You know how they say don’t go shopping on an empty stomach? The same is true of column writing. For example, if you’ve planned out an elaborate trip to a funky neighborhood in Brooklyn, don’t skip breakfast before your last midterm that is on the same day and then pass out for hours afterwards in a post-science coma (the midterm was for Energy and the Environment — not exactly my favorite subject). As a result, you will awaken to a growling tummy just begging you to fill it with artisanal cheese, and you will drag your friends with you to Hell’s Kitchen to sample morsels from one of the most food-centric neighborhoods in Manhattan. Which, of course, is exactly what I did.
The first thing you need to know about Hell’s Kitchen is that Ninth Avenue, its main stretch, is any foodie’s heaven. It’s pricey, though. (I actually witnessed a teenage girl shoplifting sausage from a butcher. Do what you have to do, girl.) From every angle, shopfronts boast cuisines from every corner of the world — Indian, Italian, pork bellies, crepes filled with frozen yogurt, even an Amish grocery store. Unfortunately, the Amish grocery store was, disappointingly, not very Amish. We expected hand-churned butter and cheese and actual Amish cashiers, but it turned out to be just a fancier version of Whole Foods stocked with Stacy’s chips, organic fare and decorated with woven baskets hanging from the ceiling. Typical. However, I ended up buying a scrumptious cheese called Drunken Goat from a fancy shop that charged me too much, and I wasn’t even mad. Gathering our thoughts, we decided to scour the area until we discovered the one place that would provide us with bliss and would silence the growling of our empty stomachs: a cupcake shop — any cupcake shop. Did I mention we were hungry?
I must provide a word to the wise: the cupcake shop we ended up visiting, the Cupcake Cafe, is the weirdest place on planet Earth. I cannot stress this enough. We were already pretty freaked out by the guy using crutches whom we encountered on the street. He looked a little too much like Santa Claus and screamed crazy remarks to a perfectly innocuous, legally parked Honda Civic. So we were looking for a safe haven.
We walked inside with anticipation of a charming, friendly atmosphere that usually accompanies a mom-and-pop style bakery. But instead we left feeling like we had walked out the back door of a David Lynch movie. Seriously, it was that bizarre. First, the place is sweltering. Ancient Greek sauna hot. Secondly, it was populated not by hip young things like ourselves — sorry — looking for a quick bite, but by a strange breed of adults who could only be described as “regulars.” They appeared as if rooted to their chairs. When we entered, a single bell on the door chimed to indicate our arrival, and everyone looked up at us in one swift movement as if to scrutinize prey. I was reminded of the moment in the musical “Sweet Charity” when everyone in the dance hall calls, “Who is it?” in harmony. But, in this case, way weirder.
To make things even more awkward, the guy who sold us our pastries and coffee, before doing so, wiped off hands that were positively caked — bakery pun, sorry — with dirt and grime. My imagination immediately conjured an image of a solemn grave digger efficiently disposing of the bones of a baker who added too much frosting to cupcakes. Yikes. Finally, some guy with a banjo decided that a dead-silent cupcake shop would be a great place to practice his newest ditties, so conversation was virtually impossible.
“I am getting such a murder-y vibe from this place,” my friend texted to me. She was sitting right next to me. “I feel like they’re all in on some secret we don’t know about and are about to initiate us into a cult.”
We left before we could find out, but the vanilla butterscotch cupcakes were definitely worth the trip.
Helen Holmes is a deputy features editor. Email her at [email protected].
