Well, it finally happened. That weekend where you wake up, open your window and you're hit with the smell of baking asphalt and blossoming trees. The birds are singing, the Greeks are bickering and all the beautiful people are out. They're everywhere, those beautiful people, the skinny girls in their cuttoffs and cowboy boots, the barechested skaters skimming down the street. And you're like, where did you come from? Where were you beautiful Astorians hiding all winter? But they don't answer you, the beautiful people. They're too busy flipflopping about town, lounging on stoops and sidewalk cafes, laughing and sipping their coffees or cocktails. And you just know, as soon as you step out in that glorious spring sunshine, swishing your sundress and shimmying down Steinway, you'll stumble into some hot European named Rocco, sit down for a bloody mary or three and let the good times roll. That was this weekend, my friends. Only minus the Roccos.There is only one way to celebrate the sprunging of Spring, and that's with a BBQ. Nothing says summer like the smell of charred beef and a few cases of Corona. While lounging at Cafe Bar (http://www.cafebarastoria.com/) this past Saturday, we AstoriaGirls reminisced back to the Astoria Park BBQ of 2007, when we organized a blowout beneath the Triboro bridge. It was an illegal affair. Janie B-starr and I packed our grandma wheelie cart full of meat and beverages, blankets, frisbees, a tiny covert grill and a guitar perched precariously on top. Like little Pipers of Astoria we lead our guests down Astoria Blvd., past the track, past the pool, and hunkered down in a grassy spot overlooking the East River. We assembled the entire party with a single steak knife, screwing grills together, opening bottles, hacking our jeans into snazzy cutoffs. It was a glorious day and a glorious affair, even if the trip home at dusk was tedious and difficult after a days worth of festivities.
This year, we decided on something smaller and less covert to kick off the dog days: An old-school street BBQ on the sidewalk. The supplies were purchased, the invites sent out, the guests assembled, and we were just about to light the coals when our landlord came flying out of the house like a rabid banshee in a housecoat. Get this: BBQing is illegal in New York City. You heard me. Banned. Prohibited. Outlawed. What kind of backwards, screwed up place is this? It's preposterous. Absurd. Anti-American! Even our baby grill with its baby coals has to be 10 feet away from anything flammable, which is impossible, since, hello, everything burns. That's the freakin' point. Man has been charring meat since the beginning of time in the most flammable places immaginable. When you think about it, the sidewalk should be the safest place ever invented to grill beef. What is wrong with you people? Okay New York, I can accept when your citystreets come to a screeching halt the second you get an inch of snow. I get that even the lightest drizzle is like Kryptonite to your metro system. I can ignore when you insist that we're standing "on line" when the line we're supposedly standing "on" doesn't exist. These are things I can put up with. But no BBQing??? Are you out of your mind?
Not one to let such urban absurdity interfere with our masterplan, we AstoriaGirls bought an extra bottle of Ketel One and brought the party indoors for some houseburgers and boiled hotdogs. And it was good times, man. No wait. Revision. It was great times.
-Willa K
