An Orange Feeding Den in the EV

(At right: S'MAC's interior. Image from their website, http://www.smacnyc.com/home.html)

It was mid-afternoon on St. Patrick’s Day in New York, and we were getting agitated. Already an unmemorable uptown bar had denied us, presentable fakes notwithstanding. It played bad music anyhow. So we made the trying journey downtown, enduring a crowded subway and then block after block in the sun. Our breakfasts of hot toddies and car bombs steadily wore off. Hangovers started to set in. And we were hungry.

Some in our party just wanted to get to the next pub and put our setbacks behind us. But in others, hunger began to override even the anticipation of further bacchanalia. I thought and thought as we emerged in the East Village, my longtime stomping ground. Our situation demanded good drunk food – dishes that come in large quantities, are inexpensive, and are filling but not overwhelming. Then I remembered a very dear orange eatery over on 12th Street and First Avenue that sells macaroni and cheese.

S’MAC (short for Sarita’s Macaroni and Cheese) has beckoned to passers-by from adjacent dine-in and carryout storefronts since 2006. Therein, one finds a simple menu featuring 12 variations on the classic pasta/dairy mashup and little else. But no matter how peculiar (and they go pretty far out there), these renditions reign supreme in the New York area. Not many respectable establishments could pull off a mélange of the eponymous dish with buffalo chicken. But S’MAC does. And that warrants my utmost respect.

Should you choose to stick around, the staff will bring out your order in the skillet in which it was cooked, available in four sizes; I ordered the second-smallest ( Major Munch ) and it filled my famished stomach with ease. I couldn’t imagine what Partay, the largest, possibly looks like. A gargantuan pot, maybe, filled to the brim with cheesy elbow macaronis?

Reasonable orders don’t strain the wallet. Pasta can be normal, multigrain or gluten-free, according the company’s website. Additional shreds of cheese and, if you so choose, breadcrumb line the top with a crust in a serving style increasingly scarce. The staff wasted little time behind the counter, and prepared our order with remarkable speed considering the amount of other customers before us. On my last visit, at a time after lunch but not quite evening, the place was moderately full. I’ve seen nights when a line spills onto the street. Understand that this is a neighborhood favorite, and attracts a coinciding crowd.

My other companion who took a detour to S’MAC that day is now among that crowd. I was coming down from a St. Patrick’s Day reverie, he abstains from alcohol, and we both enjoyed our All-Americans (standard order – American and cheddar) on an equal level. No matter what sort of hunger afflicts you, S’MAC is here. It’s waiting.

Mobtown's Own Private Megastore

Note: College life can trap a student into a narrow geographical location for many weeks on end, so it is with pride that I present my first profile outside of Washington, D.C. More from other cities to come.

(Photo by Mike Unger at About.com. Available at http://baltimore.about.com/od/neighborhoods/ss/FellsWalk_3.htm)

Occupying a large storefront in one of Baltimore’s quaintest and most culturally immersive neighborhoods, The Sound Garden has been a Fells Point independent music bastion for over 15 years. Its name was the first music-related term I heard uttered upon my arrival in the city, and repeated suggestions made it seem inevitable that I would eventually visit this local treasure trove. So while strolling with friends on the cobblestone streets through a light rain, the taste of my first experience with Old Bay seasoning (it treats everything from eggs to crab cakes to chicken wings) lingering in my mouth, we took a detour down Thames Street, and entered the renowned enterprise.

Crowds welcomed us – unexpected sizable crowds of the sort I haven’t seen in music stores since the early aughts. Granted, it was Saturday night. But Virgin and FYE once drew crowds this big, not your esoteric music and video shops. In fact, The Sound Garden resembles the behemoths of the business far more than it does the nook-and-cranny reserves of obscure records that collectors hold dear.

It has an enormous interior – one huge room extends maybe 50 feet back, incorporating a stage for live performances and endless racks filled with CDs, DVDs, Blue-Rays and posters both generic and unique. In the front, to the left of the entrance, one finds a smaller space holding an extensive vinyl collection, among which I found albums of the highest caliber in rock, soul, R&B, hip-hop, psychedelic and folk. Their cost was the only setback – with a disappointingly miniscule used section, prices generally fell between $15 and $20. I haven’t paid that much for vinyl since I naively shopped in the megastores.

It matters little, though, because the Sound Garden doesn’t specialize in old-fashioned records. Uncharacteristically CD-based, this small business seems to support itself with an endless cache of the shiny discs. Many music stores that embraced CDs, including the most towering giants, could not survive into the Internet age (see a previous post discussing the issue here). Baltimore’s premier shop, however, with DVDs wholly lining an immense wall, and jewel cases arranged into entire archipelagos of shelves, soldiers on magnificently.

What’s responsible for its longevity? The CDs remain pricy – $8-$14, something I wouldn’t pay for an album with so many available alternative means of getting it. A few $1 bins up front and a decent deal on movies (two for $10) couldn’t possibly bear the continued success on their own.

No, the distinguishing factor here is content. Though the megastores boasted comparably vast CD collections, they also maintained mainstream pop sensibilities. They never took risks with arcane titles. One could conceivably scan the racks and name every artist listed on the narrow paper strips jutting above the cases. Such an unremarkable approach would fail to attract the favor of serious music fans, those customers who will provide much of the business.

But The Sound Garden could ensnare the snootiest hipster, the obsessive collector, or the cynical Gen-X pop culture nerd with the breadth of its offerings. Sure, The Beatles have a huge section allotted to them, but so do the indie bands that only a handful have heard about. Jazz, folk and country lovers have more options here than anywhere else. Completists could actually complete their many discography quests here.

What The Sound Garden has done is eliminate discriminatory stocking practices. The staff will put, it seems, literally anything on their shelves, refusing few based on popularity or standings in the charts. Employees who drink Jim Beam from the bottle while behind the counter and in full view of customers, as several did during my visit, probably don’t care much for mainline pretenses. If an album sounds good – if at least one person will listen – it’ll take its place somewhere on the racks. And the clientele, more diverse than lesser establishments would imagine, is thankful for that, and will express its gratitude with support.

Need No Carpets on the Floor

(Portrait of premier wordsmith, Baltimore native and acerbic harlequin H.L. Mencken.)


The sudden reality of spring break fell upon me like a welcome shower of golden ribbons: I was overjoyed, but motionless with shock. In my paralysis, a modest indecision appeared for all the petty nuisance it was. Should I return home immediately? The notion showed itself too quickly. I wasn't up to the task. I felt unprepared and sought a diversion.

And one arrived, in the form of old friends wishing to share my company. So, I will spend this weekend in Baltimore, stopping by to bid tidings to some old high school cohorts, and kill some time before I once more descend on my hometown most ambiguously. I trust my comapanions will provide stellar entertainment. Expect some posts detailing the landmarks of this port city in the near future.