Gut Instinct: Captain-ing a Sinking Ship

“You look like you received a gangland beating,” my girlfriend says, tsk-tsking my ground-meat palms, grapefruit right knee and limp to rival an arthritic grandpa’s.

“Too mush delishiness,” I mumble, pantomiming falling off my bike and crashing to the pavement. “Too mush…”

“I know, I know.” She sighs, a parent whose kid has disappointed again, but whom they must still love. “Didn’t you eat enough pork?”

“Pork!” I shout, as the day’s details fuzzily appear, like a Magic 8-Ball answer: Outlook not so good.

Disaster was predestined. I’d organized a field trip to Pleasantville, New York’s Captain Lawrence, the metro region’s finest microbrewery. From the spicy Belgian-style Liquid Gold to the ferociously hoppy Captain’s Reserve Imperial IPA, these wondrous beers make me proud to be a New York drunk.

My crew’s plan was to catch the 10:48 a.m. train. By 10:45, only two friends had appeared. “Just one last platform check,” I told my pal Julie, busy chewing a Bergen Bagels everything. I stepped outside, just as the doors clammed shut. With my bike and bag inside.

Julie futilely poked the emergency button as the train slithered off, maintaining eye contact as if we were family members separated by war. I caught the next train, trying not to strangle tardy stragglers. We’d initially planned to ride around Pleasantville’s gurgling reservoir, but I was feeling foul. “Beer. Now,” I growled, leading our crew to Captain.

Today was the brewery’s third anniversary party, an occasion commemorated with roasted pigs and lakes of beer. The Captain (well, brewmaster Scott Vaccaro) let guests scamper around the crowded, high-ceilinged complex, slurping crisp Freshchester Pale Ale and ogling shiny objects. “Meet our brand-new bottling line,” Vaccaro said, waving a hand across the gleaming, conveyor-driven gewgaws that sanitize, fill and cap up to 3,000 12-ouncers an hour. “Watch this,” Vaccaro said, sending a bottle through the whirring machinations. We watched, silent and slack jawed, wowed by technology’s contribution to inebriation.

Not that we needed help today. “We’re double-fisting,” said Julie, a friend whose floss-thin waist belies her quenchless thirst for beer. We slumped to a tent, scoring a seasonal espresso stout that reeked of fresh-roasted java, minus the bitterness. The Brown Bird ale was smooth and nutty, with a refreshingly grassy finish, while the Sunblock was wheaty summertime refreshment.

“Now it’s time for piggy-piggy,” Julie said, procuring several double-decker pulled-pork and brisket sandwiches. They’re piquantly sauced and taste profoundly of smoke, which is billowing profusely from a smoker. With boldness awakened by beer, I slumped forward, hoping to grab underappreciated pig parts.

“Sir, do you have any spare ears? Or perhaps some cheeks?” I asked the bald, aproned swine tender. Such crunchy, tasty bits are often forsaken for juicy rump meat. “Only if you like it well done.” “Oh, I do.” “Come here.” He lifted the smoker’s lid, revealing a pig licked by flames too often, too soon: Skin and charcoal shared the same color.

“Now that,” I said, “is sad.” Men have been stripped of spatulas for lesser transgressions. “I know, man,” the BBQ guy commiserated, closing the lid on the travesty.

Instead of offal, I retreated to our table with a cup of cask-conditioned Freshchester, aged with dried peaches. It recalled French-kissing a perfume bottle. But the afternoon’s highlight, the extra-hopped Belgian-style Xtra Gold, would remain untapped till Freshchester was finished. “Kill it,” the beer-drenched pourer had pleaded, as if the cask were a mortally wounded animal. I disappeared the beer into the bushes.

“What are you doing?” inquired the muscled doorman, incredulous that anyone dared dump beer.

“It tastes like liquefied potpourri,” I replied, weaseling away. Fifteen minutes later, in great part to my unscrupulous friends, the Freshchester cask kicked. The Xtra Gold was tapped, spraying foam across the eager hordes, across my smudged eyewear. “Thanks for your help,” the beer pourer said, passing me a cup of hazy, zesty Xtra filled with green hop nibs, like pureed marijuana.

I glugged with gusto, relishing the pungent, weed-like aromatics. Then I exhausted another cup. Or maybe I didn’t, as a dark, muffled curtain drew across my consciousness. For those lucky souls who possess restraint, open bars are strolls in the park. Lack an off switch, like I do, and open bars invite ruin. Post-Xtra, my afternoon passed in a montage of poor decision-making: Buying a growler of pale ale. Stealing toilet paper. Wobbling to the train. Draining the growler. Reaching Brooklyn. And then stupidly pedaling home, whereupon I kept my appointment with gravity and ground as unforgiving as the hangover to come.

Gut Instinct: Pass the Roach

As the years stack like firewood, birthdays become unwelcome reminders of encroaching crow’s-feet and dwindling mortality. Hence, my downstairs neighbor Angie was hardly elated to extinguish her 31 candles.

“I don’t need—or want—to have a big party,” Angie moaned one morning. She nursed a whiskey-born brain jackhammer, an affliction easier to cure at 21, when there existed endless mornings to waste beneath bedcovers, waiting for aches to evaporate.

“But it’s your birthday,” I replied, perplexed. My birthday is an unofficial national holiday, celebrated on Coney Island’s sand with countless Nathan’s hot dogs and cans of cold Coors Light.

“Well…I guess I could do dinner,” she replied, rubbing her traitorous skull.

“That’s the ticket,” I said. “Now where would you like to go?” She groaned, going nonverbal. Angie works as a waitress and, like most servers, savors a post-shift drink.

But one 1 a.m. cocktail easily becomes two, destroying the ensuing morn. It’s a professional hazard, much like my granite liver and yellowed skin. I offered Angie the Islands. Prospect Heights’ tastiest Caribbean restaurant has a tree-house upstairs, BYOB and scorching shrimp. Nope. Instead, I suggested Park Slope’s Middle Eastern Olive Vine. “I’m not eating falafel on my birthday,” Ms. Picky said. Reaching into my memory, I removed Milon. “What’s Milon?” she asked, rousing from her liquor shroud.

Why, it’s Curry Row’s tackiest Indian restaurant. The birthday-party mecca is crammed with rickety tables, epileptically flashing chili-pepper and Christmas lights and revelers bamboozled on BYOB. “Perfect,” she said, slinking downstairs into the dark. “Let’s make it happen.”
I rubbed my papery palms and chortled, for I love planning parties—hard details lay the framework for liquor-fueled bedlam. Or so I thought, as everyone convened at Allen & Delancey (115 Allen St. at Delancey St., 212-253-5400). This L.E.S. restaurant is a looker, filled with candles, curios, distressed wood and complex cocktails, concocted by Death & Co.’s Alex Day.

His elixirs typically run $13, but Tuesday’s recession special lops prices in half.To ensure seating (cheapskates quickly consume the chairs), our celebrants arrived at 5:45, nabbing the front window’s prime semicircle booth. As eagerly as alcoholics at an open bar, we slurped the entire liquid menu, encompassing winners like an aromatic Jalisco Trail, made with aged tequila, bitters and green chartreuse, as well as Tinker’s Stand done two ways: the first featured warming bourbon spiked with honeyed ginger syrup, while the second starred smooth rye mixed with bitters and floral elderflower.

As celebrants drank themselves into effusive evening personalities, I departed to Whole Foods Bowery to procure dinnertime refreshments—a growler of Brooklyn Brewery’s massively hoppy Brooklyn Blast and bottles of Lagunitas Hop Stoopid, ale that smells overwhelmingly of cannabis.

These IPAs ably combat the fiery food at Milon (93 1st Ave. betw. E. 5th & E. 6th Sts., 212-228-4896), where there’s more spice than space. Milon is a claustrophobic corridor, with patrons squeezed together like a 1920s tenement family. Instead of panic attacks, though, these cramped confines foster revelry. “That’s because we’re drinking ourselves comfortable,” one diner said, shoehorning into our corner tables and taking a calming slug of my just-delivered suds. To hold intoxication at bay, we devoured an army of affordable (most dishes run less than $9) stomach insulation. The vegetarian madras constituted tender patties awash in pi quant curry. Lamb vindaloo was loaded with incendiary chunks of gamy goodness, while the saag paneer’s rich bhuna curry and springy homemade cheese was a triumph. Still, the standouts were buttery parathas stuffed with chicken tikka or spinach—crunchy, opulent pleasure.We were licking crumbs and cracking final beers when, in our dinner party’s distant corner, our friend Meghan yelped. “Oh, no,” she said, brushing a brown, many-legged critter from her curly locks.

“Was that a—?”

“Roach,” she completed my sentence. She pointed toward the ceiling. “It fell.”

Our party blanched at the heaven-sent gift, but the food was already anchoring our bellies. Truth is, cockroaches often skitter across my kitchen. I kill ’em, then continue to cook couscous or what have you. The happiest New Yorkers have made peace with the city’s endless vermin and pests—and the cagiest New Yorkers transform misfortune into opportunity.

“There was a roach,” Meghan informed the server.

“And it’s her birthday!” I added, angling for the trauma discount. In a blink, the server crossed out several courses from our bill.Then, like a misbehaving parent appeasing his forlorn kids, he brought everyone ice cream and pushed play on the stereo.

“Happy birthday, happy birthday to you,” we sang along to a song that never gets old, no matter if you are.

Gut Instinct: Strip Steak

The underwear-dampening downpour begins right after I depart Midtown’s urine-scented Port Authority subway station.

I’m not the one who’s supposed to look like a wet T-shirt contestant, I think, as I walk on water toward distant Hell’s Kitchen’s Headquarters Gentleman’s Club. Though I typically abstain from visiting flesh markets during daylight, today is special: I was invited to attend Headquarters’ open call for its forthcoming upstairs steakhouse, Bianca’s Triple Ds—dinner, drinks and dances, in whatever order a man desires.

“We are looking for a talented female chef with great looks and a great personality,” Bianca’s notice read, adding, “culinary training strongly recommended, previous experience preferred.” Friendly waitresses were also required. Anyone was welcome to apply.

“Here’s an application,” a young Asian man says as I enter the death-quiet club, looking like a half-drowned dog. “Reporter,” I reply, sogging upstairs. Behind a linen-topped table sit three judges: slick Sopranos cast member Will DeMeo, director Paul Borghese and Michael Musto, the Voice’s flamboyant gossip columnist. He’s the last man I’d expect at a strip club.

“These boys are desperately straight, and Michael is desperately gay. I thought it’d be a perfect balance,” says R. Couri Hay, the event’s equally flamboyant PR mastermind. Hair combed back and blue glasses dangling around his tanned neck, he offers me water. I’ve had my fill. “We have more than 65 confirmations,” he says, as I sink into a red-velvet seat.

Minutes dissolve. Nobody materializes. “I thought people needed jobs in this economy,” Hay says. I guess rain has made gals question their objectified employment aims. Bored judges finger cell phones. I wring my sodden grey sweater. Hay hurries off, then rushes back.

“Our first contestant is here!” he announces. In walks a pint-size, coal-tressed applicant with a washboard chest. His name is Jay, and he’s from Nepal. “We’re not sexist,” Hay says. “Tell us about yourself.”

In the cautious manner of someone for whom English is a second language, Jay tells his tale: He started cooking in 2007, toiling in steakhouses and attending the French Culinary Institute. “So you’re not just here for lap dances?” Hay kids.

Jay titters. Now that would be a job perk. “Do you have a green card?” Hay asks. “No,” Jay replies, his laughter high and pinched—is this an immigration sting?

“Well, maybe we can sponsor you,” Hay jokes. “Would you like to cook our steaks— two medium, two medium-rare, please?” Jay jaunts into the kitchen, while a willowy blonde with a flowing white shirt walks in. She’s Ukrainian, a former blackjack dealer.

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“Are you the next hot chef?” Hay asks.

“I don’t cook,” she replies, confusion crossing her eyes. “I’m a waitress.” Nonetheless, the judges have cuisine questions.

“What’s your best dish?” DeMeo asks.

“Ever work with peanut butter?” Borghese chimes in.

The Ukrainian’s brain spins. She wants this job. Bad. “Squirrels,” she answers proudly, nodding.

“You stuff squirrels?” Borghese asks, aghast—ask a question, be prepared for any answer.

“No, I feed squirrels peanut butter. In Central Park. I don’t cook them.” She laughs heartily, as if to say, I’m not the savage here. She’s sent off to demonstrate her napkinfolding skill.

“Our next contestant has a résumé and a green card,” Hay announces, ushering in Ann, a slender brunette in tight black slacks. She recites her chops, cooking at a Brooklyn restaurant till it went bust. She’s articulate, skilled and cute.What’s she doing here? Before I find out, in strolls a statuesque Californian, crammed into tight blue jeans and a low-cut teal top. The judges—two, at least—admire her buoyant assets.

“I should get a job because I came here in the rain,” she declares. The hetero judges agree, just as the steaks arrive, steaming and juicy. Ann is sent to the kitchen to prepare filet mignon, while a hangdog gent of advanced years enters the room.

“I’m here to be a waiter,” he croaks, also demonstrating his napkin-folding skills. For a strip club, there’s a real premium on linen service.

“Some people did not read the job description closely enough,” Musto groans, shaking his head in disbelief. I, too, am incredulous. I came expecting a circus, but instead discover a train wreck. These wannabe waitresses and chefs are not in on the joke; they’ve braved the ugly elements to play extras in a publicity stunt gone painfully awry.

“Would you like to be the next hot chef?” Hay asks me, scanning a room that’s empty in so many ways. Give up writing to char meat for horny men? I decline and depart into damp Hell. I slog along, passing a garage housing Central Park’s carriage horses, where I watch one equine release a hot, steaming encapsulation of the afternoon.

Gut Instinct: Shari-La on the Lake

Photo by my girlfriend. She’ll kill me if I don’t mention that.

The recent heat  wave stoked my meat lust.

“You’ve got that crazy look,” my girlfriend says, retreating backward into our blue living room wall.

“I…need…to grill,“ I reply. I clench my eyes and envision flesh sizzling, my arm hairs singeing to stubble. When temps near triple digits, I crave control over glowing coals. The grill master is god, or at least a deluded culinary deity. Like Paula Deen.

“They’re going to be grilling at Flushtopia,” my girlfriend says.

“Flush-a-whata?” I envision a bathroom, toilet paper strung like streamers and a man muttering sweet nothings about Mr. Hankey, the Christmas poo.You know, art.

“Uh, no,” my girlfriend says, peeking once more into my mortifying psyche. “It’s different.” I’ll say. Conceived by art collective the Anti-Fascist Culture Club, The Undiscovered Atoll of Flushtopia is a series of man-made isles floating in Flushing Meadows’ lake.The islands are constructed from reclaimed materials, largely from the nearby 1939 World’s Fair ice rink, a temporary utopia in its own right. “And there will be grilling on these islands?”

“Just grab your bike,” she sighs, slathering on sunscreen before we pedal into the bright, unseasonably humid April morn. Our first stop is Astoria’s Socrates Sculpture Park. The East River–hugging green space is hosting a kids’ kite day, doubling as a going-away party for several acquaintances.

For baby-averse man-children such as myself, it’s a live-action scared-straight video. Everywhere toddlers are flying colorful kites, with mothers nursing newborns as brazenly as I pick my nose. I see more nipples in 15 minutes than my first 18 years of living.

I find solace in snacks from Sal, Kris and Charlie Deli (33-12 23rd Ave. at 33rd St., 718-278-9240, Queens), Astoria’s self-titled king of sandwiches. None is more impressive than the garbage-sink “bomb,” overloaded with cheese, hot peppers, mayo, oil, vinegar and thin slices of most delicious domesticated animals. “Don’t you want to play with the babies?” my girlfriend asks, toying with a tyke’s chubby toes. I fill my mouth with prosciutto in lieu of letting regrettable words escape.

My sandwich is gone, and so are we.We pedal through leafy Jackson Heights, before cutting across Corona and arriving at the park. From shimmering Meadow Lake’s dock we spy a bobbing, misshapen land mass covered in Astroturf. It’s tethered to various floating structures—a tent, undulating hill, rowboat loaded with paperwork and a spindly construction stabilized with splintery benches. It’s imagination made real, valuable new real estate in a space-starved city, all thanks to wood scraps, screws and foam. We clamber onto a canoe and row a hundred yards to this manufactured Eden.

“Watch your step,” warns bespectacled, bushy-bearded Flushtopian Douglas Paulson, as we wobble aboard. Flushtopia, Paulson explains, is inspired by bygone island utopias, from mad Samuel Comstock, who massacred his cohorts while scheming to rule the Marshall Islands (he was killed before his plan came to fruition), to Libertalia, the communalist pirate and slave colony located off Madagascar’s coast.

These island utopias were failures, and I fear Flushtopia may too go down in history, if not the lake. In the near distance, there’s the half-submerged wreckage of an island. If seafarers stand on the makeshift lands’ edges, the islands list precariously, submerging feet in fetid lake water. To allay my drowning dread, I head to the makeshift bar-restaurant and order whiskey. “You can pour it yourself,” the bartender says, disconcertingly absconding from his post for a boat back to shore. I slide behind the cinderblock and plywood structure, water lapping at my ankles.

“You’re in your natural habitat,” my girlfriend says, catching me cracking a warm Schaefer. I drink deeply as I dole out Boca burgers and crisp Sabretts to famished kids, bemused parents and tattooed adventurers. But the food disappears quickly, and no reinforcements are coming. I pass on bartender duties and head to the grill, located inside an overhang studded with sharp screws—tetanus, not scurvy, is Flushtopia’s prime health concern. A freckled gent wearing shorts fans a few wan coals.

“Looks like you’re having some problems,” I say nonchalantly, resisting my alpha-griller instincts to elbow him into the watery depths.

“Know anything about grilling?” he asks. “Stand aside.” I bend down and, like the three little pigs’ wolf, blow with all my might. The embers alight, orange to red to blinding white. Onto the searing metal slats I toss wieners, their smoky crackle filling my heart with happiness. This certainly is utopia, I think, drinking my beer deeply, as the afternoon and the islands slowly disappear.