superfine burgers
you can eat good burgers at Superfine.
How do you get there? You take a swig of whisky out of your flask and close yours eyes and then count to ten. And then you're by city hall at the base of the Brooklyn Bridge. You have to blink ten times to make sure the arches aren't shaped like Absolute bottles (damn you, Advertising! the cause of all society's problems and ills!) but pointed pasties on a buxom go go dancer's stretched out busums. weave your way across the crowds of effeminate European tourists, push your way past the full bottomed red haired girls on razor scooters, and of course dodge the bitchy barrelling people in bicycles that whip past you puffing because they have to pedal and blow big whistles all at once. the walk becomes wood and shakes with the passing traffic below. which you can see, through the cracks!
and when you turn around the hot steamy skyscrapers rising behind you without warning. no bicycle whistles this time. silhouetted in the sunset and bearing down. on everybody else. and before you know it, you're above the dirty river, and fleets of rich men sniffing cocaine in their yachts while their high heeled girlfriends dance deliriously on deck.
the giant neon WATCHTOWER in front, on fore. (Brooklyn!!!!!!!!!!) The Jehovah's Witnesses build huge castles with ominous signs. Inside they make their do Jesus or rot in hell pamphlets. They employ huge armies of short, long suffering immigrant women to assault you with their guilt. to explode their life frustrations on you in the form of hundreds of badly worded cheap paper pamphlets, to judge you with their exhausted, unfulfilled glares.
and they probably have wild, fierce granddaughters who dance on millionare yachts in high heels.
you make your way with the wind whipping your hair until you can't even so much as glance the other way because the sun is blinding, blinding out manhattan and erasing it from existence. skip faster and faster under the smelly underpass, leaving the ogling tourists behind to rush hurriedly back to the subway, afraid of being mugged.
through the withered grass and past the impossibly tall anorexic art society people with tattoos and big bank accounts, and bombed out urban landscapes purposely made to look that way. the graffiti here is beautiful but studied. the kind you see in thick coffee table japanese art books. looked at and take photographs with. frozen. with subtitles and artists' signatures like dead museum artifacts.
and there's superfine right there, the verandah plastic patio furniture underneath the thundering vibrating Manhattan Bridge. (how could such a massive structure get so uniformly dirty?) grinning wise lesbians with cowboy hats and diesel bikes that make gay men swoon and black eyeliner. serving the best dead cow burgers in the city. fresh herby delicious lip smacking ingredients. drinking along side gorgeous construction workers with billowing bellies and long cold bottle beer. and the red sided highway has daisies drawn on it in childrens chalk. the waitress' eyes are wise. no nonsense. all business. she's in a pink slip and cowboy boots and pink lipstick but she's still serious. as you wolf it down you sit back, sleepy eyed, sleepy sighed.
say goodbye
