02.05.08
Posted in New Jersey, Sandwiches at 5:11 pm by Administrator
Obama came to North Jersey yesterday to ask for my vote. Well, he wasn’t asking for my vote. He was asking for New Jersey votes. But he promised he’d end the war, end the mindset that got us into war, provide universal health care, fund schools, and put a chicken in every pot (he didn’t actually promise that last one). And he promised to do it by the end of his first term.
Maybe he can do it. Probably he can’t. But at least he’s saying he’ll give it a try which more than I can say for any other candidate.
The Kennedys were with him! Teddy and Caroline both. Plus Obama is a GREAT speaker, inspired and inspiring, so I ate up every word he said. And so did this little blonde boy, proving to me beyond a doubt that Obama is not just “the black candidate” like the Clinton campaign would have you think.
Obama was introduced at the Meadowlands by Travis Bickle himself (Robert DeNiro) so that was enough for me. That and the fact that Obama is “embarrassed” that we are even having a debate in this country about whether or not we should use torture. “Embarrassed” is the word I’ve been using this whole time.
But if I’m going to cross the river to the Jersey side, I’m not just going to attend a rally for a guy I decided to vote for six months ago. I’ve got to do some chowhounding. And if I’m going through the Lincoln Tunnel, Hoboken is the place to be.
The sign at the border of the city says “Birthplace of Frank Sinatra and Baseball.” So it must be one of the best places on earth. And my friend Adam Wade who works with me and my bro at NBC Sports did a hilarious video on a tuna and mozzarella sandwich at Fiore’s. I’d been meaning to get there for a long time.
Fiore’s is my kind of place: Established almost a century ago; Windows fogged up because they’re making mozzarella fresh all day; Signs on the walls that clearly haven’t been changed at least since the 50s.
Unfortunately the tuna sandwich of which Wade spoke is only on Fridays, but that’s okay because it gives me a good excuse to go back. I didn’t get a chance to dig into the amazing looking vat of oversized squid or stuffed peppers while I was there either:
I did get to try two different sandwiches. They have you pick out your own bread and bring it to the counter where a super nice guy in a grandpa hat makes your sandwich to order.
The proscuitto and sopressata with fresh mozzarella and red peppers was great. Fiore’s mozzarella is softer, wetter, and squishier than any I’ve ever had. And I’ve had ‘em all over the world (stretched Godfather reference). It had clearly been made within minutes of going onto my roll. I would have brought home a ball of it, but I just ate a ball from Joe’s Dairy on my block the day before, so I used my will power . . . and got a ball of smoked to change things up.
The special of the day – smoked ham with fresh mozzarella and gravy – blew my freaking mind. I went to sleep tasting it in my head, I dreamt about it all night, and I woke up thinking of it.
That part of Hoboken was so old school Italian. Satrialle’s Pork Store came to mind. I’d bet Guilliani. Or McCain now. But even the Italian civic club next to Fiore’s loved Obama.
And if you’ve got those guys on your side, you’re going places. Seriously. I’d have to imagine this is the first African American presidential candidate for whom they painted their windows. Obama has these old Italians, the Kennedys, and little blond children all pulling for him?!?! Plus he’s got Travis Bickle and Famous Fat Dave. This guy can win. So long as you remember to vote today.
Fiore, 4th St and Adams, Hoboken NJ
Barack Obama, www.BarackObama.com
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12.09.07
Posted in Famous Fat Dave's Five Borough Eating Tours, Jewish, Middle Eastern, New Jersey, Posts For History.Com, Sweets at 4:28 am by Administrator
Chanukah is almost over. But keep the festivities alive with another HistoryChannel.Com video. It’s about Sufganiyot. Never heard of them? Neither had I. Look and learn:
Holiday Food: Sufganiyot
Eating Tours: Famous Fat Dave
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10.31.07
Posted in Famous Fat Dave's Five Borough Eating Tours, New Jersey, Posts For History.Com, Sweets at 10:24 pm by Administrator
This All Hallow’s Eve I do NOT have a new story for you guys to read because I haven’t been driving the cab lately thanks to grad school (thank you grad school, if you’re reading). But I do have a couple of links worth clicking away from FamousFatDave.Com for (click there to browse five borough eating tours for which I am NEVER too busy).
The first link is the inaugural episode of my Holiday Foods Series airing waaaaay over on the other side of the internet at HistoryChannel Dot Com. I’ll be taking you guys on a few different mini eating tours, each focussing on a different holiday food. In today’s episode I take the old Checker cab to Metro Candy Apple in Clifton, NJ whereupon I meet Ray (not impressed by me) and Weezie (LOVED me) while I learn the art of the candy apple.
Holiday Foods: Candy Apples
The second link is to herald the start of a new, bold, delicious blog called “The Crumb Catcher.” Packed with recipes and food reviews, Juree (a former customer on the wheels of steel/ my best friend’s sister) is going to take the food blog world by storm.
The Crumb Catcher. Blogspot. Com
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09.07.07
Posted in All-U-Can-Eat, Jewish, Lower East Side, Manhattan, Meats, New Jersey, Pickles, Sandwiches at 7:06 am by Administrator
I try not to spread the rumors I hear in my cab. These are just schlubs I pick up off the street, and I usually have no way to corroborate their stories. The internet is a powerful weapon which, according to my America Online Terms Of Service Agreement that I e-signed in 1994, I have sworn to use responsibly.
But I heard a particularly nasty rumor a little while back that I just had to investigate. I heard that Katz’s Deli is going to be turned into luxury condos. “No no no, you got it all wrong,” I retorted when those words violated my ear holes. “They’re turning the parking lot and Yarakovsky’s container store across the street into condos. That’s already happening.” My brain wouldn’t allow me accept the possibility that it might be true. But my fare told me that he’d read it in Time Out New York, and if James Oliver Curry says it. . .
Apparently, the plan is to close down Katz’s (for the first time since 1888), build condos on top, and then reopen Katz’s underneath. To me, this is terrifying. This is like the “grandma is on the roof” joke. They are setting me up to to let me down easy. So that I won’t just wake up one day and find Katz closed forever, the way 2nd Avenue Deli met its demise not so long ago.
(A close up of Katz’s as it has been for well over a century)
(A wider shot reveals the luxury condo trend on the LES visible just a block away on Orhard, and this shot was taken from the luxury condo construction site mentioned above)
No luxury condo on earth would allow a stinky deli on its ground floor. I think it’s a New York State Law that if there’s anything other than a bank on the retail level of a luxury condo, it’s got to be a Whole Foods.
Guss Pickles as we know it ended the same way. One day, the building’s owner decided to make luxury condos out of the Essex Street location. One morning, they went to open up the store and there was a lock on the gate and an eviction notice. Guss had to move to Orchard Street, but the joke’s on the gentrifiers because I guarantee that first floor will still smell like full sours for at least a decade. Katz’s smell, however, won’t linger if they tear the whole structure down to make way for high rise with floor to ceiling windows on every floor (which look great from the inside, but is starting to make the Lower East Side look like a suburban office park).
I decided to go into Katz’s Deli to do a little snooping . . . and eating. It was late on a weeknight, so there was no line. I walked straight up to that old meat cutter with the white hair and the tatooed forearms (if you eat at Katz’s you know who I’m talking about). As he made me my reuben, I made small talk (and made sure that he saw me put a dollar in that upside down paper cup that acts as a tip jar on the Lower East Side). His name, I found out after eating the meat he cut me for 10 years, is Peter. He’s Russian, and he’s worked at Katz for longer than Bernie was a Yankee.
“So . . . what’s the deal with this luxury condo business?” I asked as if I were Jerry Seinfeld setting up a joke. I wanted him to look at me like I was crazy. I wanted him to flick his wrist and wave his knife dismissively. I wanted him to say that it was just a rumor, a dirty, rotten lie.
But he didn’t. His face dropped. His eyes narrowed. And as he pushed a slice a warm pastrami across the counter for me to nibble, he leaned in and motioned for me to do that same. “You have no idea the amount of money these people are dealing in. . . No idea,” he said in a hushed tone. “But they don’t tell us nothing. It might be a condo with the deli on the bottom. It might be a condo with a lobby on the bottom. It might stay the way it is. They don’t tell us nothing. But you have no idea . . . no idea the amount of money.”
Now, I’ve had more powerful religious experiences at Katz’s than I’ve had at my synagogue. I’ve never felt more Jewish – or more at peace with the world for that matter – than I did while eating my first Katz’s reuben, alone, facing one of the only blank spots on the wall. If Katz’s closes, I may consider moving out of New York. That, or become a Buddhist.
So with the possibility of Katz’s closing, and 2nd Avenue Deli and Pastrami Queen as much a part of New York history as the Checker Cab, I was in the market for a new deli. I’d already heard about this place in New Jersey called Harold’s from an college friend who used to eat at Katz’s with me. Then an old New Yorker in my cab told me Harold’s was the real deal. When I heard a couple of gay Puerto Rican thugs from Newark with their elderly Jewish trick on the Christopher Street Pier announce loudly that they were all going to Harold’s, it was the last straw. It was time for me to branch out.
(Harold’s immediately gets old school cred for the skyline on the sign)
On my last trip down the NJTP I pulled off at exit 10. And there my faith was restored. I found Harold’s everything I’d hoped for and more.
First of all, everything there is oversized. And I don’t just mean oversized the way the way white girls wear their plastic belts in Williamsburg. I mean oversized the way Barry Bonds’ head is oversized. One slice of cake is the size of an entire cake anywhere else:
And, as Harold’s sign boast, in this case “bigger is better.” My pastrami sandwich was delicious. It was moist and tender, fatty without being chewy, with a tempurature like warm apple pie. New Yorkers often claim it’s the city’s water that makes their food so special, so it can’t be duplicated in New Jersey. Granted, I like Katz’s more. And both 2nd Ave Deli and Pastrami Queen were better. So I guess I’m lowering the bar now that the pickin’s are slimmer. Either way though, Harold’s pastrami made me very, very happy.
Harold’s pickles made me even happier though. I’d heard that they had the world’s largest and only free pickle bar. But I assumed that that too was a rumor. A FREE pickle bar?!? Sounded too good to be true.
But there it was, as plain as the Jewish nose on my face. And the pickles were great. New pickles, half sours, full sours (although they call them half sours, sours, and kosher dills as though the others are not kosher and don’t have dill which I think they are and they do). The pickles were almost all crunchy. Not a mushy bloater in the bunch. And the health salad, hot cherry peppers, spicy pickle chips, and pickled tomatoes were all delicious as well. When the sandwich came, a small bowl of completely gratuitous cole slaw came with it, but it ended up being one of the highlights of the meal.
I made more trips to the pickle bar than was appropriate, but at Harold’s it is a culture of abundance and no one batted an eyelash. In fact, the menu encourages sharing at no extra cost. Melissa and I shared one “small” pastrami sandwich, and by the time we left the table we were stuffed. We each got a Dr. Brown’s, we brought home left-over pickles from the bottomless pickle bar along with extra rye bread to go with the extra sandwich and a half worth of left-over pastrami, and the whole thing cost $25 including the tip.
Katz’s will close one day. And I’ve come to terms with that. Maybe there won’t be condos. Maybe there will be condos. But I will most likely see Katz’s shutter its doors before the end of my life. So when that happens, there will be a lot less of this:
And a lot more of this:
Harold’s New York Deli Restaurant, Exit 10 on the NJ Turn Pike, Follow The Signs To Raritan Center until after the clover leaf under the highway, Take a left onto the street where you see the Holiday Inn and Harold’s in the back
Five Borough Food Tourism at FamousFatDave.Com for Katz’s and much more
(On the clock at Katz’s)
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11.03.06
Posted in Belmont, Bronx, Chinese, DC, Fruits and Veggies, Italian, New Jersey, Posts For Not For Tourists, Seafood, Sweets at 8:48 am by Administrator
I hope you’ve been checking in to Not For Tourist Guidebook every day. If you haven’t, may I suggest you do so today. Both the New York page (Randazzo’s Seafood in The Bronx) and the DC page (Roger’s Produce in Potomac, Maryland) have blurbs written by some crazy cabbie.
Also, I’ve missed a couple opportunities to link to my blurbs in the past few weeks, so you can belatedly click below for those as well.
Magic Fountain Ice Cream in New Jersey
Bethesda Co-Op in Bethesda, Maryland
Tony Cheng’s in Chinatown, DC
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05.19.06
Posted in Brooklyn, Coney Island, Hot Dogs, New Jersey at 9:58 am by Administrator
A lot of people, I am told, apply for good jobs when they graduate from college. They enter the work force swinging, and they don’t stop until they’ve retired to that beach house or country home 50 years later. A lot of people, my parents often tell me, keep their eyes on the prize so they can land that six figure salary and send their own kids to college.
My parents dropped a cool hundred grand on my four years at NYU. And when I graduated, I wasted no time. The ink on my degree wasn’t dry yet, and I filled out my very first job application. I drove down to Coney Island, walked up to the first cashier I saw at Nathan’s Famous Hot Dogs, and demanded an application and a hot dog with sour kraut and onions.
I neglected to mention my college degree to them. I also neglected to mention that I planned to triple the value of my hourly wage by consuming enough hot dogs to train for the International Hot Dog Eating Contest like Badlands Booker. Yet the manager looked at me like I was crazy and told me he’d get back to me. I called every day for weeks until I was finally informed that I was “overqualified.” I didn’t feel overqualified, and I was heartbroken.
(The true king of the open mouthed photo op and a personal hero of mine: Badlands Booker)
You have to understand, I am the type of person who stops for a hot dog on his way to eat ribs. I’ve based my entire philosphy of cab-driving on a chance encounter I had with a Chicago cabbie who pulled off the highway to get a Super Dog with me on the way to O’Hare.
Hot dogs, I must say, are one of my great passions. I consider it one of my worthiest accomplishments in life that it was my grilled hot dog during my bbq at my bungalow in Rockaway that was the first bit of meat my vegetarian friend Mark ate in close to a decade. “Is this a really, really good hot dog Dave? Or is this just what they taste like?” he asked, wide-eyed. I just smiled. Within days, he was eating multiple hot dogs per week, he was the star of the annual 7th Street Community Garden Pulled Pork Party, and he eventually moved to Argentina in part to partake of their bountiful and inexpensive steak.
During a stormy evening in Chicago a few years back, I was so overcome with the excitement of a coming hot dog run to Big Herm’s Hot Dog Palace that I decided to race the car to the store for the last long block. I was in the throws of a folk hero phase at the time and felt like the John Henry of the North Side that night. I jumped out of the car in the pouring rain and kept up for (as I recall) quite a while until my brother and cousins left me in the dust. The whole while I sang: “Big Davey when he was a babyyyy, settin on his mammy’s knee, picked up a hot dog in his little right hand, said this’ll be the death of me me meee, yes this’ll be the death of meeee.” As I ate that dog that night dripping wet, I felt I had become a sort of folk hero myself.
And I think I was right about it being the death of me. A couple of summers ago, I finally landed a job selling Nathan’s hot dogs in Coney Island. I worked as a vendor in the stands at the Brooklyn Cyclones minor league ball park. The Cyclones were not good that year, and crowds were sparse. That was not good for business (I’d take home $25 on a good night), but it was even worse for my diet. Since I got to keep the hot dogs I didn’t manage to sell, and the longer the season dragged on the more hot dogs I took home to my endless bbq, I realized almost too late that I was edging perilously close to actually becoming Ignatius J. Reilly. Ironically, since I had a rockin tan from living on the beach that summer, people kept telling me that I looked marvelous (tans have a slimming effect). I could honestly tell people, “Thank you, I’m on a hot dog diet.”
(Crucified by my own gluttony at Nathan’s Famous)
So when I saw A Hot Dog Program on PBS a few weeks ago documenting the nation’s best hot dogs, I was chomping at the bit. I’ve lived in New York for close to a decade, but I’d never heard of Rutt’s Hut just across the Hudson River in New Jersey. At Rutt’s Hut, they deep fry their hot dogs which burst open in the oil, and they serve them with a homemade relish that you can spread directly into the gaping wounds in the extra crispy dog. They are called “rippers,” and I had never conceived of something so enticing in my entire life of excess and gluttony.
Yesterday I made it out there at the beginning of a brief road trip I’m making down the eastern seaboard. I got lost and had to ask directions at an ice cream parlor. The girl there told me the deep fried hot dogs were “kind of gross,” but I paid her no mind.
When I arrived, I ordered myself “a hot dog,” too whimpy and out of my element to confidently ask for a “ripper.” What I got looked just like what I’d seen on the documentary:
My first, ravenous bite after so much anticipation and hullabaloo might be most appropriately described as the biggest disappointment I’ve had the displeasure to experience since the Yankees choked and then choked and then choked and then choked again in the 2004 American League Championship Series.
The skin looked the part, but it was almost rubbery. The relish was lacking something (I think it was the flavor of pickles). The meat inside had shrunken and shriveled and retreated from the lackluster casing. And the dog had not one bit of snap to it.
(This candid, greasy-mouthed shot of me eyeing the ripper says it all)
I marched back up to the counter, having heard one hefty local order a ”ripper” (or three) loud and clear. I asked for one “ripper” and was met with the same sad dog. I hung my head. I’d been duped.
As a consequence my faith in PBS has been shaken at its very core. How can I ever trust Public Broadcasting again, or, for that matter, any other grand public institution (regardless of the systemic corruption and cronyism). I let my belly down, so I’m going to blame some of the people in this room – and then I do not forgive. The next hot dog I eat, I assure you, will be from a place good enough to work for.
Nathan’s Famous, 1310 Surf Avenue, Coney Island, Brooklyn
Rutt’s Hut, 417 River Road, Clifton, New Jersey
Go to www.famousfatdave.com for a laugh or to book an eating tour
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05.16.06
Posted in Dave's Faves, Little Italy, Manhattan, Meats, New Jersey, Sandwiches, Washington Heights at 6:20 am by Administrator
May is National Hamburger Month, and the burger-lovers at A Hamburger Today requested that I compile a “Best Of” list for the occasion. Since I call myself both Famous Fat Dave and The Hungry Cabbie, I thought I might transform “AHamburgerToday” into “ThreeHamburgersToday” for this exercise. So I spent an entire shift in the yellow cab searching for good New York burgers. I ate one for breakfast, one for lunch, and one for dinner. And here you have it: The Hungry Cabbie’s picks for “Best Three Hamburgers” of the day, as recommended by my fares.
My first fare of the day, at 5:15 pm when traffic is at its worst, was a New Jersey soccer mom rushing home to pick up her kids. She asked if I would take her through the Lincoln Tunnel to Clifton, New Jersey. This is a fare that is incredibly time-consuming, and it is not required by law that I go to New Jersey (unless it is to Newark Airport). Usually when people request it, I decline and tell them NJ Transit would be faster.
However, I had already decided to go where the day took me and let fate decide which burgers would reach my eager belly. So I took her. And when I told her that I was really in the mood for a burger, she said there were a couple local places, but she couldn’t think of one tastier than the Red Robin Bacon Cheeseburger with onion straws at The Red Robin.
The Red Robin is a national chain along the lines of T.G.I.Friday’s or Ruby Tuesday’s, but not so obnoxious. I’d never heard of it much less been to one, but, apparently, I had been missing out. They have 25 different kinds of burgers, bottomless fountain drinks, and all-u-can-eat steak fries. Happy memories of Fuddruckers burger feasts on summer Saturdays after swim meets came rushing back to me, and I made my way there with a wide smile of anticipation on my face.
Although I could see the Empire State Building from the edge of the parking lot on Route 3, the Red Robin felt decidedly suburban. There was the teenage hostess who clearly said the same exact thing to everyone, the New Jersey radio station playing only the whitest hits, and the customers wearing fleeces and jean shorts. It seemed like middle America.
When my burger came my mouth began to water, and not just because it was 6 pm and I hadn’t eaten yet. It looked beautiful. It was big, but not overwhelming. It was loaded with toppings, but the burger was clearly the star.
And once I took a bite, I felt beautiful. The salty onion rings that came piled onto the bottom bun were a perfect complement to the hickory maple-smoked bacon and juicy burger. I had taken a chance on the suburbs, and it had paid off in a big way. My first burger of the day was a resounding success.
(Kicking off my shift right with my first bite of burger)
Getting back into the city, however, was a nightmare. I sat in traffic for over an hour, affording me time take in some great views of the skyline:
but killing any chance I had to make good money on the shift. By the time I got back, the rush hour was long over, and fares were scarce.
After a few fares who had no clue as to where to find a good burger, I picked up a glowingly happy couple on their way to a Broadway show. They were from Australia, Tasmania to be exact, and they were honeymooning for six months in America. They had come through Hawaii, California, Las Vegas, New Orleans, Florida, and Washington, and they were nearing the end of their trip here in New York.
I assumed they wouldn’t know any burger place since they were just tourists, but I asked them anyway. Thank God I did. They told me that every Australian in New York, whether living here or just passing through, goes to Ruby’s on Mulberry Street. Owned by a couple of expatriate Aussies, Ruby’s serves fantastic burgers and great coffee as well. They told me they’d been looking forward to a meal at Ruby’s their entire honeymoon, and when they made it there, they were not disappointed.
(You could tell this guy is a real Aussie by his accent and his smile)
Once I drove back downtown, I took their advice and ordered a “Whaley’s.” It came on baguette-like bread with a fried egg, pineapple, and beets (apparently, Aussies all grow up eating beets). I was skeptical, about the beets in particular, but the moment I took my first bite I was consumed with that rare feeling I get when I taste something so delicious that I get angry with myself for not having eaten it before.
The ground beef was so tasty that not only did my saliva glands switch into overdrive, but my tear ducts began to work. I can honestly say that the “Whaley’s” burger brought me to tears. The fried egg was genius, and the beets made me a believer. My only complaint was that the burger patty was smaller than the bread, leaving the last couple bites meatless.
The cappuccino made up for this one small negative though. I am not a coffee drinker because I’m worried about getting addicted to the caffeine, but Ruby’s coffee was so good it made me reconsider my lifestyle.
For the rest of the night, I couldn’t get a recommendation out of anyone. I started to think I’d failed my ThreeHamburgersToday adventure when I saw it was 2 am and the streets were growing desolate. I considered quitting and just going to Corner Bistro because I was hungry again. On my way crosstown, I was hailed on Christopher Street and Bleeker by a Dominican transvestite hooker and her pimp. They told me to go to Washington Heights, but we immediately got stuck in a traffic jam on Christopher Street.
At that point, a bunch of transvestite hookers recognized my fares and came over to chat with them at the backseat window. One of them, seemingly the queen bee, caught my eye and stood up from the window. She announced loudly, in a comically, Rosie Perez-esque accent, “LOOK AT THE CUTE WHITE CAB DRIVAUH. . . mmm, mmm, mmm, mmMM, MMMMM! You guuuuys. Oooooooh girls. Look at the CUTE WHITE CAB DRIVAUUUH!” I waved hello to the group.
She leaned into the frontseat window and asked, “Do you like girls? I’m a girl. Do you like me?” The traffic jam let up at that moment, and she rapidly said, “My name is Angelina, my number is 6464966540, I HAVE A PUSSY,” at which point she stood up and hoisted her camel-toed crotch onto the window sill to prove that she didn’t have a penis (unlike, presumably, the others in the group).
I can’t say that got me in the mood for another hamburger, but it did create a friendly rapport between me and my transvestite fare. I asked her if there was any place for a burger in her neighborhood at that hour, and she told me to get a chimichurri at the Dominican pork truck on 155th Street and Broadway. “Actually, I think I want one too,” she said.
So there I was, waiting in line with a transvestite hooker and her pimp at the Dominican pork truck in Washington Heights. I thought to myself, it’s moments like this that remind me how much I love driving a yellow cab.
The pimp bought me a $3 chimichurri as my tip, and I was very thankful. They told me everyone up in Washington Heights eat “chimis” late night, kind of the way people downtown get a slice of pizza. The crowd on the sidewalk was boisterous and rowdy, and my presence did not go unnoticed. But I wasn’t nervous because the pimp was with me (rather I was with the pimp), and I figured he wouldn’t let anything happen to me.
(The chimi lady liked me too)
My chimi was incredible. It was actually reminiscent of the Ruby’s burger in that it came on long bread rather than a bun and the meat was much more flavorful than your average ground beef. But whereas Ruby’s meat tasted so good because it was extremely high quality, the chimi was so tasty because they seasoned the low quality meat beyond recognition.
My Spanish isn’t particularly good, but I’m pretty sure it was beef and I’m positive they offered a chicken option (as did Ruby’s). I watched as she pressed it on the grill and loaded it with chopped red onions and shredded cabbage. But the defining characteristic was the sauce, a combination of Russian dressing (giving it a vague Big Mac quality), ketchup, mustard, and hot sauce that all liquified during the heating process. It was a mess, but my chimi was absolutely delicious.
I bid my new friends farewell, and headed back to the garage. Pleased with myself just for finding three new burgers in one day, I crossed the 59th Street Bridge feeling groovy (and a little queasy).
Here’s wishing you and yours a healthy and happy National Hamburger Month. So go out and celebrate today with a hamburger (or three).
Check out http://www.ahamburgertoday.com for everything you ever wanted to know about burger but were afraid to ask
Red Robin, 265 State Route 3, Clifton, New Jersey
Ruby’s, Mulberry between Spring and Prince, Little Italy, Manhattan
Dominican Pork Truck, usually parked at 155th Street and Amsterdam, Washington Heights, Manhattan (there are many others)
Check out http://www.famousfatdave.com for a chuckle or to book an eating tour
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