Currywurst, a dish so popular in Germany that it has its own museum, is saving me from a hangover this minute. It’s essentially sliced sausage, slathered in sweet-and-spicy tomato sauce, served with fries in a paper bowl. Currywurst is meant to be eaten on the run, preferably in the middle of an epic pub crawl. Grub like this quietly soaks up a night’s beer-drinking, and provides piece-by-piece nibbling over conversation. Piercing fast food with a dainty plastic fork strikes me as a uniquely European intervention–Americans would shove their food on a bun be done with it in a few chomps. But possibly it’s not a European thing at all. I was only on the Continent once, about 15 years ago, and don’t remember too much about the food, but I did see a man masturbate while steering his car through an 8-lane rotary around the Arc de Triomphe. It was a cultural experience I haven’t been able to shake.

Back to currywurst. Germany’s national snack has a base of operations in the East Village at Wechsler’s Currywurst, possibly the cleanest and tiniest dive in the neighborhood. With just a couple of tables, a row of high stools, and several German beers on tap ($3 mini-glassed of Reissdorf Golsch, $5 pints of Radeberger, and various $6 Hefeweizen), it never gets obnoxiously crowded and it’s a pleasant enough drinking spot without the wurst. But if sausages are what you’re after, they range from bratwurst, boar, lamb, and chicken to the namesake currywurst and fries (all $6). Silence your meat-hating friends with hearty sides like sauerkraut ($3), potato salad ($3) and soft pretzels served with sweet or spicy mustard ($3). Full disclosure: I only tried the currywurst and the soft pretzel–be forewarned that the hot mustard burns your nostrils and a little goes a long way.

Is the currywurst at Wechsler’s the real deal? Well, the owner is from Germany, I did overhear some German accents at the bar, and certain Yelpers seem to think so. But even though currywurst’s invention can be traced to 1949 Berlin, it never McDonaldized. Every vendor makes it a little differently and you’d probably have to do a lot of sampling in Germany to get a handle on what the good stuff is. If you just want to have some German snacks and raise a glass to Oktoberfest (which runs through Oct 4th), Wechsler’s is a much shorter journey.

120 First Avenue between 7th St. and St, Mark’s Place.
Mon-Thu 12pm-1am, Fri-Sat 12pm-2am, Sun 12pm-12am
Cash only

I’ll let you in on a secret: Frankie’s Spuntino, a cozy spot for reliably delicious Italian fare, serves a pretty damn good brunch. Just a few doors down from where weekend hordes queue up outside Clinton Street Bakery, I had some of the finest french toast in town–without waiting for a table. When I heard Frankie’s was opening Cafe Pedlar next door, I dutifully marched down to Clinton Street to sit in a sunbeam and sample some pastries. Keeping up Snackish is a dirty job sometimes but someone has to do it.

Cafe Pedlar serves Stumptown coffee, a name I hear thrown around so much I’m starting to wonder if they’re trying to annex a little bit of Starbuck’s turf. No matter, as the barista coaxed a fine cappuccino ($3.75) from the La Marzocco espresso machine. The pastries were even better. I sampled a moist and spongey olive oil cake with lemon zest ($3.50) and the pièce de résistance, a slice of crunchy french toast ($4.00). This was french toast imagined as pastry, a piece of eggy bread encased in a crisp maple syrup shell, served room temperature and eatable on the go, if you don’t mind sticky fingers.

The room will feel familiar to anyone living on the Lower East Side–a narrow, ground-floor dwelling with brick walls and few windows. Spartan’s the word when your main decoration is a shelf of wine bottles. But the open tables and mellow Bob Dylan tunes on the stereo invited lingering, whereas many of my favorite coffee shops (sorry Think, Abraço, and Ninth Street Espresso) seem designed to hustle me back onto the street. Next time I’m bringing a book and trying one of their delicately-twisted soft pretzels.

Cafe Pedlar and Frankies Spuntino also have Cobble Hill locations.

Cafe Pedlar
17 Clinton St. between Houston and Stanton. 7am-5pm Daily

I didn’t have the slightest interest in going to farmer’s markets when I lived in the country. Since I moved to the city, I can’t resist them. I’ll wader around squeezing peaches, plucking tomatoes, staring at piles of waxy red peppers, and day-dreaming about all the things I can slather with jewel-toned jam. Lately when I visit upstate I’ll usually stop at a farmers market, hunting for something I can’t find in the city, because it’s closer to the source.

A couple weeks ago at the Montgomery Place farm stand outside Red Hook I spotted a bucket of “our own” pink pearl apples, all pale green with just a faint flush under the surface. The sign assured me that this apple was beautiful on the inside, so I took one home and nerded out over what I’d just bought.

Pink Pearl is an heirloom apple, first developed in Northern California in 1944. An heirloom, or antique plant is typically an older variety that was never grown for large-scale agricultural use, and that relies open open pollination from insects or wind. Heirloom apples tend to be less attractive, or abundant, or hardy than supermarket moneymakers like Granny Smith and McIntosh, but there are hundreds of varieties (there used to be thousands), many boasting unique colors, textures and flavors.

Despite its dull exterior, my pink pearl apple had crisp, juicy, white flesh ribboned with gorgeous streaks of pink. Its taste was precariously balanced between sweet and tart, but in a good way, like lemonade. These apples ripen in late summer, before you’re even thinking about of apples, and only hang around for three or four weeks, so it’s not likely that I’ll get another Pink Pearl this year. That is, unless someone’s got the lowdown on a stash here in town.

Montgomery Place Orchards Farm Market
intersection of 9G and 199 in Red Hook (about 100 miles north of NYC) (845) 758-6338
Next to Bubby’s Burritos!

Last night I slept under the covers. This is notable because during August my apartment never drops below a steamy 80 degrees (I dislike air conditions, ugly white-noise units that down out my window symphony of crickets, owls, cars, and clattering dishes from the restaurant next door). So the end of summer is usually a relief, like a fever breaking.  The only downside is that there’s just a few days left to pick up my favorite Greenmarket snack, before they go out of season.

Fresh peaches from the Greenmarket put supermarket peaches to shame. Ripe, unbruised, and fragrant, with a deep golden hue and sweet, juicy flesh, they taste a little like the local answer to mangoes. They’re delicious eaten alone or with vanilla ice cream or garnishing a plain cereal like Special K. Italians serve them sangria-style soaked in red wine. I grabbed two for $1 on my last visit, which seems steep until you taste them.

Peaches don’t ripen off the tree so be sure to pick a ripe one and eat it as soon as possible. Look for a deep golden background color, no bruises, and a strong, peachy fragrance. They should give a bit when squeezed. If you’re holding one that isn’t fuzzy, it’s a nectarine.

If you’re a peach fan, don’t miss this peach dessert slideshow.

Union Square Greenmarket
Union Square West between 14th St, and 17th St.
Mon, Wed, Fri, and Sat 8am-6pm