Shack Sauce Works as Truth Serum, Causes Visions
I, along with everyone else in NYC, has been hearing the siren song of Shake Shack for what, over a year now? But I could never bring myself to wait on that line, I just couldn't do it. Besides, could the burgers REALLY be as good as everyone said? It was like some kind of ground-beef cult. If I concurred, I'd be a loathsome bandwagon jumper; if I disagreed, I'd be disappointed.
Last night my friend S. asked if I'd like to have dinner somewhere ahead of my upcoming sojourn to Colorado, someplace I'd miss when I left. He shot down the idea of some good sushi and other ideas that were batted around didn't seem to stick, either (for some reason, my sarcastic suggestion of the Caliente Cab Club didn't strike a chord). Finally he ventured, "How about the Shake Shack?" I let out a whoop, ran down the stairs of my apartment and hopped on the train to meet him for a late, 9:15-ish dinner of a Double Shack burger, a couple of fries and the Arnold Palmer, a half-mix of lemonade and tea.
Holy Moses, that was an amazing burger. Not only did it live up to the hype; in my mind, or in my belly, it actually surpassed it. It was the juiciest, cheesiest, drippiest, most well-seasoned burger I've ever had in New York, greasy hands down. I am an enthusiastic bandwagon jumper. The line wasn't even that bad. It will hard to ever eat a burger anywhere else, ever.
Later in the evening I went on to have a very nice conversation with the friend who took me out for burgers, an honest discussion of things I had been wanting to talk about for some time. And later that night, as I drifted off to sleep (much later, actually, thanks to the tea in the Arnold Palmer), I was treated to some seriously wacky dreams.
I'm convinced it was the Shack Sauce seeping into my system.
Last night my friend S. asked if I'd like to have dinner somewhere ahead of my upcoming sojourn to Colorado, someplace I'd miss when I left. He shot down the idea of some good sushi and other ideas that were batted around didn't seem to stick, either (for some reason, my sarcastic suggestion of the Caliente Cab Club didn't strike a chord). Finally he ventured, "How about the Shake Shack?" I let out a whoop, ran down the stairs of my apartment and hopped on the train to meet him for a late, 9:15-ish dinner of a Double Shack burger, a couple of fries and the Arnold Palmer, a half-mix of lemonade and tea.
Holy Moses, that was an amazing burger. Not only did it live up to the hype; in my mind, or in my belly, it actually surpassed it. It was the juiciest, cheesiest, drippiest, most well-seasoned burger I've ever had in New York, greasy hands down. I am an enthusiastic bandwagon jumper. The line wasn't even that bad. It will hard to ever eat a burger anywhere else, ever.
Later in the evening I went on to have a very nice conversation with the friend who took me out for burgers, an honest discussion of things I had been wanting to talk about for some time. And later that night, as I drifted off to sleep (much later, actually, thanks to the tea in the Arnold Palmer), I was treated to some seriously wacky dreams.
I'm convinced it was the Shack Sauce seeping into my system.
posted by Had To Move at 1:34 PM
2 Comments:
Welcome to the cult. A tip from one of the hopelessly addicted: Always, always, ALWAYS check the Web site to make sure they're open. The Shack closes shockingly often for parades, private parties, etc., and there're few things worse than standing in front of the closed Shack and needing your companion(s) to convince you not to go lie down in the middle of 23rd Street.
Good stuff!
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