Alison and I packed books (I'm reading the best book right now, blog to come), beach towels and sunscreen but didn't really plan our beverages all that well. We took turns exclaiming every 10 minutes or so that we wished we would have made some punch or margaritas or at least packed a few Coronas. The cute family next to us had some sort of pink party punch that they happily poured into cups of ice and enjoyed with a side of fresh mango. All we had was warm (hot) diet coke and some near boiling water. Ew.
So upon our return to the Atlantic Terminal-- sunburned and sandy-- we both agreed that we needed a beer. And a burger. A burger and a beer. We found both at 67 Burger on Fulton and Lafayette. I hadn't been since the epic Paul Simon concert at BAM with Keenster and Jilly, and it was just as wonderful as I remembered. I got the plain ol' cheeseburger (with lots of ketchup) and Al had the Greek. Or maybe the Italian. I don't remember. At any rate, NY mag says this about the establishment and I couldn't agree more...
The meat-to-bun ratio is spot on (no leftover bready remnants), the buns stay sturdy to the last bite, and the layering process is fastidious (an illustrative compositional diagram decorates the menu).
Next time, though, I'm getting the Oreo milkshake that I kept seeing walk by. YUM.