Schnack
SCHNäCK
LIKE MY RELIANCE on the missionary position, I'm pretty conventional when it comes to drinking. Several fingers of Jameson served on the rocks, straight up. Brooklyn Lager poured in a cool pint glass, no head. Gin and tonic, one lime, hold the squeeze. It's a desperate day in alcohell when I sip sweet slop like candy-apple martinis with more sugar than a Snickers bar.
That's why, on a recent chilly evening, it was so surprising to find myself at Carroll Gardens' Schnäck, cradling a creation that would drive an alcoholic diabetic six feet under.
First things first. Schnäck is a recent entry in Alan Harding and Jim Mamary's plan to conquer Brooklyn, one hot dog at a time. Hot on the heels of the Gowanus Yacht Club, Schnäck follows the principles that made the Yacht Club a smash: heart-slowing picnic food coupled with hefty mugs of below-market-cost beer.
Step inside the 50s diner gone to seed, plop down at a cracked red vinyl booth and soak up some cheap beer. A veritable Super Slurp of "schwag" beer (watery, domestic, far from delicious) runs three dollars. High rollers can select Jever (five dollars for a large) or New Amsterdam (just four dollars). Every night Pabst Blue Ribbon cans are, rightfully, a dollar.
When the beer munchies kick in, order Schnäckies (high-class White Castle sliders). At just $.99, three will set most stomachs straight. Crisp 'dogs cost $1.50, which pair well with fresh-cut onion rings. The kielbasa and sausages are tender and delicious, though at $3.50 per half, the cost is out of whack with the setting. Patrons sit beneath blown-up murals of Carling Beer and Brooklyn Dodger Johnny Padres, next to boxes of Domino Sugar, all the while surrounded by an early-evening mom-dad-kid contingent.
Schnäck is family-friendly, which should give drinkers pause: Pre-10 p.m., the under-eight set sometimes shriek their presence. Post-10 p.m., the crowd skewers toward the 20-something set-the reason for schwag's menu presence.
However, on my recent visit, I ogled a beast of an entirely different nature: the beer shake.
"Go on, try one, it's delicious," Harry Hawk says from one of the vinyl booths. Hawk, a stout, gentle Santa-type wearing checkered chef pants, is a partner at Schnäck. "You won't regret it."
We sit down. I turn to Steve, the sole friend I could sucker into drinking dessert.
"Hell, yeah, let's go for it. My dad made these for me all the time in high school," he says.
"High school?"
"Yup, high school."
The waiter walks over. We inquire into the shake's popularity.
About 10 are ordered a night, he says, half-heartedly trying to up-sell us into something buttery and smoked. We demur and order two chocolate shakes at $3.25 a pop.
In my mind's eye, I envision a watery, pungent goop that will knock me loopy and send me into hypoglycemic shock. So I'm flabbergasted when a plain-Jane shake is set on the table. We stick our straws into the mess and suck. Slithering through the straw is a substance best-described as beer-flavored. Tasty, but sadly safe for recovering alcoholics.
"It tastes good," Steve says, "but I'd puke before getting drunk."
As we sip, Hawk walks over and asks our opinion.
"It's sweet, but where's the beer?" I ask.
"Oh, it's in there. Let me show you." He retrieves a bottle of Dogfish Chicory Stout. "I put two or three ounces in every shake. Two or three ounces of beer a week are good for you, help you thin your blood. But how can you drink just two or three ounces a week?"
He nods at our shake.
"So, you're saying beer shakes are good for you?"
"Well, they have healthy components-and a full day's supply of fat," Hawk says, laughing. When he first started making the shakes, he used Dogfish's Worldwide Stout, which has an alcohol percentage of 18.8. Those provided a kick-in the wallet.
"Those beers cost $5 a bottle," Hawk says. "If I kept serving them, pretty soon the milkshake would cost $10. Tell me, who in their right mind would pay $10 for a milkshake?" o