Pho Fabulous Pho.

Foodbuzz's Project Food Blog 2010 Challenge #2: The Classics
(Vietnamese Beef Noodle Soup)

Pho is my north, my south, my east and west. My working week and my Sunday rest. Apologies to W.H. Auden, but my pho, my beloved pho, is just that wonderful. Forever and ever amen. It’s an elixir, a cure-all, a restorative. When I’ve been alone or sad or incomplete I’ve ordered this soup and it restores me. Whether you have a stomachache, the flu, or a broken heart, pho can fix it. The meaty broth sinks into my belly and soul and once again, I am whole.

It’s a soup the Vietnamese have perfected, and they’re smart enough to have restaurants only serving pho. Nothing else. For $5.95 I can go down to the local Pho 75 (or 69 or 74 or 21), and buy myself a huge bowl of make me well. You can have grandma’s chicken soup. I’ll take my pho.

I remember the first time I tried pho in a strip mall restaurant with only Vietnamese families and Vietnam vets for company. A calmness settled over me and I knew I’d never be the same. My life would be driven by my craving of good pho. My laminated-list-death-row-meal. I eat pho and I think of major life changes, because every time I needed to have a serious talk with someone, or make a decision, or had a life crisis, I went running for my pho.

I love the taste of it, like the broth has been simmering for weeks and is now the essence of beef. How the noodles slurp and slide. How the steak and beef balls are chewy and hearty. I love all the condiments! How you add a little basil, a little lime, a little chili pepper, maybe a spoonful of hoisin. Definitely a squirt of Cha-Cha sauce (what we call Sriracha) for some sweet heat. No bowl of pho is ever alike because everybody’s “dab of this, squirt of that” proportions are different. Pho-reaking fantastic, pho-abulous pho.

Which makes it all the more bittersweet I now live in a ‘ville with no pho. No authentic pho anyway. There are plenty of imitations, but none that possess the aroma, the deepness of flavor, the scrumdily-umptiousness that a real big bowl of pho contains. So when I heard the next Project Food Blog challenge would be to make a dish from a different culture, one out of your comfort zone, I knew what I must do. Attempt my own bowl of comforting cure. Like a mad scientist I would set out to do the impossible – create a REAL bowl of pho in my kitchen. Imagine my utter glee when I discovered you can make pho…………IN A CROCK POT! Were three words ever more magical? Ladies and gentlemen, I give you:

Crock Pot Pho (Vietnamese Beef Noodle Soup)
from Steamy Kitchen’s Jaden Hair

It turned out wonderfully. Not perfect, but awfully darn close. Here are a few helpful hints should you attempt this dish, and you should, it’s just that easy:

• I spent all day running around for ingredients, trying to use only local businesses. Got my bones from the organic butcher, the noodles and beef balls from the local Asian market. Had to use The Teat (our nickname for Harris Teeter) for the spices. In hindsight I remembered Relay Foods, a TREMENDOUS service we have in the ‘ville. You order online from over 30 different local businesses and they do the shopping for you! Doh! *smacking self in head*
• Careful with the fish sauce! I spilled some and let’s just say it’s STANKY! Real stanky.
• STRAIN THE FAT. Jaden doesn’t mention this, but you must run this soup through a gravy strainer, or let it sit overnight and scrape the fat off in the morning. Beef marrow = fatty-fat-fat-fat. I didn’t pay attention to her ratios, figuring more marrow = more flavor. But you must de-fat this broth unless you want it to taste like an oil slick.
• Cook the broth separate from the noodles. In fact, only cook as many noodles as you think you will eat. The broth keeps, but cooked rice noodles get gummy. We cooked fresh ones the next night for leftovers. BEST leftovers evah.
• Ten minutes into the cooking, the house smelled INCREDIBLE. After 8 hours, Hubby could smell it from outside. Arriving home from work, he raced into the house at breakneck speed, dancing around like a little kid, “Is it ready yet? Is it ready yet? Oh boy Oh boy Oh boy…” Adorable.
• Pho would be a perfect assemble-your-own party food, but I think you’d need a cauldron instead of a 7-quart crock pot (what I used). This made 8 regular size bowls of pho, or 4 restaurant-size.

Which reminds me, I’ve NEVER finished a bowl of pho. Has anyone? The servings they give you are Andre the Giant size! It’s so good I can’t stop eating, but no matter how I try, I’m just pho-full. Hubby and I emerge from our bowls, broth dripping down our chins, asking one another, “Are you pho-full? Yep, pho-full.” But with this homemade pho, I ate a regular ol’ bowlful. All of it. A first for me.

Needless to say, I’ll be making pho again. It was easier than I don’t know what, and while not Pho 75, certainly a reasonable facsimile. “Restaurant quality!” Hubby proclaimed. He always asks me to make him Torta Rustica as a treat. It’s an Italian stuffed pie, an all day construction affair as it contains four different kinds of meat, cheeses, spinach, mushrooms, onions, and peppers. After downing his first bowl of my homemade pho, he looked at me pointedly remarking, “You can make this instead of Torta Rustica honey. Um....when are you making it again?” High praise indeed.

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I’m not a Foodie...I’m a Glutton.

Foodbuzz's Project Food Blog 2010 Challenge #1: Ready, Set, Blog!

It’s true. I’m a glutton slash food writer so excited about all the stories in my little corner of Virginia, I’m even willing to enter a blogging contest with over 1,800 contestants. Just so I can crow about all things edible in Charlottesville (“edible cville” for short). People need to know about the little Yountville (a là Thomas Keller) growing in and around the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains. And I’m just the blogger to do it. C-Ville Weekly's first ever "Best Local Food Blog" winner. That’s me. Not a foodie. Just your average glutton with a love/hate relationship to blogging.

I’ve always been a glutton. Driven by my tastebuds. In fact, I’d rather lose my sight or my hearing rather than my sense of taste and smell (which are so closely related). I knew a guy once who lost his sense of smell because of a car accident. Only the hottest of hot sauces would give him any sensation. NOTHING else. I can’t imagine a worse fate. My own personal version of hell, that.

The word “foodie” annoys me. It sounds infantile. Too much like “doody” or “cutie patootie.” The image it conjures up leaves a bad taste. Foodies turn up their noses at junk food. They wouldn’t deign to breathe the same air as a taco truck. The very notion of carnival corn dogs makes them curl their lips in disgust. Foodies look for trendy ingredients like yuzu or shiso. They wear their black garlic and hibiscus-infused like merit badges. I swear if I see another shiso-marinated-ponzu-thingy in a yuzu vinaigrette reduction with an excellent flavor profile and tons of umami I’m gonna scream.

Gluttons eat what tastes good. They let the ingredients talk instead of deconstructing and then topping them with so much foam they’re barely recognizable. This might mean a just-off-the-vine-still-warm-from-the-sun tomato sliced and drizzled with good olive oil and sea salt. It might mean a grass-fed steak with a nice char on the outside and a medium-rare middle (because anything else is sacrilege). Or it might mean a crunchy, chewy, juicy, corny corn dog, slathered in yellow mustard and devoured on the boardwalk of any fill-in-the-blank beach. It all depends on the context.

Place plays a major part in what makes food great. The best food is the simplest food. The very best ingredients cooked simply. Where, and how you enjoy this food is important as well. Those things together create a memorable experience. One worthy of writing about. One worthy of blogging.

I have a love/hate relationship with blogging. I love the immediacy of publishing it offers, but I HATE how it takes you out of life experience. For example, when I was selected by Foodbuzz to be their correspondent at Michael Symon’s 2009 Share Our Strength Dinner in Cleveland, I was thrilled. Not only would I be able to mix and mingle with my favorite chefs (Symon, Flay, Jonathan Waxman! Are you kidding me?!), but I’d be able to eat their food. The anticipation was exquisite!

But sitting at the table, snapping a photo of each course for prosperity, I felt like a complete idiot. The other 10 people at the table (Hubby understood of course) looked at me like I was a moron. Why are you photographing your food? Eat it fool! Instead of being in the flow of life, savoring every taste and texture, recollecting it later with fondness as a treasured food memory, a blogger must step to one side – out of the flow entirely. The experience is recorded, shared AT THAT MOMENT. Looky Loo! See what I’m eating? Isn’t it awesome?! Blech. It’s a much fuller, richer experience to actually live the meal than it is to record the meal.

And still I blog. Except I recreate the meal, the food experience. From memory only. I relive it through my memory, a squirrely thing of course, but to me memory is more accurate. If a meal isn’t worth remembering, why would you blog about it? By telling the story of the meal, describing its every nuance and texture, I am reliving it. And sharing it. A much deeper experience.

I don’t just blog about what I ate course by course with pictures. I’m a fresh perspective because I write food stories. WRITING ABOUT JUST THE FOOD IS BORING! You can only say something has a terrific flavor profile or a delicious mouth feel so many times before people’s eyes glaze over. I’m looking for the story around the food. More often than not, the reason I’m writing about that particular food eaten at that particular time is not because it was delicious, but because something else happened to make it a great food memory. Something unforgettable enough to share.

It’s food writing. It’s what I love. And it’s why I should win Foodbuzz’s Project Food Blog. Rather than documenting every minute with my smart phone, what I attempt to do is more difficult, but hopefully a much richer experience. I want you there with me. Eating that patty melt, tasting that beer*. Reliving my treasured food memory, rather than showing it to you. Recorded meals leave you flat. Recreated meals leave you full.

*You’ll notice this post isn’t about the patty melt and delicious Left Hand Octoberfest I enjoyed recently at Charlottesville’s Timberwood Grill. It WAS yummy. Gluttonous even. But not blog-worthy.

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H&L Bagels. Bay Ridge, Brooklyn.

There's a chill in the air, which means summer is just about over. The breeze seems to be saying, in not so subtle words, "Fall is here, dear, why don't you finish up your Brooklyn Road Trip Saga before Christmas. Hmmm?" This is food story 4 of 4. Previously, I wrote about a nighttime visit to Coney Island, Brooklyn pizza, and a charismatic restaurant owner in Bay Ridge. If you've been following my stories (which took MONTHS longer than the actual trip), I thank you.

I saw Brooklyn at dawn on a Sunday morning when the only other people up were the old guys sweeping the sidewalks. Shooing out the old debris to prepare for the new dirt to be tracked in on what looked to be another scorching hot June day. The sun rose like a great red wet balloon that morning. The entire neighborhood felt as if it had been dipped in warm water. To do more than breathe took a gargantuan effort, but here we were - Melissa, BB, and me. Plodding along the sidewalk, barely awake. Up at 6am to catch the first hot bagels out of the oven. Sure, we needed to get on the road early to miss traffic, but more importantly, we didn't want them to sell out of bagels. H&L Bagels. The best.

"Saltpeppaketchup?! Saltpeppaketchup?!" BB threw the word out like an incantation as we walked. "Huh?" I asked in sleepy confusion, the word barely registering. "Salt-pepper-ketchup?!" she said, like didn't I know what that meant? "That's what Timmy will ask when you order your breakfast sandwich. All one word like that, so be prepared. He ALWAYS does. Even if you hate ketchup and you go in there every damn day, he'll still say, 'Saltpeppaketchup?!'" she laughed.

The neon "Hot Bagels!" sign outside of H&L called us forward. The soft swish swish of old men sweeping their front stoops provided the morning's music. That and the soft twirping of birds. I never see dawn. Not unless I absolutely have to. So being out here now felt entirely surreal. I felt like I was dreaming. Or maybe I was just damn exhausted. Coffee-less.

But I strode into H&L confident nonetheless. Fake it 'til you make it. I was gonna order a dozen bagels and a breakfast sandwich to go like a New Yorker. I'd done this before, right? No sweat. No stuttering and stammering for me, just cool as a cucumber confidence. I'm a world traveler. An honorary Brooklyn native. I order bagels all the time. This was nothing new, right? But the early hour and the lack of coffee threw me. Then when counter-guy Timmy turned around and I saw both his eyebrows were entirely tattooed onto his face, I faltered. Two giant Sharpie arches. Right there. Wasn't expecting permanent makeup this early in the morning, I mean what the hell? Had he been in a horrible bagel mishap? That's when the downward spiral began.

"Um, what?" I asked sheepishly. He'd asked me something while I was staring. I hadn't heard. Oh no.

"Saltpeppaketchup?!" Timmy growled.

"No thank you.......So sorry, I haven't had coffee yet," I replied sheepishly.

That's when the huge bald Greek owner joined the conversation. He was a giant, covered in tattoos, and when he turned around to face me I felt two inches high. He looked like he could pick me up in one hand and crumple me up in his fist like a candy wrapper. All gone.

"You want some coffee? Let me get you some coffee!" he barked.

I shook my head no. "I'm going to have coffee back at the house," I replied. Meekly.

"What? You don’t want any coffee?" he turned to Timmy. "She don’t want any coffee! I offered her some coffee but she turned me down! She don't want any coffee!" he exclaimed, shrugging his shoulders.

Timmy shrugged back, flipping the breakfast sandwiches, looking perplexed under his perma-arches. He turned to the Greek and asked, "She don't want no coffee? Are you sure? You offered her coffee?"

"Nope I offered. You heard me offer. She don't want none." The Greek was incredulous.

I felt myself slowly sinking into the floor. I was mortified. This verbal volleyball of shit-giving slash teasing continued for many minutes while our egg sandwiches sizzled. It was embarrassing because my verbal skills were that of a 3-month old this early on a Sunday with no coffee. I'm usually right in there, but now? Sideline city. All I could do was stand there and grin like a fool. An imbecile. Silent. Feeling very foolish. I shoulda taken the damn coffee, right? But here I was right in the middle of a "Let's Make Fun of the Tourist!" marathon.

Then I realized something. All these barbs were being thrown at me accompanied by grins and winks. With every wink, I relaxed. I may have actually laughed. It's a great honor to be given shit in a Brooklyn bagel bakery. It means you're accepted. You're part of the neighborhood. Even if you're a jagoff they like you anyway. Like my father always says, "I only tease you because I love you. If I didn't love you? I wouldn't tease you." And he was the ORIGINAL shit-giver in my house.

We went to three bakeries that morning, attempting to hoard a tiny piece of Brooklyn for ourselves at each one. Bagels here, croissants there, cannolis here, black and whites there. And at 7am on a what was probably going to be a hot as hell Sunday morning, ALL these places were open. And all of them within 3 blocks of one another. If I lived in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn that MIGHT get me up at dawn on a Sunday. The promise of a plethora of fresh baked goods a stone’s throw from my front door. The promise of an egg bagel. With egg. With cheese.

H&L egg bagel with egg and cheese. So rich, so eggy, so yellow and gooey, like big ol’ cheesy, eggy bread. Yummers. One of the reasons I’ll never go low carb. Because I wake up in the morning now and wish with all my heart that H&L is set up in my kitchen. The smell will waft my way and I’ll float downstairs with the cartoon finger of smoke beckoning me forward. Purdy please can I have an H&L bakery in my kitchen? Just once?

That morning we were trying to pack a bit of Brooklyn to take with us because we didn’t want to leave. Bagels, black and whites, cannolis. We hoped food would remind us of Brooklyn, or allow the memories to linger. Maybe bring us back sooner than we knew we really could.

The night before Laura had offered to make us dinner while we rested from the day. My Southern lady upbringing wouldn’t allow me to be waited on but she insisted. To my surprise, as I sat on the couch, smelling the wonderful smells wafting from her kitchen, I lay my head down on the arm rest and promptly fell asleep. Melissa was already down for the count on the futon. We napped while BB stirred and chopped, sliced and arranged. Using the organic tomatoes and fresh-made buffalo mozzarella she’d picked up at Union Square Farmer’s Market that day during our excursion into the city to make a delicious insalata caprese. The fresh zucchini, squash, and carrots, were turned into a rustic linguine provencale with just a dash of parmesan and black pepper.

We slept the sleep of the dead while she took care of us. I hadn’t felt that cared for in that particular way in quite a long time. Not since I’d been sacked out on the couch at age 12, full from Thanksgiving turkey, and my Nana brought me pumpkin pie. Talk about comfort food. This was food with a side of comfort.

Not only would we be leaving Brooklyn with edible souvenirs, most of which wouldn’t last the trip back, we would leave having been cared for. Resuscitated. Rejuventated. BB is the Italian grandma I never had but secretly always wanted (sorry Nana). I half expected her to bring us armfuls of leftovers lovingly packed into Cool Whip containers. Although if she had I would’ve cried. My Nana did that. Every time we visited. Even if there weren’t leftovers to pack, she’d find something. Sustenance for the journey. Packing up a little piece of home to take with. To keep the road trip going just a while longer.

We left Brooklyn and BB feeling just that way. Packed to the gills with food for the journey. And with care and love from our friend. As she waved from her front porch, I was already making plans for all the things I would eat on my trip back. And this time I would walk into H&L prepared. With five shots of espresso in my belly.

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BBQ Redux.

So I'm happier than a pig in shit* to have been selected as a BBQ judge for the 1st Annual Midtown Street Fair held yesterday. Roads were closed between 4th and 7th streets in Midtown Charlottesville, and all afternoon bands played, people strolled, waitrons ran Olympic trials, doggies walked, the Charlottesville Derby Dames skated, and the barbecue flowed.

Eight restaurants offered up their pork wares and when all the judges collaborated, three winners were chosen:

1st place - The Seasonal Cook
2nd place - Maya Restaurant and Bar
3rd place - 12st Street Taphouse

Only one problem. The only winner *I* agree with is Maya. Harumph! Now, I'm no expert, but I do love me some cue. I heart the pig so verah much. I watch Chef Michael Symon cook on his television show, "How to Cook Like an Iron Chef" and covet his "OFFAL" tee-shirt. One big reason I wanted to judge is so I could hug fellow judge Craig Hartman, chef/owner of The Barbecue Exchange, because he brought pork belly barbecue into my life. Sadly, I couldn't locate his white hair in the crowd.

Still, since I have the power of the "printed word" at my disposal, my opinion must be heard! Feel free to disagree, but these guys were ROBBED. I've picked two third place winners, because honestly, they were great for different reasons. Here are my winners, and why:

First place - Horse & Hound Gastropub
I loved this barbecue so much I actually went up to them afterwards and sang their praises. Holy God was this stuff delicious. I wanted to eat great large quantities of it with my hands and maybe smear it all over my face for good measure. Simple, slow-smoked pork butt offered in hunks rather than the traditional "pulled" mash. With a dark, smoky crust that tasted of black pepper on the back end and deep smoke on the front. The pig itself was so "porky" very deep flavors, tender, good fat feel in the mouth. Just yummers. And the vinegary mustard sauce on top was so acid and light, it paired perfectly. Mmmmmmm........

Second place - Maya Restaurant and Bar
I completely agree with the judges on this one. Here is a traditional pulled pork done in a "chopped" style, with a crust and a pink smoke ring you could actually SEE. Delicious smoky flavor, great heat on the back end. You could taste this pig had been smoking a long, long time. A real cut above typical pulled pork barbecue sandwiches. Again, I wanted seconds, thirds, fourths.

Third place - Zinc Bistro
Made with Ayrshire Farm pig and to me, the porkiest of the bunch. Deep fatty pork flavor, excellent heat. Great texture in the mouth. Tasty sauce with good vinegar flavors. The only thing keeping them from a solid third place was the salt factor. Chef Justin told me he brined the pig beforehand, but I wonder if that's why his pig tasted a tad salty on the back end. Still, an overall stellar pork showing, an awesome above-average barbecue that I'd eat great quantities of.

Third place - West Main Restaurant
Cooked in gingerale and citrus of all things and you could tell! This barbecue had a fruity sweetness I really liked. Excellent texture, good smoky, fatty flavors to go along with all that fruit. Moist and delicious...BUT (and this is huge for a "butt"), it lacked heat for me. To have truly excellent barbecue you must have some heat. Still, a solid showing and something I'd definitely order on a bun.

Honorable Mention - Blue Moon Diner
A truly classic pulled pork barbecue here. Great texture, and great "late heat" (the simmering you feel in your mouth after you've swallowed said pig). But it lacked depth, a fatty "porkiness" I always look for in my 'cue. They say you can achieve this without smoking, but I wonder. Still, a decent, tasty barbecue offering, and one I enjoyed. Plus, the guy giving out samples was really funny and adorable, so there's that :P

So there they are, my winners. Offered up respectfully with no ill will or disrespect intended toward my fellow judges. Cheers everyone! Now, I'm going to get a Tums the size of my head....

*Sorry to use a well-worn phrase, but this seem appropriate, yes?

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Coney Island.

Before summer officially comes to a close, I'd like to finish my "Brooklyn Saga" of food stories, the result of a recent New York trip. This is number 3 of 4. The first was about Brooklyn pizza, the second about a charismatic restaurant owner in Bay Ridge.

I watched the movie “Inside Man” recently, and the opening shot was of The Cyclone, that famous Coney Island roller coaster, at sunrise. It appeared as an ancient ruin, abandoned and forlorn. I also watched this year’s 4th of July Hot Dog Eating Competition where Joey Chestnut once again wolfed down enough Nathan’s Famous franks in 10 minutes to take the title - 54 to be exact. That Coney Island looked blazing hot and sunny, with thousands of insane people screaming, waving their arms, holding up signs, and welcoming the contestants like they were wrestling superstars. My personal favorite? A man by the name of Gravy Brown. Both Coney Islands were very different from the one I experienced during my summer road trip in June. One I bet a lot of tourists never get to see.

It was so hot that Friday night you felt like you were drowning. It hurt to breathe. The three of us sat on BB's tiny balcony in Bay Ridge, Brooklyn waving our hands like fan-flapping Southern Belles in church, gasping for air like dying fish. Every tiny whiff of breeze was oxygen you tried to catch. “Let’s go to Coney Island!” BB suddenly suggested. “Now?” I wondered. It was already after eight.

“Sure!” BB exclaimed, “You guys need an authentic Nathan’s. Plus, the fireworks start tonight. Get your shoes on!” she gestured with her arm excitedly as she left the balcony. Melissa and I looked at each other, dumbfounded. Two country mice in the big city. “Now? At NIGHT? Is it safe?” she asked. “Don’t take your purse, wear comfortable shoes, and maybe no flashy jewelry?” I suggested, shrugging my shoulders. I had no experience with after-dark excursions to get hot dogs.

BB returned full of piss and vinegar for our new adventure. “Don’t take your purse, just a coupladollahs for a hot dog, and wear something comfortable. As long as we stay within this block, and this block (she motioned with her hands like a football coach), we’ll be fine.” She sounded as confident as any Brooklyn broad should be, but I wasn’t too sure. Still, I felt as nervous and excited as if BB had suggested we break into the amusement park after closing to ride The Cyclone.

The parking goddess was good to us that night - we found rock star parking a block over from Nathan’s even though it seemed the entire borough had suddenly gotten a hot dog craving. To say it was crowded would be like saying a french fry cooked in duck fat is “pretty good”. It reminded me of Daytona Bike Week. Or Spring Break on any fill-in-the-blank beach. Cruising cars were everywhere. After all, it was the first night for summer Friday fireworks, and who doesn’t love a free show? Indeed it seemed all of Brooklyn had shown up to see them.

As we walked toward the beach, following the crowd, a scene played out before us that might have been a hint of the wilderness which lay ahead. Three women surrounded a little girl between two parked cars, human walls of a sort. She was maybe 3 or 4. All of them were shouting, “Pee! Pee! Come on, pee right now before anyone sees!” in heavy Brooklynese. I thought to myself, oh lord child, what are we walking into? We laughed nervously and BB glanced at us apologetically as we hurried past. I had a vision of all the years of therapy and nervous bladder that kid would endure. A perfect future candidate for Toviaz if there ever was one.

Nathan’s Famous looked like a shining beacon of hot dog oasis amid the nighttime sea of humanity, honking and cruising cars, booming bass, and people streaming from the subway station across the street like ants on their way to a picnic. I had a fleeting thought about that Seinfeld episode where Jerry and the naked guy take the train to the end of the line to ride the Cyclone. "Ya gotta like their chances!"

Every walk of life was on the boardwalk. Couples, families, old folks, tattooed college students, teenagers, dogs, girly girls, kids, and even us tourists. A huge burly baldheaded man who looked like his favorite word was “Ba-da Bing!” carried a tiny white dog in his arms. Girls in high heels who looked like they had just come from a Jersey Shore audition giggled and teetered on Barbie feet. I wondered how they would handle the sand in those stripper heels. It was Bosch’s Garden of Earthly Delights, Brooklyn style. I felt like BB had lifted a curtain and showed us what real New Yorkers do after the tourists are tucked into bed.

We waited in the huge line for food and I gawked at the sheer carnival of humanity playing out before me. I loved it. Carrying our franks, fries, and beer, we made our way to the show on the beach. I’d never had a Nathan’s, but figured even if it wasn’t the most spectacular dog I’d ever had, it would be by default. Simply because of the ambiance.

I mean, what's more perfect than a hot dog, fries, and beer. On a beach. In the summer. With fireworks? And so we stood on the sand, eating our awesome Nathan's (they are freaking awesome after all), drinking beer, and crunching on fries while all around us the party continued onandontilthebreakadawn. For one shining moment, brought to you by fireworks, all of us are the same human. Here for the same reason. To see a little magic.

Behind us, Brooklyn's homeless inhabited every bench on the boardwalk. On the sand before us, I saw (in no particular order): a discarded blanket; a beer can; a lettuce leaf; 2 people rolling in the sand like a big ‘ol 8-legged sea monster; a family chugging beer in their camping chairs while little kids built sand castles behind them; people dancing; kids chasing each other in the dark under the big orange moon; and 2 young lovers leaned up against each other on a blanket, gazing up at the stars and out at the water like they were posing for a picture, or a travel postcard. Their giant daiquiri cups, straws at attention, were stuck in the sand to one side, placed just so. It was like a still life tableau of the perfect honeymoon travel ad. Come to Coney Island to get away from it all. Except with the pandemonium occurring around them it came across as hysterically funny.

A friend recently told me it’s possible, when you die, to have your ashes shot up into fireworks. It goes off and you shoot into the air like rockets red glare and starburst your way into the next life. As I watched this blazing spectacle, sipping beer and stealing fries from BB, I thought of this. Not a bad way to go really. Especially if it was here. Do not go gently into that good night – rage, rage and all that. Not a bad way at all. What’s not to like? People eating franks, drinking beer, enjoying a hot summer night together and watching you go out in a blaze of glory. If that ain’t being a part of the human race then I don’t know what is.

Coney Island was an adventure. Part No Reservations, part Jersey Shore, part childhood beach memory. I was scared to death to do it, but am so glad I did. Sometimes you gotta take a chance, be a little uncomfortable, to have an adventure. Be a little worried. Be a little scared. Go to Coney Island at night. Just take a coupleahdollahs and wear comfy shoes.

Or if that's too much, then get up wicked early. To see Brooklyn at dawn. Which is the subject of my last adventure in Bay Ridge…

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