On a recent visit to New York City, while sitting with friends in a Brooklyn Diner booth (ours, as the little gold nameplates affixed to its side proclaimed, had once accommodated Kurt Russell and Goldie Hawn), I found myself scrutinizing my lunch order—a gargantuan cheeseburger known as the “Deluxe.”
 
    Wearing my favorite traveling shoes (a pair of heeled, mustard-colored boots that are surprisingly comfy, even after a full day of sightseeing), I stand at about 5 feet, 9 inches tall, and, the last time I checked, I weighed roughly 123 pounds. I’m not fit by any means—just skinny—but maybe it’s the sight of my chicken legs and gangly upper body that makes gum-snapping waitresses named Doris or Ruth smirk slightly whenever I order a meal (“I’ll have the jumbo platter with cheese sticks, a chocolate milk shake, an extra side of mashed potatoes and a slice of apple pie à la mode. And, can I please get some ranch dressing with that, too?”). That afternoon, it wasn’t the waitress but the food runner with the twinkle in his eye. The corners of his mouth curled ever so faintly (not enough for my companions to notice) as he set down the overburdened plates; I imagined him snickering “Good luck!” as he retreated back to the kitchen.

     There are two Brooklyn Diner locations, though, interestingly, neither is actually in Brooklyn. (A tribute to New York’s most populous borough, the restaurant serves up contemporary dishes recognizing Brooklyn’s inimitable character and ethnic diversity.) The newer site is in Times Square on West 43rd Street; you’ll find the one I patronized on West 57th Street, between Broadway and 7th Avenue. The latter actually looks like a classic American diner. Its exterior emphasized by neon and stainless steel, the building is enclosed by picture windows, allowing the happy, gluttonous customers inside to entice passing pedestrians. Glass blocks frame the restaurant’s entryway; once inside, you’ll find tables topped with crisp white tablecloths along tight tiled walkways. Servers maneuver around the crowded space with steaming platters laden with organic salmon steaks and crab cakes, gravy-soaked turkey sandwiches and macaroni and cheese. Men in business suits perch atop retro barstools at the counter, their ties slung over their backs as they gulp down bites of pot roast and noodle kugel (a Jewish casserole). While you can expect a wait, the smell of thinly cut onion rings and “real” chicken soup hanging in the air are mouth-watering enough to keep you lingering.

     Finally, after waiting for my chance to gorge in this upscale Manhattan diner, I was staring at a hunk of meat that might very well have been staring back up at me. Before digging in, I hesitated. The brief pause wasn’t fueled by any uncertainty regarding my appetite, but there was one pressing question at hand: Do I have enough elbow room?

     In just a few short minutes (too short!), I had my answer. With my index finger, I picked crumbs off an otherwise barren plate as I envisioned the food runner peeking out from the kitchen at me—the lean, mean eating machine—with a shocked expression on his face. But, in reality, it was I who was stupefied; I knew things would never be the same for me again. Dancing before my eyes, taunting me, was a vision of my recently devoured Brooklyn Diner Cheeseburger Deluxe in all its scrumptious glory (as the menu describes it: “custom ground beef, Vermont cheddar cheese, smokehouse bacon, frizzled onion rings and served with French fried potatoes”). If you would like to see some really detailed photos, check out NYC Food Guy’s blog.

     Even as the patty sat in my bulging stomach, I was craving to bite down on another, to taste the perfect melding of savory and smoky flavors and succulent, crumbly meat sandwiched between an airy grilled brioche bun. I knew this was the best burger I had ever eaten (and probably the most expensive—the monstrous Deluxe costs a hefty $15.95), and I worried about what I would do for sustenance once I left the big city. I looked over at one of my companions, a former New York resident who, acting as my tour guide, had brought me to the Brooklyn Diner. She nodded knowingly at me as if to say “Yeah, now that you’ve experienced that, there’s really no where to go but down.” It was then that my belly grumbled in protest, reminding me that I still had yet to sample a slice of creamy New York-style cheesecake.