Rooftop
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"The steak is a little toasted, but the pork loin should be fine," I explained, manning the spatula in one hand and a Porkslap in the other.
"Yah, we should have put the all the new coals on one side and left the other side open," the grilling expert announced. Sporting a Slayer T-shirt, LA Dodgers hat, a mustache reminiscent American West and smelling like a Grateful Dead show, he gingerly prodded the steak with his index finger. "How long ago did you flip them?"
Acknowledging my inferior understanding of cooking steaks, I relinquished the spatula, "Maybe a minute or two ago."
"I'm Foster, by the way," I interjected, extending my hand around the grill.
"Craig."
Knowing only two people at a packed rooftop party in south Williamsburg, I had smelled an uncharacteristic smoke pluming from the holes of a Weber and took point on the grill. Lightly burning my fingers on the handle of the grill, I quickly flipped the steak and pork loin. With a spatula in hand, I watched the colors change on the Manhattan skyline.
Sunset.
Lounging.
Fixings.
