Gut Instinct: Nice to Meat You
Rummage through my dresser drawers crumpled sweatshirts and faded, crotch-frayed jeans, and youll find a sparkly fabric rectangle that I affectionately call my meat flag.
It displays a picture of me grinning with serial-killer glee, hoisting taut, pink kielbasa above my head like a trophya picture taken seconds before I swung the greasy lengths like nunchaku onto a glowing-red grill.
Grilling might be the only time youre truly happy, my girlfriend says.
Except when Im drunk, I add.
Sweet lollipops, I love to grill. Invite me to your barbecue and Ill liberate spatulas from lesser men and dole out my medium-rare rapture. The secret is grade-A meat, a mixture of deliciousness and minimum expenditure that requires a field trip to distant Brooklyn. For my Memorial Day weekend provisionary run, I enlist my pedaling pal Aaron.
Were heading to meat heaven, I say, as we aim toward the Atlantic Ocean. But first, we must snack. Upon entering Russian Brighton Beach, we pit stop at M&I International (249 Brighton Beach Ave. betw. Brighton 1st St. & Brighton 1st Pl., Bklyn; 718-615-1011). M&Is a bastion of smoked fish, pickled vegetables and pierozki ($1.25 apiece). Theyre deep-fried oblong pies packed with cabbage, potatoes or meat. Which meat?
Meat, says a thick woman wearing a hairnet, manning the sidewalk-ordering window.
Delicious, I say, as she fills a plastic bag with pies. We bring them to the boardwalk.
Should they be so greasy? Aaron asks. Oil drips onto wooden planks.
Just eat, I say, as we chomp in unison.
Its dessert and dinner all in one, Aaron proclaimsfunnel cake with a meat chaser.
And youre complaining?
Not at all, he says, fingers glistening in the sun.
Covered with a greasy sheen, we continue our trek to my grilling secret: Coney Islands Major Prime Meat Market (1516 Mermaid Ave. betw. W. 15th & W. 16th Sts, Bklyn, 718-372-8091). I first found Major four summers prior when, following a lobster-red beach afternoon, I stumbled into the sawdust-strewn shop. I was intrigued by Majors shop window filled with vintage Coney photos, but my heart swooned for silver-haired proprietor Jimmy Prince, a fixture since 1949.
You looking for a steak? he asked, immaculate in a button-down and tie.
I was.
Ill be right back. He sliced me a hefty sirloin beaut, marbled with marvelous fat.
Cook it right, and you wont find a finer steak, he said.
I did. He was right. Ive returned to Major again and again, whenever my meat lust demanded satiation. Like today.
Ill be with you in a moment, fellas, Prince says, as we swing inside. Prince smileshes always smilingand shuffles into his walk-in cooler, where his meat (prime only, thank you) dry-ages and develops a dense, concentrated flavor. We sway to big-band music and examine canned goods and produce until Prince reappears, hands on hips.
I need burgers, I announce.
We can do that, Prince says. He lugs an antiquated grinder into the walk-in. He returns with a fat, red lump of fresh-ground beef, which he hand-stamps into patties with a steel contraption. He displays the thick, third-pound patty like a parent proud of his sons straight-A report card.
Thats beautiful, I say, nearly choking up. I want to hug him. Hes the butchering grandpa I never had and never knew I needed.
I only use prime chuck. Its the perfect mix for juicy burgers.
Ten, please, I say, wiping away a drop of drool. Prince grinds and presses, presses and grinds, and passes us our patties (about $4 a pound). Theyre separated by wax paper and placed into brown paper bags, lovingly folded like a childs school lunch.
Have a safe ride, fellas, Prince says paternally, as we head to the burgers final destination: Bushwick Country Club (618 Grand St. at Leonard St., Bklyn, 718-388-2114). This Williamsburg dive offers two-for-one happy hour (until 8 p.m.), a six-course miniature golf course and grills.
Theyre hot. Theyre primed. They sizzle as I gently lob my patties onto the grill, like Im launching the worlds costliest Frisbee. I let grill stripes accrue, then I flip the burgersjust once, and no pressing out precious moisture. Their smoke is a Sirens lure.Can I have one? a random bar-goer queries.
Of course not, I reply, sliding burger onto bun, a juicy torrent staining the white bread brown. Ketchup? Mustard? No need. I bite, and rich, mineral-y, meaty goodness gushes over my chipped incisors and craggy mandibles. Grill season, I think, as I cram my maw with flesh tender and flavorful enough to convert a vegetarian, has officially begun.