Burp Castle

This was a while, but I couldn't go on without mentioning our foray to the East Village's, Burp Castle. You'd think from the name that Burp Castle was a place where transients and truckers shared stories about the open road and "bangin' chicks," but in fact, it's an upscale establishment that's dedicated to 6-inch voices.

Walt, Michael, and I met in the breezeway after work to head over to "The Castle." None of us had been there before, but we had it on good authority that it was fun times. "Good authority" means Casey, Aislinn, and Julianne--which is as good as authority gets. They told us that they went there before and that while fun, they were given many awkward glances because their voices raised above library voice levels.

Editorial Note: A "breezeway" is where the cultural elite meet for nights on the town. If you need further definition you are obviously philistine, and there is no hope for you.

We took the E train down to the East Village and followed our hopstop directions to what we thought was to the letter. That said, we wound up walking right past Burp Castle. We did, however, encounter a gitchy toy shop in the middle of St. Marks. While we stood on the corner and wondered why Burp Castle wasn't where it was supposed to be, a scraggly-looking fellow approached us. He was holding a bent bicycle wheel that had a bike chain dangling from it. The guy fed us a story about how he had to get home, but his bike had been stolen.

Editorial Note: If it's not abundantly clear at this point, the bicycle wheel did not belong to the man. In fact, the bicycle wheel had about 3 months of rust on it, and was in all likelihood, nicked unlawfully by the man who approached us.

We got on the phone with Casey and she told us to look for a big white picket fence. Uh... nope. "Oh my God, you guys! The big white picket fence." Oh! I think we probably all saw it at the same time. We walked in and met Casey, Aislinn, and Julianne. They already had extremely strong Belgian beers, and I was jealous. I'll get back to that in a second.

There were these massive mural on the walls, impossible to ignore scenes of people sacrificing life and limb in order to save barrels of beer. There was one of a bunch of monks, getting drunk, being circled by sharks! One monk was narrowly escaping being devoured by a shark but was in lucky to be pulled away from the water by a diligent cabin boy. I sound drunk. I sound like I'm make this up. Suck on this evidential proof, bitches:


Walt, Michael, and I got what we thought were normal microbrews and sat down at a table in the corner. Julianne had an absurdly huge bag of chocolate because it was the holiday season and I'm pretty sure the publishing industry single-handily puts the chocolate industry in silk robes and college tuition each year. With one sip I could tell my seasonal beer was 14% alcohol. Seriously, it was almost undrinkable. I just wish highly alcoholic drinks weren't made so crazy, malt liquor-y sweet. Honestly, just make them taste like booze, then at least I'll feel like I'm getting something done.

We talked about pirates, and gardening, and other stuff. A few times we were shh-ed by the bartender, a woman named Rachel Hyman. She has a website that you can visit here. Though I make it sound like the contrary, she was actually really really nice. They just have weird stringent rules about talking over a certain level at Burp Castle.


Three beers later, I realized this wasn't my usual Bud Light, and decided I better slow-down or I'd be cruisin' for a wicked hangover on a Wednesday. Since moving to New York I've enough Wednesday hangovers for my taste, and now only reserve them for special occasions... or Thursdays. The bartenders mixed up the days and accidentally brought out the free expensive cheese. Let me explain. Every other Tuesday they have "Crazy Fancy Cheese Night," or something like that. They get out these exotic wheels of cheese and one of the bartenders stands at the end of the bar and cuts little wedges for the quiet, drunk patrons who in turn for free cheese, act like they appreciate it on a level other than drunk munchiness.


I really don't remember much else about the night. Generally I liked the place, but I have some withstanding reservations about people telling me how loud I can talk. Like a lot of people, I get louder and more animated when I'm drunk, so far be it for an establishment to give me booze and expect me to stay quiet. What is this, Mother Russia?