32 down. 69 to go.
I just returned home from an amazing two week honeymoon in Hawaii with my wife, Jamie. Sure, Hawaii is beautiful. Yes, we tanned on giant stretches of soft, white, sandy beaches. Swam in warm, crystal clear, turquoise blue water with giant turtles gliding by our heads. And yes, we ate breakfast on our patio watching humpback whales jump gleefully out of the water in the not so far distance. Hawaii seemed to have it all. But as our time went on, I felt something was missing. An emptiness that was longing to be filled. Hawaii might have beautiful vistas, but when it comes to sandwiches, it doesn’t hold a coconut scented candle to New York City. It was good to be home.
My good friend, Laura, was running a table for Dancewave at the Brooklyn Flea. It created the perfect opportunity for Jamie and I to stop by and support her, and get myself a sandwich at the same time. On a bitter cold day, there’s nothing better than the perfect grilled cheese to warm me up. The Milk Truck it is.
On my walk over to the Brooklyn Flea, I started reminiscing of past grilled cheese memories. I thought back to my college days where a majority of my grilled cheese sandwiches were consumed. After late, indulgent nights, my friends and I would stumble into the laundry room and huddle around our Foreman Sandwich Maker, the best purchase one can make as a college student. With slices of white bread and American cheese, all taken from our college cafeteria, we’d sit impatiently waiting for the cheese to melt, the bread to crisp, and that orange light to turn on signifying two more grilled cheese sandwiches were indeed complete. The sandwich maker pinched the ends of the bread together forming a crunchy, delectable crust and a pocket for the bright orange cheese to rest in. We’d loudly rehash the nights events, cracking each other up with embarrassing stories or witty insults. With little responsibility at the time, it didn’t get much better than this. The grilled cheese sandwiches were all a bunch drunken college students could ask for.
Teary eyed, I walked into the Brooklyn Flea and headed downstairs to the Milk Truck. My first bite into the sandwich instantly brought me back to those nights in college, and though my college friends weren’t with me at the time, it was still the ideal sandwich. The long, thick slabs of white bread were perfectly toasted, and covered in just the right amount of butter to enhance the flavor but not leave my hands covered in grease. Yet, the focus of the sandwich was on the inside – the rich, earthy Gruyere cheese that oozed out with each bite. It was quite a step up from my days at college, both in taste and sophistication, but the feeling you get when eating a classic sandwich, like a grilled cheese, never changes. I looked over at Jamie just as she was taking a bite. We made eye contact, but without saying a word, I knew she was thinking the same thing.
Milk Truck | 1 Hanson Pl and Flatbush Avenue, Brooklyn
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