Okay, first off, why is every restaurant in this town so damn narrow? I can barely get past the front door of this place, when I’m set upon by the white version of the black nerd from that one show, goddamnit, what was that show? Anyway, it turns out Four-Eyes is the host. Shouldn’t a classy-looking joint like this have a host-ESS? Give me something with gams if I’m going to pay these prices. I tell this schmendrick “party of one” and I thought he was going to have to whip out a sliderule, by the looks of it.
I’m whisked to the back room, where, the first thing I see is a big white piano…and a big white guy playing it! I couldn’t believe it but there he was, boogieing and woogieing non-stop, stomping his foot on the floorboards like he was trying to put out a fire. I have expected the wait staff to start doing the Lindy Hop.
Meanwhile, my host helpfully escorted me to my seat in the mezzanine. He was a nice kid, so I’ll stop busting his balls. Mind you, my seat is an old theater seat, and I think my table was a school desk once. I remember crawling under these things for bomb drills!
I grab a cocktail menu and the first thing I see is a drink called the “French Future.” Hey barkeep: how many shots of surrender are in that? I decided to play it safe and get an Old Fashion. Smooth! I’m now sipping in style and enjoying the tunes.
Although, a couple of songs towards the end of the first set sounded a little macabre. I fllipped a quarter into his jar as he was wrapping up and asked him who composed his last song. He said it was by a fellow named Kurt Cobain. Well, don’t quit your day job, Mr. Cobain.
I returned to my seat just in time for the hamburger I ordered. I sure as hell wasn’t paying $9 for no grilled cheese sandwich! What are they making the cheese with unicorn milk? Yeesh. Anyway, my burger comes, and I immediately have mixed feelings about what I’ve purchased.
On the plus side, it’s practically a towering beef-ferno, a big glorious ball of cow nestled snugly in a stately bun, served up chop house style on a stately butcher board. The burger was so tall, I thought I was going to have to be Dagwood to eat it.
But what’s this? BEAN SPROUTS? What kind of PINKO puts bean sprouts on a perfectly good burger? But there they were, sitting on top of the meat like a hippy girl’s unshaved pits.
I looked around, though, as burger after burger came out of the kitchen. Popular item. When in Rome, as they saying goes, so my chompers went to work.
Friends, I was not disappointed. Salty and brown on the outside, gloriously pink in the middle, with chunks of bacon worth going to war for. To be honest, I didn’t even mind the bean sprouts! If nothing else, now I don’t have to floss tonight.
The piano player returned, and I’m enjoying my meal and tapping my toes. I was in such good spirits, I ordered a Manhattan, and then things really got cooking. I asked our waitress if she’d like to waltz, but she said was busy. So, I decided to break the ice myself…why don’t young people like to dance? Our piano player pounded out a sweet little shuffle, and I showed ’em all how it’s done.
Yutzi always calls me “buzzboy” when I get like this. Ah, Yutz, you should’ve been there!
Anyway, I don’t remember much after that. I might have cut a little too much rug for their tastes. In fact, I may very well have pink elephant-ed this whole thing, it’s just too good to be true! Guess I’ll find out for sure next time I want a burger.
Manhattan Inn, 632 Manhattan Ave., Brooklyn, NY