Last evening was an evening fit for a king. I rode to Bark Hot Dog in Brooklyn, a distance of about 10.5 miles. It had been a couple of days since I rode, and my legs were rested; I rode like the wind.
I had read a review on Yelp that called Bark the "thinking man's hot dog." Well, I am nothing if not a man who thinks. Anyhow, enough blabbering. How was Bark? Eh, it was good. It's in a nice neighborhood, it has a relaxed environment. The affluent types who live in nearby brownstones can come in and feel like they're eating junk food.
My hot dog was good, my onion rings were good, my milkshake was good, but I still felt a bit underwhelmed. Some of my dining partners had hot dogs with cheese sauce, and they complained of a "dusty" texture. I tried this dusty cheese sauce and liked it, but it was a bit powdery. Also, the real kicker, my meal cost $20. Clearly, Bark is trying to be a gourmet hot dog place, but still.
I rode home, got a Jarritos Grapefruit Soda, and pondered Bark and the meaning of life. Bark: good, fine, if you're in the area and want hot dogs, sure, why not. Meaning of life: keep riding and eating, there is no meaning, why not.