The simplistic goodness of Burgers & Cupcakes.
The restaurant Burgers & Cupcakes, quite honestly, had me at hello. The only place I’d fall harder for would be “Dr Pepper and Snickers,” and I have no doubt that will pop up sometime along Ninth Avenue around the West 40s, a stretch of restaurants so charming, eclectic and competitive it rightly earns the title Hell’s Kitchen.
My husband walks home through this dining Mecca every day, passing Burgers & Cupcakes. She calls to him. He resists. But I see the signs. He clearly fantasizes about her when he gets home, often laying down his backpack, slipping off his shoes, and waxing poetic about her low-maintenance ways, the commingling of sweet and savory perfumes.
And how can I blame him? I’ve had a little love affair with Burgers and Cupcakes myself, though I suggest renaming it My Two Basic Food Groups or Crack Cocaine.
We finally got an opportunity to check this alluring spot out tonight with some friends, who share an equal passion for devouring meat and sugar in their most basic forms. The result was predictably akin to falling for Tom Cruise in Jerry Maguire before actually getting to know him. It can only go downhill from those heady “this-is-going-to-change-everything” heights.
The restaurant itself is Spartan, with round, chrome tables, chairs and no decor of which to speak. It’s clearly designed for dine-and-dashers who need a quick bite after work or before a party. The burgers are basic, like the kind you might grill up in your backyard: small but plump, juicy but not jazzy. The menu offers an assortment of toppings (including cranberry sauce) and cheeses – build-your-own-burger style – and our group was content with choices like avacado, grilled mushrooms, goat chease and sliced parmesian. But the cupcakes were the unlikely stars.
The Ninth Avenue storefront.
As we wrapped up the meal around 9 p.m. on a Tuesday, our waiter offered everyone at the table a free cupcake. “It’s the end of the night,” he explained. He handed us globs of vanilla and chocolate, which looked tame compared to the hussied-up cupcakes sold at places like Crumbs and Magnolia. But one decadent bite later, we were transported to Diabetic Heaven. My husband, at last laying his affections on the line, approached the bakery case in all its gleaming, frosted glory and asked the waiter, “Will all those cupcakes go to waste? Can I have one more?” The waiter shrugged and began piling them into containers, handing each of us a box of four, for free.
We walked home, past dozens of moody restaurants and sparkling patrons, April breeze at our cheeks, cupcakes in hand, convinced of our crush’s ultimate beauty.
In the basement of Shake Shack on the Upper West Side, LCD Soundsystem’s song came on and everyone paused, for just a millisecond, to ponder their New York existence.
