June 28, 2011

“The steak is a little toasted, but the pork loin should be fine,” I explained, manning the spatula in one hand and a Porkslap in the other.

“Yah, we should have put the all the new coals on one side and left the other side open,” the grilling expert announced. Sporting a Slayer T-shirt, LA Dodgers hat, a mustache reminiscent American West and smelling like a Grateful Dead show, he gingerly prodded the steak with his index finger. “How long ago did you flip them?”

Acknowledging my inferior understanding of cooking steaks, I relinquished the spatula, “Maybe a minute or two ago.”

“I’m Foster, by the way,” I interjected, extending my hand around the grill.

“Craig.”

Knowing only two people at a packed rooftop party in south Williamsburg, I had smelled an uncharacteristic smoke pluming from the holes of a Weber and took point on the grill. Lightly burning my fingers on the handle of the grill, I quickly flipped the steak and pork loin. With a spatula in hand, I watched the colors change on the Manhattan skyline.

Sunset.



Lounging.

The Williamsburg Bridge.



Fixings.