It seems that the older I get, the less I’m able to tolerate having a hangover. In my younger days, it seemed I could put my shitty physical state out of my mind and function fairly well. In fact, sometimes a mild hangover would help me get things done because I didn’t have the energy or mental capacity for distractions. Well, those days are over. Even mild hangovers make me miserable now, and I’m sure that in the long run, this is probably a good thing. Still, on those occasions when it’s too late to avoid one, I’m willing to re-examine a notion I once scoffed at: hangover remedies.

Coconut water, which has been quietly infiltrating delis and supermarkets over the past few years, has been touted as an excellent re-hydrator for desiccated barflies. An Observer article noted that one brand, Vita Coco, contains 15 times more electrolytes than sports drinks and as much potassium as two bananas. According to the NY Post, Madonna is an investor in Vita Coco, and while I can’t really picture her polluting herself with booze, she doesn’t look any worse for her coconut water habit. An article in Time magazine reported that coconut water has used intravenously in medical emergencies and that it contains the same five electrolytes as human blood. The writer of the article even states that after drinking one for a hangover, “I felt noticeably better in an hour.” Anecdotal evidence is good enough for me! I grabbed a box of Vita Coco the morning of my next hangover, while on the way to the Apple Store (if there’s one thing crappier than waking up with a hangover, it’s waking up with a hangover and realizing your computer has died, taking with it an embarrassing amount of un-backed-up data).

First of all, you probably want a straw to drink your Vita Coco with. I suppose you could chug it directly from the box, but in my state I couldn’t do that gracefully, and I have too many memories of back-firing Capri Sun pouches to entrust myself with this task. Taste-wise I was expecting something like a virgin pina colada, but I was thinking of coconut milk, which is harvested from mature coconuts. Coconut water, which comes from green coconuts, is undoubtedly watery. Vita Coco had a faintly sweet taste, not exactly a flavor but more of a stale-ish quality. It wasn’t bad, especially as I got used to it, but it would have been more pleasant consumed ice-cold, or enhanced with other flavors (Vita Coco also makes pomegranate and pineapple blends).

So did it make my hangover better? I’m sorry to say it did not, but I didn’t feel any worse. Maybe my hangover was just too powerful, or maybe careening around in the back of a taxi with a dead laptop was counteracting hydration by making me queasy. There is probably some psychological benefit to be had from purchasing something that’s nutritious, as opposed to helplessly enduring your day-after punishment. For now, I think I’m stuck with avoidance as the only solution.

Vita Coco is available in delis, usually next to the sports drinks

Rhinebeck, my adopted hometown and weekend destination of choice, is located about 90 miles due north of Manhattan. It’s idyllic in the summer, but it’s not exactly a beer-lover’s paradise. Supermarkets and gas stations carry your standard six-packs, but for something special, you gotta burn about 12.1 miles of petroleum on a journey to Discount Beverage Center in Hyde Park. As someone who regularly browses the “single and fancy” section of Whole Foods Beer Store for the novel odd bottle, this means finding a car, or spending a few days of relatively-uninspired beer quaffing. Enter Grand Cru Beer and Cheese Market. I stumbled upon this shop while stocking up on treats at the phenomenal Calico Bakery for a trip to my grandmother’s house, which is located somewhere in central Pennsylvania. In a very dry country where they don’t sell six-packs. You heard me. To buy beer, you must purchase by the case at a distributor, or suss out a bar which will sell six-packs of Bud, or maybe Yuengling, if you’re lucky.

I’d been pondering how and how much to stock up for the trip, so when I wandered past the barely two-week-old Grand Cru, I initially thought I was experiencing a case of very life-like wish fulfillment. Single-and fancy-looking bottles lined the walls, including one from Pretty Things, Saint Botolph’s Town Brown Ale ($7.50; read my review of their Fluffy White Rabbits Hoppy Triple). Saint Botolph’s was a dangerously drinkable, malty, roasty dark beer. It suffered from being too cold since I stuffed it in a freezer in effort to quickly chill it and promptly forgot while cooking memorial day tacos. Don’t freeze it unless you’re craving a brown ale popsicle. I also picked up an intriguing-looking porter from a Norwegian brewery called Nogne O ($8.75, 1PT .9 oz). This was a superb example of a pitch-black, chocolately porter with a foamy-milkshake head. Really a winter style, but one I could drink it all year long. Stone, Smuttynose, Delerium Tremens, and Anchor Steam were some of the other bottles I recognized in the shop, and if I hadn’t been in such a hurry to get on the road to PA, I would have gladly lingered over beer and cheese in their cafe area, or taken home a growler. If you’re in the area, and you like beer, your course of action should be clear.

Grand Cru Beer and Cheese Market
Sun-Thurs 10am-7 pmalthough they might be open later if people are hanging out in the the cafe
Fri-Sat 10am-9 or 9:30

When I showed up at Barcade on Sunday it occurred to me I hadn’t visited in about six years. A whole new generation was there, sipping microbrews and banging away on vintage arcade games. Think about it: today’s 22-year-old was born in 1988. Do these kids remember pumping quarters into Sega Out Run at the pizza parlor and tearing ass through pixelated palm trees while a pie blisters in the oven? Did they ever have to fetch their brother out of the mall arcade, a flashing cavern shot with victorious bleeps, electronic rifle fire and Bon Jovi, and steeped in the miasmatic body odor of teenage boys? Not likely. They probably cut their teeth on a Game Boy, and grew up crouched over Nintendo 64 or Playstation, safe at home and far away from the pressure of being on their last quarter while some random dude peers over their shoulder, silently wishing for their doom.

Those old arcade games seem like they’re coded in my DNA. I don’t consciously remember the exact timing of Mario’s first barrel jump in Donkey Kong or watching the heart erupt between Ms. and Mr. Pacman before level one but these things evoke the eery, inconsequential familiarity of deja vu. It’s a strange thrill one can have thirty times over at Barcade, with Frogger, Punch Out, Galaga, Contra, 1943, Ghosts n’ Goblins, Centipede, Tapper, and Rampage, among others. But for me, one game towers above the rest.

Tetris is probably the only video game I don’t suck at. There’s something utterly hypnotizing and timeless about manipulating those falling pieces into tidy lines. The game starts off deceptively dull as the pieces hop downward, teasing you into hurrying them along and misplacing them. Then it eases into a trance-state as pieces start falling faster and faster, finally driving you to hopeless desperation as the stack reaches the top of the screen. Other games are dated–adorably so, but they quickly become boring to my media be-numbed eyes. However, I could fill Tetris up with quarters all night, if the beer didn’t catch up with me first.

Speaking of beer, Barcade has an impressively long list of domestic microbrews on tap, including Victory Pilsner, Sixpoint Sweet Action, and Captain Lawrence Liquid Gold. There’s usually a cask ale, and expect $1 off during happy hour from 5-8 (2-8 on weekends). My Victory Pilsner came to only $4 during happy hour. One of the best things about Barcade are the little ledges you can rest your beer on while you’re playing, so you can grab a quick sip between levels. Off times are usually the best bet if you expect to grab a seat, get served quickly, play some games, and generally enjoy yourself. Later on all of Brooklyn, in fashionable dishabille, crowds inside. Perhaps things clear out around closing time, although you’d have to hold out til 4am to see it.

Barcade
388 Union Avenue between Powers St. and Ainslie St., Brooklyn
Mon-Fri 5pm-4am, Sat-Sun 2pm-4am

OK OK. Let’s look past the name for a minute. When I see a dude hustling toward the checkout with three big bottles of a beer I’ve never heard of, I know something is afoot. A closer inspection of the label, a fairy-tale depiction of dandyfied pantsless rabbits waving from the back of a covered wagon, intrigued me enough to drop $8 on a 1 pt 6 oz bottle. But in all honesty, I did not expect much, except maybe bemused stares from my cohorts as I nursed the pussiest-looking beer known to man.

But wait, there’s magic in these bunnies. Fluffy White Rabbits poured out a foggy golden color with an–ahem–fluffy head and just a hint of citrus. Gone was the rough alcohol punch or in-you-face fruitiness I normally associate with Belgians. The underpinnings were there, but mellowed by the right amount of hops, and enhanced by just a bit of prickly carbonation. I’m not sure how else to describe this except as “smooth” and “springtimey,” quite a feat for an 8.5% ABV ale. In fact, I could probably chuck all those over-hopped IPAs and watery pilsners and drink this all summer.

Pretty Things Beer & Ale Project is a small brewery in Massachusetts. With brews named “Confounded Mr. Sisyphus” and “Babayaga” (a witch from Eastern European folklore), they’re aiming for the imagination as well as the palate, and if Fluffy White Rabbits is any indication of the quality of their beers, I’ll be looking for more from them. On a sad note: apparently there’s no plans to extend Fluffy White Rabbits‘ run beyond springtime. All the more reason to hop into Whole Foods and stock up while you can!

Available at Whole Foods Beer Room
95 East Houston Street at Chrystie Street

You know the expression, “life is what happens when you’re busy making other plans?” I was reminded of it after eating at Kampuchea. While I don’t know much about Cambodian cuisine, I know that Cambodia is close to Vietnam, so I was planning for some bahn mi-style goodness from Kampuchea’s num pang sandwiches. But as it turned out, the highlights of the meal were not what I was expecting.

On my first visit, I sat in the dining room, a streamlined space with a view of a spotless open kitchen. On my second trip, I ate at the adjoining Norry bar, dark, cozy room with rustic tables and cushioned benches. The Norry’s ipod was cranking MC5 and De La Soul, some of the rare hip-hop I can actually stand. Overall I slightly preferred the informal atmosphere of the bar to the dining room, although the menu was the same.

grilled corn

First of all, I was pleasantly surprised by the beer list. The Norry and dining room have several mircobrews on tap like Mothers Milk from Keegan Ales, Sixpoint Sweet Action, and Blue Point Toasted Lager. There was even a Belgian on tap (St. Bernardus). On both visits I opted for a cocktail to start, and the Norry ($14), a mix of lemongrass-infused maker’s mark, fig puree, honey syrup and lemon juice, was a winner. Most of the time I find restaurant cocktails to be disappointing, but this one was well-mixed and quite soothing for a cold–if a tad overpriced. I expected little from the grilled corn on the cob ($6), but I ended up savoring the roasted kernels covered with spicy chili mayo and coconut flakes. If you’ve had the corn at Cafe Habana you know what to expect, but this is twice as good. Fried chicken with chili-spiced salt ($11) was the perfect accomplice to a pint of Sweet Action, although the chicken was more lightly-breaded than deep-fried crunchy. The crispy pork belly with honey/cider glaze, scallions, and toasted lemongrass had a satisfying crispy layer–like a crust of bacon atop succulent pork and rivulets of fat.

fried chicken

Of the num pang I tried the catfish sandwich was the best ($11). The fish was topped with cracked pepper, honey, soy sauce, carrots, cucumbers, and cilantro, and served on a crunchy baguette. It was a well-balanced sandwich, if overpriced compared to what you’d pay for bahn mi. The cured bacon, pickled chili and red onion sandwich ($10) was poorly executed; the bacon was so tough it was impossible to get a good, balanced bite. The oxtail, tamarind, and honey sandwich ($13) wasn’t bad, but wasn’t especially enjoyable. I felt as though I should be eating a pulled pork sandwich, but the pork had been replaced with something stringier and suspiciously gamier. Granted, I’m not no oxtail connoisseur, and this may be a fine example of the ingredient. The sandwiches were served with sweet potato waffle chips, which were unforgiveably uncrisp.

catfish sandwich

Dessert was notable in that it was both a near-miss and a total disaster. The fried brichoe with apple butter, pecan, and butterscotch would have been good if the apple filling inside the doughy balls was warm instead of barely unfrozen. On the other hand, the honey granite with winter citrus and thai chili was, in a word, weird. Picture a bowl of shaved ice, topped with something akin to fruit and hot sauce. I’d recommend rolling into the Norry late at night for relaxed beers and appetizers, or maybe starting off the evening with a Norry cocktail and catfish sandwich. If you want a tasty sandwiches quite similar to this but cheaper, and atmosphere is no object, it’s a no-brainer: veer south into Chinatown for bahn mi.

Kampuchea and The Norry Bar
78 Rivington St. at Allen St.
Dinner: Mon 5:30pm-11pm, Tues-Thurs 5:30-1am, Fri-Sat 5:30pm-2am, Sun 5pm-11pm
Brunch: Sat-Sun 11am-3:30pm