New York Tales: 2. The Burger Brunch

Forget eggs benedict and fancy fries. When your insides are wincing from margarita pain - the burger’s where it’s at.

I’m a maximalist when it comes to the burger. I once had a month’s stint in Australia, where avocado and beetroot is packed in just about everything, after which I was purist no longer. Pickle, onion, fried things, bacon bits. You know the score.

Think thick slabs of meat, wedged in bun and made sloppy with enough condiment to drip from your hands. Cheese? Oh go on then. Melt it.

That was the tonic after a night out at Industry in Hell’s Kitchen - a pulsing gay club, newly opened, box-fresh and quite frankly, too much.

I’d spent the morning-after dazedly wandering the art galleries of Chelsea, all Andy Warhol polaroids and sad artists. But by midday I had a purpose. Brunch with my friend Barry had been booked at the Mercer Kitchen in Soho and burgers awaited. Just the anticipation of eating was making me shake.

The Mercer Kitchen is a fine place - airy and busy up top, but the floor underneath in its Christian Liaigre glory is clandestine - dark with wenge-wood. You may think it's a dear place as it's a Jean-George Vongerichten number (who's just opened Spice Market in Soho, London. Read Jay Rayner's review here) but with burgers at $15 a pop, I don't think that's bad at all.

Barry chose the Niman ranch burger, adorned with only aged cheddar. Mine was called the Mercer (which surely allows the kitchen to dress it up with as fancy ingredients as possible) fussy with tart pepperjack cheese, avocado, creamy Russian dressing and crispy onions. All this glorified cheeseburger was missing was the crunch of salty bacon. Simple golden fries were served charmingly in a flowerpot.

I’d learnt to love Brooklyn Brewery lager over the weeks (the Draft House in Battersea stocks the lager and the ale) which was a handsome thing to swig with mouthfuls of chargrilled meat.

Now, the Mercer is not the best place to chow down burger in New York City. But as far as fussy burgers and good chat go, this place has the winning combination.

It’s the place to talk the morning after the night before. The place where you can avoid smug bright eyed shoppers. The place to hide from the stream of sunbeams when your eyes aren’t quite used to daylight.

I’m all for the burger brunch. Are you?


The Mercer Kitchen
99 Prince St.
New York, NY
10012

New York Tales: 1. The art of eating alone

I grew up on London suspicion.

“Don’t talk to strangers”
“Men that come up to you will kidnap you” (primary school aged six)
“Don’t answer the doorbell especially on Hallowe’en”

I’ve been slowly unpicking these axioms from my life (perhaps the last one not so much).

And then I go to New York City. Everyone’s yapping. No one's moody at you. No huff of an impatient brute in your ear on Oxford Street if you walk too slow. Nor constipated silence in the reluctant intimacy of a train racketing its way to work.

It is a joy to be in New York on your own. Almost every bar of every decent restaurant will have ownsomes drinking, eating, and if they could only smoke, they would.

It’s not an opportunity to leer, it’s not a no-mates statement.

In London it’s unheard of to see people alone for those brunch or dinner occasions. Lunch and coffee perhaps. And rarer still to see strangers talk to each other unless they want to pounce on each other. Perching up at the bar without a companion exposes them as being ON THEIR OWN and WITHOUT FRIENDS.

My friend Kate, a Brit who lives in New York, once rocked up to The Fat Radish to meet a friend only to realise she’d misread her diary and was frustratingly sans mobile. Undeterred, she ordered supper, armed herself with a glass of wine and a paperback. A full member of the ownsome club, she went back for supper with her friend the next day unembarrassed and knowing what to order.

And so I have twenty minutes at the Mercer Kitchen in NY’s Soho on my own. Yearning for a burger brunch that will make friends with some beers and margaritas from the night before.

My friend is late. And that is fine. Trouncing up to the bar, greeted by lovely white-teethed smiles, I snatch a high chair next to someone going at his egg-white omelette with his fork.

I order a cucumber martini.

He looks at me like I’m his kinda girl.

And that’s it. I learn about his trade - broking for marigold yellow cabs. He tells me most people like to rant about them. I don’t, and from there it’s freeflow.

It’s acceptable to be on your own, to wait. My friend Barry comes along, picks me up and there’s no obligation to keep talking. We politely exchange goodbyes. My interlude with a stranger has not ended in kidnap, but a richer appreciation of the yellow cab. Though to be fair – he didn’t come up to me, I bothered him. Perhaps he should’ve been suspicious of me, the Londoner instead.

Purple Sweet Potato: Climbing the Purple Mountain

Behold the purple sweet potato - as exciting as a purple carrot and destined to have the alarming effects of beetroot.

Though the colour may be as rich as a Cadbury’s wrapper, the flesh is not so sweet. We had it mashed - boiled then buttered, as was recommended to me, but the consistency was slightly chalky and flavour blander than a normal sweet potato. I would think roasting would intensify the sweetness, so a dry roast whole then mashed, or roasted wedges with a touch of honey might be the ticket next time.

Apparently this exotic thing will be hitting the shelves under the name ‘Purple Mountain’. The potato is American, but like me, its origins lie in China. If you’re tempted to try it - let me know what you make, and whether you think mashed is the best way to go.

A Very Boozy Brunch - Boston Turkey Hash

What to eat before a dance festival is a tricky one. Filling up too much beforehand can be capering suicide, but there’s too high a risk of pungent festival food repeating on you throughout the day.

The solution? Disco hash.

This is tasty fare that will last you the day and just yearns to be knocked back with a spicy juicy bloody mary. Testament to the ease of this recipe, we stumbled in the night before the festival, chopped, mashed, made hash and left overnight. The next morning, when everyone came round, we just fried the hash off and looked like stars - drink in hand and ready to rock.

We picked this Turkey Hash recipe up in Boston from the best diner I’ve ever been in. Charlie’s Sandwich Shoppe in Boston’s South End - fine purveyor of pancakes, homefries and a good dose of Southie chat. Open for eight decades, Charlies has served musicians through the Jazz age, cops their heavy cream and cornflakes sitting next to gangsters with their coffee and guns. But the star of Charlies (and what to order when you’re perching on those red stools) is the Turkey Hash.

Back in England, the Turkey Hash has now made it out after Christmas, after hangovers, to stave off hangovers. And now it’s festival fodder. If it’s good enough for the gangsters, I’m sure it’s good enough for the revellers.

Music Recommendation for the Hash below.


Turkey Hash
This is a great way to use leftovers - and whatever veg you might have.
Serves 6

1.25kg mashing potatoes
1 big onion
2 sticks celery
1 red pepper
1 Turkey leg
A big sprinkling of paprika
Oil
Butter
Salt and Pepper
6 Eggs (or 12 if you are feeding hungry hoards)

Preheat the oven to 190C, and when ready, roast the turkey leg for an hour. Leave to cool.
Peel, halve and boil the potatoes.
Whilst the potatoes are boiling, finely chop the onion, celery and pepper, and soften in a frying pan for at least 15 minutes on a low-medium heat until translucent.
Shred the turkey and chop finely into very small pieces.

Mash the potatoes and season with salt and pepper. lubricate with a little butter if needs be. Add the onion, celery, red pepper, turkey and the paprika. Mix together thoroughly.

Pack the hash mix tight - into a big sausage shape and wrap in clingfilm.
Chill overnight.

To serve, all you need to do is slice off the amount of hash you want per person and fry in a little butter and olive oil over a high heat until a satisfying crisp edge sets. Serve with a fried egg on top (two eggs for the starving), a spattering of tabasco and a big squidge of tomato ketchup.

Soundtrack: Hospitality: Drum & Bass 2010

Thanks to T for making the hash look delectable, and La and Fe for bringing disco with them.


Charlie’s Sandwich Shoppe
429 Columbus Avenue
Boston, US
+ 1 617 536 7669