Gut Instinct: Fearing the Wurst
It was an offer most folks could refuse.
Show up at the City Reliquary at 11 a.m. Saturday, and well ride a school bus somewhere, was my fancifully mustached pal Matt Levys pitch. He was orchestrating arts collective Flux Factorys inaugural Going Places (Doing Stuff) outing. Rent a school bus, give the guide free reign and then ask passengers to depart to destinations unknown.
Sign us up, I reply, for Im a man who enjoys mysterymeat and otherwise. My girlfriend and I arrive in Williamsburg with my stomach growling like a muffler-less Mustang.
I told you to eat dinner, my girlfriend says.
I did.
Beer is not dinner.
The previous eve we visited the recently revived International Bar (120 1/2 First Ave. betw. 7th St. & St. Marks Pl.). Though the grit and communicable diseases have been Mr. Cleaned, the drinks remain panhandler cheap: I pounded $4 whiskey-Schaefer couplings in lieu of solid food.
Well, lets eat before the bus leaves, she says, leading me to cupcake-mad Cheeks Bakery (378 Metropolitan Ave. at Havemeyer St., Williamsburg, Bklyn; 718-599-3583). I order a strawberry scone the size of a mouses torso.
Three dollars, the counter lady says without ironysurprising, since we are in Williamsburg and the price is a joke.
I disappear the crumbly scone in two bites, then I investigate a bodegas choices for sustenance. Amid Doritos I discover Engobicaffeine-infused Energy Go Bites crackers, bearing an orange $.99 sticker reading value priced. The flavor is lemon lift, which inspires as much culinary confidence as Cheez-Whiz.
For experimentations sake, I purchase a bag and crunch brittle, scoop-shape crackers. Engobi tastes like puffed Fruit Loops rolled in crushed Lemonheads candy, sticking to my teeth like peanut brittle. Enough Engobi: Its time to go places. And do stuff.
Who think were going to Manhattan? asks Matt, as adults pretzel into the cramped kiddie seating. Crickets.
Brooklyn?
Zip.
Queens?
Nada.
Bronx?
A couple hands.
What about Staten Island?
As travelers clap and hoot like A-Rod smacked a World Series grand slam, we bounce across the Verrazano-Narrows Bridge to the first stop, Our Lady of Mount Carmels grotto. Its an artificial stone-and-seashell cave containing religious iconography, much like our next stop at the Castleton Hill Moravian Church.
Were going to a labyrinth! Matt announces.
The group cheers. Then we discover that this labyrinth shares little with goblins or David Bowie: This labyrinth is a circular walking path for meditation.
Im not feeling too meditative, I tell my girlfriend, sliding away to my ulterior motive: visiting thin-crust pizza shop Joe and Pats (1758 Victory Blvd. betw. Manor Rd. & Northrop Pl., Staten Island; 718-981-0887). Our tour craves pizza for lunch, so I accompany Matt to lend my expertise in ordering zas (about $20 apiece), including pesto, broccoli rabe, arugula and, umm
Whats scungilli? Matt asks.
Conch, replies a chubby-cheeked counter boy.
With garlic, Matt says.
Twenty minutes later, our adventure posse attacks the crisply charred pies like fallen Slim-Fasters. In a cheesy tsunami, the pizzascreamy pesto and crunchy broccoli rabe are clear winners, with briny scungilli far behindare reduced to grease-stained cardboard.
Sated, I whisper to my girlfriend, rubbing my belly.
I doubt that, she says.
Fattened up, we mosey to the Jacques Marchais Museum of Tibetan Art. We learn how a child actor from Cincinnati, Ohio, married a chemical industrialist and created this verdant center for Himalayan art in Staten Island, complete with Zen-calm terraced gardens. Now filled with knowledge, too, our motley crew departs to our final stop.
Whos ready for beer and meat?
Matt asks.
I am! I shout.
When are you not? my girlfriend adds.
The bus disgorges us at 19th-century Killmeyers Old Bavarian Inn (4254 Arthur Kill Rd. at Sharrotts Rd., Staten Island; 718-984-1202). Though this is my second visit, Im still in awe of the beer hall. Stuffed critters decorate ornately carved wood, while dirndl-wearing waitresses deliver half-liter mugs of wheaty, lemon-dunked Franziskaner Weiss ($6.50).
Staten Island tastes good, I say, sipping myself a beer mustache.
A perky blonde waitress saunters over. My meat-averse girlfriend orders a salad, but I go whole hog with a sausage platter ($15) and a beer stick.
You eat it with beer, the waitress instructs, delivering my thick, mild, chewy sausage. Its lip-smacking with a liberal stripe of tangy mustard.
Look, Im smoking a meat cigar, I tell my girlfriend, inserting a brown length into my mouth like Groucho Marx.
My girlfriend shakes her head, then she wisely averts her eyes when I receive my fat, nearly pornographic tubes of bratwurst, knackwurst and weisswurst. I knife clean juicy wheels, spin them in grainy mustard, chew and repeat, like Im the hungriest, happiest worker on Staten Islands heart-attack assembly line.