Today’s contender is the Kentucky Hot Brown from Bar Americain on 52nd St. between 6th and 7th in Manhattan. It is a piece of bread (battered in egg, I think) served “open-faced,” topped with turkey, cheese sauce, melted cheese, bacon and tomato.
But is it a sandwich?
[poll id=”55″]
I’ll be calling in to Airin’ it Out with Bone and Giz to talk Mets tonight. The show starts at 8 p.m. ET, my part a little after that. Check it out.
According to multiple beat writers, Sandy Alderson joined Twitter today, tweeting as @MetsGM. Here is his first Tweet:
I’m hoping it turns out Alderson’s a massive troll. He’s off to a good start.
Joe Drugan of TheNatsBlog.com joins Toby, Patrick and yours truly to help with part three of the continuing N.L. East preview.
On iTunes here.
I could present this in some more detailed or more organized fashion but the workday is getting short and none of it will be new to regular readers of this site, so I’m just going to come with it: There’s a massive distinction between arguing with someone’s baseball analysis and suggesting that the baseball analysis in question comes with insidious motives.
I like this job a lot. I have a platform to write about baseball and sandwiches and space travel and whatever else that comes to mind, in large part because no one ever tells me what to write about. I can’t speak for anyone else and I don’t speak for anyone else. This site’s called TedQuarters. The thoughts and opinions expressed here are my own and only my own except where noted. If you believe otherwise, honestly, just don’t read it. You’ll save us both a hell of a headache.
Which is to say: I want to be able to continue writing what I believe about the Mets, which often comes through my own pathetic lens of optimism, without worrying that anyone will think I’m doing the Wilpons’ bidding — as is sometimes suggested by email and in comments sections elsewhere.
I recognize it comes with the territory and I know I shouldn’t care as much as I do, but it still stings to have all the hours of work and energy you invest in something undercut by some guy who doesn’t know the first thing about you suggesting that your work comes with less-than-honest intentions. And I realize, of course, that this is pointless, because people are going to believe what they want to believe regardless of what I say here. So we’ll all just carry on, I guess.
Here’s an ice-skating monkey:
As you will learn in slightly more detail on the Mostly Mets Podcast later today, I haven’t actually seen Jeremy Lin play yet because I am not privy to the MSG network. But apparently it’s something to see. And it’s great for headline punners, as discussed in this tumbl with some NSFW language.
Some other possibilities, depending on various events during Lin’s tenure with the Knicks:
LIN THE MOOD
OH, LINDEED
HOT BEEF LINJECTION
LINMATES RUNNING THE ASYLUM
LINDUSTRIAL REVOLUTION
LINNER EAR LINFECTION
The last one would have to be for a very specific case.
Man-about-the-blogosphere Ceetar ran with my suggested nickname for Daniel Murphy from yesterday:
So there’s this. Via Scott:
This is what happens when a crazy person catches a cold:
I heard the woman before I saw her, and I assumed her to be the type of sick commuter I judge the crap out of: Someone clearly too ill to be going to work (or really anywhere besides the doctor’s office or the kitchen for a glass of water) who believes herself and her responsibilities too important to avoid germing up whatever mass-transit system she favors with whatever virus or bacteria or fungus is responsible for the disgusting ailment she has clearly come down with.
And look: I’ve been there. It happens. Sometimes you’re out of sick days, sometimes you underestimate how sick you are, sometimes you’re so sick you’re not even thinking straight and you can’t consider any option besides going through your morning routine and getting on the subway feeling awful. Plus, who wants to waste sick days on days when you’re actually sick?
Anyway, I’m hardly a germophobe, but part of having MS means — at least as far as I understand it — if you wind up with some sort of serious illness or infection you could be totally f@#$ing screwed. Not definitely screwed, but it’s not something I’m aiming to gamble with. So I try my best to stay out of harm’s way, and when there’s some woman sneezing and wheezing and hacking in the subway station, I walk down the platform a bit to avoid ending up face-to-face with a coughing mess who could cripple me somehow.
Only this lady was hot on my heels as the train pulled in, and I couldn’t shake her even as I scooted along the side of the car to get to the farthest possible doors. From her array of sick-person noises it wasn’t hard to sense her veering right upon entrance, so I hooked left and proceeded to the middle of the car because I am a responsible commuter.
The train started moving and I unraveled my headphones while she continued with her ridiculous cacophony of grossness. Then, from her general region of the train car, came a commotion and a scattering of passengers.
“She got my suitcase!” said someone with a nasal voice.
Behind a three-deep shield of high-school kids in puffy jackets, I looked toward the woman. She wasn’t the self-important but irresponsible white-collar worker I expected, and it certainly didn’t seem like she was heading to an office. She was probably in her late 40s or early 50s, wearing a black knit hat sitting way off the top of her hat and a long green trenchcoat, and she looked for all the world like she had gotten on the subway specifically to menace people.
The people on the train soon provided her about a four-foot radius of personal space — unheard of on a crowded rush-hour subway. And she used all of it, pacing around, glowering at commuters, and mostly — and I don’t know if there are grown-up words for these actions so I’m just going to use what I called them in seventh grade — blowing snot-rockets and hocking loogies.
Everyone else huddled together as far from her as possible. People abandoned nearby seats and stood in the aisle — their chances of incurring her mucus-wrath lessened by the crowd; herding at its most beneficial.
The guy next to me craned to try to see over my head. He turned to his girlfriend, sitting down but with a much better angle on the woman.
“Yo, she spittin’ on n****s,” she said.
One of the high-school kids, a girl about 15, looked straight down. “I think she got me; I think she got me; I think she got me,” she muttered.
A friend assured her she was safe, then expressed some concern over the condition of his fitted cap.
The woman got off at 68th St., but nobody who was on the train for her spitting spree returned to the area they freed up for her. A couple people got on at the stop and must have wondered why everyone on the train was crushed toward the sides, leaving a big empty space in the middle for them to stand in.
Part of that was certainly inertia: The train’s going to fill up anyway, you’ve already moved once, and it’s just a hell of a lot of effort to move back even if you’re jammed up against a bunch of other people.
Part of it, I think, is a certain and likely misguided type of germophobia: No one wants to stand in the space where they saw the crazy phlegm lady spitting. But of course it’s every man for himself, so no one was going to tell the 68th St. people that they might be wallowing in her hepatitis B, either.
The terrifying thing is that for all we know that type of thing has just happened on every train we get on and we are perpetually the naive 68th St. passengers. I’ve seen people urinate on trains on multiple occasions. Hell, just a couple weeks ago I saw a man vomit up half of his soul on a Manhattan-bound 7 train.
Point is, don’t lick anything on the subway.
A dollar slice isn’t hard to come by in this city. A good dollar slice is a different story altogether.
The best dollar slice in the city has arrived, and it’s at Percy’s — a cozy pizzeria at 190 Bleecker St., in Greenwich Village.
I haven’t had Percy’s yet, though it seems inevitable that I will at some point. It seems like the most common response to the burgeoning dollar-slice pizza craze is, “Hey, that’s a pretty good slice of pizza for a dollar,” or “wow, you know this really isn’t that bad.”
And it’s true: Most of the dollar (or 99-cent) pizza I’ve tried really isn’t that bad. Better than most national chain pizzas, though that isn’t saying much. Plus most of the places are open late, found in convenient locations, and serve the pizza hot and fast. And, of course, you can’t beat the value. It’s a near-meal or a very solid late-night drunken snack for a single dollar.
So the trend is welcome as long as it doesn’t have any affect on the real, non-dollar pizza places the city is famous for. True story: I skipped dinner one night while Christmas shopping and realized I was famished just as I was walking past the 99-cent pizza place in my neighborhood. I stopped in for a slice and ate it on my walk home, thinking all the things I always think about how it’s just not that bad and it’s such a good deal for 99 cents.
But I was still hungry when I finished, so I ducked into a regular-old three-dollar-slice pizzeria and got a second slice there. And then… oh, right: Pizza’s not supposed to be not that bad. Pizza — good pizza — is f@#$ing amazing. Every single aspect of the more expensive slice blew away its 99-cent counterpart: The sauce was tastier, the cheese stretchier and less rubbery, the crust crispier and more flavorful.
There are a hell of a lot of hungry people in this city and most of them rightfully want pizza. So ideally the local economy can support both the 99-cent slice places and the traditional pizzerias, since they both offer something valuable. They offer very different things, like Taco Bell and actual Mexican restaurants or McDonald’s and anyplace that serves burgers that isn’t McDonald’s. And though perhaps in the case of the pizzas the distinction is a little more subtle, there should be room on our streets and in our stomachs for both styles.
Tedquarters 