are you?” “Nine, 10.” “No, man, I just got purses,” he said, edging toward the door. “And I don’t think you’ll look good wearing those.”

Gut Instinct: Recession-licious

Several weeks ago, New York Times food critic Frank Bruni posed a question that pained my cheapskate heart: Is it possible, he posited, to produce a six-person dinner party for less than $50?

“I didn’t see how this budget allowed for much strutting,” Bruni clacked, inhaling the Gray Lady’s rarefied air. “I half expected tuna casserole. With a mesclun salad to start—if I got lucky.” In the Times tale, Bruni marvels as two co-workers construct a cavalcade of low-cost edibles—carnitas-stuffed tacos, tile fish ceviche, tomato cilantro soup, Creamsicle floats. Wow, I read between the lines, even poors can eat well.

Perhaps Bruni’s brain is addled by Berkshire pork, turned sideways by truffles, but spending $50 for a dinner party is about as tough as convincing a teenager to smoke pot. For New Yorkers young and old, dining cheaply is an everyday exercise, not an uppercrust experiment. There’s no Fox reality show dubbed For Richer or Poorer, in which foodstamp-carrying contestants sizzle dinner atop a Sterno flame, or even a Dumpster Diving Olympics: Hey, gutter punks, a gold medal for the most Gristedes wheat bread!

Food writers often fall prey to trends, to the dining climate’s prevailing winds. One week everyone’s penning stories about pizzerias run by mozzarella-mad Italians; the next, we’re atwitter—and Twittering— about luscious, fatty Texas brisket. We all surf the same tasty waves. I’d like to believe that food writers are implanted with microchips commanded by a Jabba the Hut–like overlord who rules the edible universe, but the reason for reams of repetitive copy is far more prosaic: laziness.

Churning out fresh, delicious content on an hourly, daily or weekly basis is an endless struggle. Sometimes Sunday night rolls around and, with deadline knocking the next afternoon, I’m stumped on stories. That’s when I reach for a liter of Old Overholt rye whiskey, unbutton my shirt and make the magic happen.

Currently, with the recession withering wallets and purses, the edible press is infatuated with the inexpensive. Time Out New York (full disclosure: I’m a contributing writer) recently espoused cheaper alternatives to high-priced hooch. Last week, New York magazine’s food blog, Grub Street, listed the city’s sweetest $35-and-under dinners. And bloggers joined the cost-conscious chorus: On Cheapeatschallenge.com, three Michigan pals spent March dining for less than $100 apiece—tracking their weight gain and loss, for added-value voyeurism.

Such tales make me want to smash my five-for-a-dollar Prosperity Dumplings. Why are journalists and bloggers treating cheap eating like an exotic creature, a vividly plumaged bird performing stupid tricks? Dining inexpensively should not be a novel endeavor trotted out when unemployment checks no longer buy $17.99-a-pound, ethically raised beef. It’s easy to live well when the going is good.When the going gets bad, nothing should change.

My first few years in New York City, I toiled as a receptionist. I was a terrible employee, dropping phone calls like hot potatoes and treating visitors like lepers. Unsurprisingly, I earned $10 an hour, plus all the staples and toilet paper I could steal. After rent on my roach-infested Astoria apartment, plus a daily infusion of dollar beer, I was left with roughly $90 a month for groceries—a giddying sum. During college, I subsisted on day-old, 60-cent pepperoni rolls: half for lunch, half for dinner, indigestion for dessert.

Ninety dollars a month was winning the lottery. And those few crinkled greenbacks fed me well, as they do nine years later. At Chinatown’s Kong Kee Food (240 Grand St.,at Bowery St.,212-966-1350), I buy four fat blocks of bean curd for a buck; another two bits nets a pound of bean sprouts.

Down on Forsyth Street, between East Broadway and Canal Street, I patronize a sidewalk produce and vegetable market with lights-out deals: In the past, 100 pennies has equaled 5 pounds of broccoli, 3 pounds of ripe mangos or a dozen tomatoes. For seafood, I’ve long loved DeMartino Wholesale and Retail Fish Market (315 Douglass St.,betw.Third & Fourth Aves.,718-522-1119, B’klyn).Visit before 10 a.m. on weekdays for wholesale-price, restaurant-quality scallops, salmon and shrimp. Heck, give me a can of tomatoes, fresh black beans, garlic and onion, and I’ll create a soul-satisfying chili of which even Bruni would begrudgingly approve.

Eating well for cheap is about as difficult as breathing. Drinking well for pennies, now that’s a miracle.

Gut Instinct: Passover and Out

Even at six, I sensed something was squirrely with celebrating Easter.

During that prepubescent period, I resided in cosmopolitan Huntington, West Virginia, attending an elementary school ringed in barbed wire—whether officials kept students in or out, I’ll never learn. Come weekends, I’d head to our small synagogue for Sunday school, a scholarly endeavor that largely consisted of watching Yentl and Fiddler on the Roof. It was a pop-cultural introduction to Judaism, further muddied by my clan’s insistence on celebrating certain Christian holidays.

See, my ma was born with goyish blood. Upon marrying my pa, a smart-alecky Bronx Jew, she converted to the chosen people. But old habits and traditions die hard. Christmas fell first. My father, reared on crisp latkes and brisket slow-cooked in salty onion soup, would’ve burst a blood vessel if an evergreen stood in our living room.

“Santa doesn’t bring Jewish children gifts,” my father said, ever the fact-driven

Easter lingered. There’s a telling Polaroid of me at five, wearing my short-shorts soccer uniform, being clutched by a costumed Easter bunny to rival Donnie Darko’s demonic rabbit. In the image I’m grinning toothily, my wide, hazel eyes and pursed lips speaking volumes: What God did I offend to end up

Every April, driven by similar biological urges that drive salmon to swim upstream, my mother purchased rabbit-shape chocolates, gooey Cadbury eggs and a rainbow of jelly beans—all nestled in a wicker basket laden with plastic grass. At first, I relished this candy bonanza. It was Halloween in April, minus dressing as Chewbacca, ringing strangers’ doorbells and moaning, like a sad walrus, “arrrarroowwrrerr.” Candy is the easiest path to a kid’s heart—even the most inept parent knows that. Eventually, though, even sugar-clouded brains clear.

One early spring afternoon, in my sixth year of breathing, my mother was preparing an Easter goodie basket in the laundry room. It was a familiar scene, but my synagogue-conditioned brain now saw this as strange, like a cat on a leash. I posed my mom this logic-based riddle: “Mom, if we’re Jewish, why do we celebrate Easter?

“Don’t you like celebrating Easter?” she asked, arranging the eggs just so.

“No,” I said, my contrarian tactics already well honed.

“Well, if you don’t want to, we don’t have to celebrate it anymore,” she said, likely relieved that I didn’t ask her a tougher question: Why do bunnies, painted eggs and industrially produced chocolate symbolize Christ’s resurrection?

My family’s Easter forays ended the ensuing year, as did our West Virginia residency. We embarked to industrial Dayton, Ohio, where we celebrated Judeo-appropriate spring holidays such as Passover. It’s a fete with real appeal for this horror-movie addict. The wrathful highlights: To convince the Pharaoh to free enslaved Israelites, God sent down 10 gruesome plagues. Water turned to blood. Frogs and wild beasts overran the land. Hail pummeled homes. Buzzing locusts swarmed. And, most malevolently, Egyptians’ firstborn males (humans and livestock alike) were killed; the Israelites painted their doors with lamb’s blood so avenging angels “passed over”—also a nifty trick to frighten off fervent Jehovah’s Witnesses.

During the eight-day celebration, Jews ditch leavened bread for bone-dry matzoth and hold structured feasts called seders. I won’t drone on about a seder’s symbolic culinary foibles (eating bitter herbs to represent harsh treatment, dipping vegetables into salt water to evoke tears, etc.) and instead make this salient point: If I continued celebrating Easter, I could’ve become a different kind of -holic, one crazed for brown foodstuffs that melt in my mouth, not in my hands. But in lieu of candy, Passover requires, nay demands celebrants signify slaves’ struggle by consuming four glorious, sloshing glasses of wine.

In my early childhood, my father poured my siblings and me grape juice. He and my mom sipped fine syrah or cabernet sauvignon—molar-achingly sweet Manischewitz was unwelcome in our abode. But as eight begat nine, and 13 gave way to 14 and 16, my Welch’s was eventually replaced by adults’ favorite fermented-grape beverage.

“I think you’re old enough now to have a small glass,” my dad said, like a dealer offering that first tempting taste. He decanted a couple inches of purple liquid into my goblet. At the seder-mandated times I took a sip, a tiny one, then a bigger one. I savored the warm, boozy bloom coursing through my veins, staining my smiling lips red. While prayers and dinner continued—now novel and exciting—I relished taste after taste of a new and, befitting Passover, altogether more dangerous form of freedom.