Hipster Union

Ahh, summer. It the season when I remember why I will never be able to keep Kosher (or even be a vegetarian). There’s spare ribs to smoke, bacon cheeseburgers to grill, fish to catch, and Lipitor prescriptions to fill. As I gear up for my annual trip to the Outer Banks (OBX - respresent!), I stumbled on this New York Times recipe for soft-shell crab Poor Boy sandwiches Po’ Boys. Being in the New York Times, though, they call them “Poor Boy Sandwiches.” Facking Chardonnay-swilling Hampton-loving prats.

“THERE may be no bad way to prepare soft-shell crabs. They contain so much moisture they’re just about impossible to overcook, and they cook so quickly they’re hard to undercook. … Having said that, the near-universally favorite way to serve soft-shells is fried. Most people agree that the coating should contain some cornmeal, and that a quick dip in milk or eggs to thicken the coating and help it adhere is useful.

“When you put those fried crabs on bread, you have a riff on the New Orleans poor-boy. The specifics of this creation can be endlessly debated, but the fixings* usually include lettuce, tomato and mayonnaise. Oddly enough, the true poor-boy is made on less-than-fabulous bread, labeled “French” or “Italian” in supermarkets. The sandwich is vastly improved by removing some of the mushy white crumb, and toasting what is left.

“(After a few tries using better bread, I began to understand the logic: the best baguettes are too tough to use for stout fillings like the crabs.)“

O RLY? The New York Times understands a po’ boy. I beg to differ.

Here’s where I’m coming from: I eat sandwiches from skeevy joints. The best Cubano I’ve ever had was from a bat-and-tackle gas station shop called “Mervis Market” in Okeechobee, FL. I buy oysters by the peck at Awful Arthur’s, a raw bar in Nags Head, NC. I’ve eaten ribs from street vendors in DC who use an old oil drum for a smoker. I’ve knocked back beers while eating gator bits and conch fritters at a roadside dive in St. Augustine.  And I eat sliders from barmaids of ill-repute at dive bars in New York.  The New York Times writers eat cucumber sandwiches while windsurfing at Martha’s Vineyard.

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There was an article in the New York Times this morning, bemoaning the beginning of tourist season. Why do I mention it? Because of this paragraph:

“Especially this year, which according to statistics compiled by New York City, is likely to be a very big year for foreign tourists around here. The dollar is cheap. The shopping is endless.

And about seven million foreign visitors are expected in the city — the highest number since before 9/11 — mainly from Britain, Ireland, France, Italy, Spain, Scandinavia and Germany.

This is good news for New York, of course. Foreigners who vacation in the United States spend about four times as much as American tourists do.”

First off, good job America. Way to ignore the warning signs about the Euro becoming a dominant force and Asian investment in the dollar. Foreign markets are moving away from the dollar, China is holding our currency hostage because they hold so god-damned much of it, and a “service-based economy” is starting to look like W’s only solid prediction. Except it won’t be Americans selling crap to other Americans; it will be Americans selling crap to tourists. That said, now for my main point:

F*ck you, New York Times! While you’re eating cucumber sandwiches and drinking Chardonnay and having clam bakes and windsurfing and playing golf in the Hamptons, the rest of us working stiffs will have to deal with these a**holes from distant lands. Which is why I think that we real New Yorkers need to find a summer pastime other than Yankees/Mets baseball: big-game hunting. Not just any big-game. The most dangerous game of all - man.

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