Fifth Avenue Fair

By far, the best part of summer is being outside most of the time, and an important sub-part of that is eating and drinking outside. If, like many urban dwellers, you don’t have a backyard, it can be slightly more difficult to arrange these kinds of activities. Some countries make it easy, and the summer I spent in Paris was full of night-picnicking on the steps of Sacre Coeur or on the lawn of the Champ de Mars with a slab of Comté, a few baguettes, and several bottles of wine.

But this Puritan nation of ours is less accommodating (in more areas than this), and we have to be more surreptitious here. Except on those lovely days when the city fences off a length of an avenue for the most delightful of summer events: the street fair.

The 5^th Avenue Fair, which happened a few weekends ago, includes many of the less exciting aspects of those generic street fairs that pop up on blocks of the Village every weekend between May and October, but it goes far beyond Mozzarepas and fake silk scarves. All the local restaurants make an appearance, and there’s a lot of good food to choose from. We started out at the Bierkraft stand, which was selling gigantic pulled pork sandwiches and watermelon beer. The beer tasted like a yeasty Jolly Rancher, which was actually very refreshing in the heat.

I had considerable trouble deciding between the many Greek and South American food carts, but was very happy with the hummus wrap I settled on, a sun-dried tomato tortilla filled with hummus, kalamata olives, tomatoes, and feta. We then met up with a few more friends, who were coming from brunch and didn’t need more food, but had a different excellent idea: margaritas.

Naturally, I had already identified the cheapest margarita stand, so we all lined up there. As we each successively took a first sip from our to-go cup, the same reaction passed over each of our faces, an expression of the thought, “Oh, this is much stronger than I had expected.” We continued down 5^th Avenue, sipping our sour tequila, slowly fading into a sun-soaked daze. It was a beautiful day, and one of those prized opportunities to walk around in a slightly heightened state in a crowd of several thousand happy Brooklynites of all ages, shapes, and colors.

Stay tuned for more summer food festivals: The Lebanese, Greek, and Swedish Midsummer Festivals are all coming up.

Waffleschmarrn

Dinner at Die Blaue Gans the other night was more than satisfying: a spicy cheese spread and a tower of potatoes, sauerkraut, and blood sausage were a rich start to a filling main course of pan-fried trout with cauliflower and pine nuts in a buttery white wine sauce. I was nonetheless coaxed into ordering dessert, partially out of peer pressure, but also because “Schwartzwälder Torte” looked fun to pronounce. But when the desserts arrived at the table and everyone saw what was placed in front of Chase, we all instantly wished we had been savvy enough to say “Kaiserschmarrn.”

It wasn’t that the presentation was that spectacular. It looked like, and was, a heap of mangled and nearly-burnt pancakes. But the scent of butter and sugar rising from it set off whatever sensory receptors are responsible for telling the brain “There is something nearby that should be eaten immediately.” I don’t remember if I asked permission before extending my fork; all I remember is the decadent taste of butter saturation and chewy caramelized edges.

“Kaiserschmarrn” is a dessert version of the original “Schmarrn,” a shredded omelet, but the same word can be used to mean “rubbish.” It’s clear, to me at least, that this traditional Austrian dish is the product of incompetence in the kitchen: the delicious result of being unable to flip an omelet or a pancake without destroying it, followed by the chef's giving up and calling it something else. So as I surreptitiously devoured Chase’s dessert, I started thinking about how to make it myself.

But while I pondered whether it would be best to use a cast-iron skillet or non-stick pan, another experiment occurred to me, one that would use up the leftovers from a previous weekend brunch that were now sitting in the freezer. “Waffleschmarrn” seemed like it would have potential – the many edges would allow for even more caramelization.

It was experimental cooking, played entirely by ear. I melted two tablespoons of butter in a frying pan, and zapped two frozen waffles in the microwave for a minute or so, sprinkling them with lemon juice when they came out to make sure they stayed soft. I tore them into irregular chunks and threw them into the melted butter, then added a tablespoon or two of powdered sugar and turned the heat up to high. After a few minutes the edges were crisping up and the sugar was caramelizing nicely in places. I piled all of it onto a plate and spooned some blueberries (also thawed in the microwave) over the top.

I would say the experiment worked. Next time I might brown the butter a bit more and add sugar to the pan before the waffles to get a deeper caramel going, but it was still a very tasty dessert. When you think about it, it’s nothing more than a butter-soaked heap of rag-like breakfast pastry bits, but when you can describe something using the words “butter-soaked” and “heap,” it's clearly not the time or place for skepticism.

Brooklyn Flea

The Williamsburg Savings Bank at One Hanson Place is a fixture of the landscape from any vantage point in downtown Brooklyn and the surrounding neighborhoods, including Boerum Hill, north Park Slope, Fort Greene, and Prospect Heights. Its skinny clock tower informs commuters getting off at the Atlantic Terminal just how long it took them to get over the bridge, and runners emerging from Prospect Park and shooting down Flatbush Avenue can check it to see exactly how long they have to get back home if they want to be on time for work. The building's stately architecture lent some class to the view from my fire escape on Pacific Street, counteracting the neon signs of Chuck E. Cheese and "HOME EATER PRO" (once "Home Theater Pro-Line," before light bulbs got too expensive to replace).

But the exterior, nice as it is, does not betray the impressiveness of the design inside the building, which is now open to visitors as the Sunday location of the Brooklyn Flea. Once inside, you find yourself surrounded by soft pink marble, vaulted ceilings with detailed midnight blue and gold designs, doors and corridors framed by wrought-iron gratings. All that and the signs pointing you to "Life Insurance" and "Bonds" are enough to make you think you've stepped into a different era, but the feeling is enhanced by the fact that it's a flea market, so, naturally, you're surrounded by a lot of old stuff. Vintage boots, antique posters, assorted taxidermy - all things I would contemplate saving up for if I weren't dreading the task of transporting all the belongings I already have across the country in a few months. But even if you're not in the market for any retro knickknacks, it's an entertaining environment to walk around in for an hour or so.

The food offerings at the Brooklyn Flea, meanwhile, are entirely representative of Brooklyn in the present moment. At the McClure's Pickles table I sampled some Bloody Mary mix made with their spicy garlic dill pickles and some tomato puree, which was delicious, but probably too salty to drink in large quantities. There was artisanal chocolate flecked with sea salt crystals, and home-brewing kits with everything you need to make one gallon of your own lavender-flavored beer. Then, more pickles to rival McClure's: Rick's Pick's table was covered with jars of pickled okra, asparagus, red peppers, and green beans. I also finally discovered that Kumquat Cupcakes, which I had seen advertised on a cafe chalkboard near my apartment, does not refer to any kind of citrusy confection, but rather to an entire bakery operation. And their signature cupcake is hardly fruity: a maple pecan cake topped with creamy frosting and a piece of bacon.

I worry that Brooklyn’s bounty of historic buildings, inventive baking, and obsessive pickling has spoiled me; but I suppose I have to enjoy it while I can, and I’m glad I happened to stumble upon the flea market at One Hanson this weekend.