metropolis meets wilderness

I saw a New Yorker cover once that was a New Yorker's view of the United States. Manhattan takes up most of the picture, New Jersey gets a shout-out, but after that the rest of the country is squished into a couple of inches with a only a few random states and cities named before Hollywood, and then the Pacific Ocean.

When you live in the West--especially inland West--it's easy to have an inferiority complex. You have the sense that everything cool comes to you last--like indie films, or clothing chains, or the Hard Rock Cafe, which came to my hometown of Salt Lake City about 10 years after the restaurant was already lame. Of course, California is the counterweight to the country's east-centricness, but it still feels like New Yorkers think of California as a quaint place where people make tacky entertainment and wear flip flops and shorts to the office. For these reasons, I love to see West Coast novelties that have travelled against the current and invaded the East Coast instead of the other way around.

For example, Jamba Juice opened in Manhattan a couple summers ago, and New Yorkers were lining up down the street for Mango-a-go-gos and Pina Cowladas. Having lived in Utah and California, I was baffled and somewhat smug, knowing that smoothies were a long-since passe food trend out west. I mean seriously, wasn't Jamba Juice even before Cold Stone? And even Cold Stone was old news. Likewise with Trader Joe's and Whole Foods. For about six months after its opening, it seemed like all anyone on Manhattan wanted to do was go to Whole Foods. I actually had invitations to go "out to dinner" at Whole Foods. For once, I, the Westerner, got to yawn and say, "Oh yes, Whole Foods, it's cute. Be sure to try the organic gingersnaps, everyone loves them." Hey, I have to take my opportunities for snobbery where I can get 'em.

Anyway, what I'm leading up to is that I went to lunch yesterday at this trendy place called Bubby's, in Tribeca, and one of the menu items about blew my boots off. Right there, under hamburgers, was "The Garlic Burger: our version of the Cotton Bottom's classic." Okay, so if you are from Salt Lake City, particularly the 84121 zipcode, you have known the Cotton Bottom practically since you were old enough to look out the car window. It's a dive bar off the freeway interchange, sandwiched between a fancy restaurant with valets, etc. and a bunch of tree-lined estate homes. Nestled in the fanciness is the Cotton Bottom--like a weed in the rose garden. The entire lot around it seems to have gone to seed, and there are always Harley Davidsons parked out front. Of course, if you were a kid you just knew the Cotton Bottom was the nexus of everything bad and fun that your mom didn't want you to do.

I finally went to the Cotton Bottom a couple years ago when I was home for my sister Jamie's bridesmaid party. I had their famous garlic burger, so I was quite confident of what the Bubby's waitress confirmed: the chef had lived in Utah or skied in Utah or something, and this $15 burger was in fact modeled after that of my hometown dive bar. Little did I expect that this, of all obscure and random things would make it to the big city. Take heart, Westerners. If the Cotton Bottom can make it in this town, anything is possible.

p.s. HogiYogi: if you've been thinking about expanding to Manhattan, now is your chance!!!