I had an amazing cheeseburger on Friday. It was at this tiny place in SoHo called Ruby's. I think it was Australian. It was one of those places that I mostly hate, because it was tiny, so every time someone came in or out the front door, the whole place became a meat locker. And the tables were all family style, and the wait staff asks you if you wouldn't mind sharing a table in this tone of voice that makes you feel like you're supposed to say, oh, yeah, no problem. hey, and when we're done, tell them they can bring their surfboard and crash on my couch for a few weeks.
And they had coke, but only in those teeny-tiny glass bottles that steakhouses in New York serve you for $3, that you more or less finish before you even order, so, obviously, that was out. I'm an American, and I will not ration my coke. I mean, if I start doing that, what did we even fight the British for?
And the cheeseburger itself was $11, but, my friend Adriann suggested the place, and I had a question to ask her about essentially a favor, and so, whatever, sometimes, in those circumstance, you pay $15 for a cheeseburger and no coke.
But then, it came. The Bronte (not like the novelists who may or may not have died early deaths from drinking well water filtered through a cemetery). I want to kiss the cow who gave his life for this burger. No bun, but a crusty loaf. And this sweet chili sauce--I'd box a kangaroo for a bottle of it. There was lettuce, I think, it's all a bit of a culinary blur, and a salad, also good. But my thoughts, obviously, remain with this dreamboat of a cheeseburger. One, doubtless, I'll spend my whole life chasing.