I got an email recently from my excellently named friend Tara Q. Thomas, who is that
blessed kind of wine writer who will zip off a note about a milkshake with
CAPITAL LETTER EXCITEMENT.
So, at her urging, I strolled to a new burger place called Stand, but I was suspicious
of it at first sight. It's too cold, too sleek for a place with such an
affectedly unassuming name. Still, I bellied up to the bar for a Toasted
Marshmallow milkshake to go. I left with it in hand, my crap-dar beeping loudly
despite the appealing cloud of just-slightly-burnt marshmallow straining
against the lid. The next day, I wrote a reply:
Dear TQ,
I had the shake. I wanted another one immediately. I want one now. I might want
one tomorrow, while I am in the shower, or perhaps while I am on the subway or
at my desk, or on my way to lunch, or after eating my dessert at dinner.
Yours, Francis.
It was awesome—creamy, complex, and chewy with marshmallow bits. I sucked it down by the time I got halfway down the block, then I started to wonder how I could stretch this out into a three-month series of blog posts so that Gourmet would keep me in shakes for the whole summer. Two blocks later, missing the flavor of barely-burnt sugar, I opened up the lid and tried to lap up the drops stuck to the side of the cup, splashing my shirt with whipped cream in the process. This was ridiculous. You need to get in on one of these. Still, if you live where making it to New York for even the greatest milkshake of your life sounds a little inconvenient, I did a little reporting and pried away a recipe. Just click past the jump and it's yours.
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