Under the glitzy image of New York City

The best burger joint ever is a hard reputation to live up to, but after hearing such things my four years living in New York, and moving almost directly next to the Corner Bistro, I had to give the dark, alluring restaurant a try.

It seems like everyone in their mid-twenties has heard the compliments too because the line for a table was almost out the door. Groups, from the classy to the grungy, stood sipping mugs of beer, eyes darting whenever a table opened up. If you’re starving or have the same amount of patience as a New Yorker (none), settle in at a barstool and the bartender will be happy to take care of you.

The closest thing to menus are the crooked signs hanging on the walls that don't display much more than your average hamburger, cheeseburger, hot dog, and French fries. The service is quick without being pushy as waiters appear almost instantly with arms full of plump, juicy burgers. Once you fit the monstrosity into your mouth, your body just might faint in ecstasy if you’re a meat-lover like me. It’s cooked to your exact liking and the deliciously greasy fries help push it all down. And for around $8 a meal, is there any cheaper sit-down restaurant in Manhattan besides McDonald’s? I think not.

Upon entering this tiny enclave, the soothing scents of yellow cake and baking mix wafted over me. Two bright, colorful tables and flowered decor further evoked childhood baking memories. Shaking myself back to 2005, I eyed the first case to the right. Chocolate and yellow cupcakes seduced me with shiny purple and white icing. The perfectly molded cakes in the next case belonged on rotating displays in a Midwest diner. Even with so many choices, however, a young girl cradled in her mother’s arms remains fixated on the glimmering purple icing of the cupcake.

Although, when I picked up my intoxicatingly delicious red velvet cake with cream cheese icing, the staff wasn’t in the chirpiest of moods. This surprised me. The young girl on the phone had sounded so sweet and accommodating—so all-American-pie. These dour faces didn’t seem to embrace the "Brady Bunch" mentality, instead taking on the pill-popping cynicism of a depressed ‘50s housewife.

Since you’re in and out quickly, staff moodiness shouldn’t affect your Billy’s experience. Breathe in the sugary air, eye the tasty treats, and finally, deem one or two worthy of your taste buds. Forget a birthday card or need some candles? They have you covered there, too. Grab a couple of their cutesy birthday sparklers in front of the register and amble over to the birthday greetings on either side of the door.

The only evidence of their apparent popularity lies in a displayed warning. In my own words, it goes something like, "If you want to enjoy the soft goodness of our cakes, you’d better damn well order 24 hours ahead. Side note: To pick up on the busy weekends, get off your lazy bum and call even further in advance." When placing the order, gear up to be charged on the spot and take in their somewhat strict cancellation policy.

Most people know CBGB’s as the punk mecca that gave birth to the Ramones, or have at least seen it in that Adrien Brody movie "The Son of Sam," but have you heard of ABC No Rio, possibly the last D.I.Y. (do it yourself) space in Manhattan?

A small, unassuming doorway in The Lower East Side is the only evidence of this venue. Known simply for the show matinees on Saturday that start at 3 and end around 9, it's not nearly as frightening as Mars Bar.

ABC (as it's usually called) is run by straight-edge kids, those who don’t drink or smoke, trying to give unknown bands, usually of the hardcore, punk, or indie genres, a place to start. Since alcohol’s strictly forbidden, I recommend going to a local brunch place beforehand if you’re feeling thirsty. If you’re the rule-breaking type, you can sneak in a couple beers, but don’t say I didn’t warn you—the strict show promoters will take them away in a second.

Behind the building, there is a large open space spotted with plastic chairs and benches, kind of like a mini-backyard. You can grab a smoke here, but be careful of the slippery stones and stairs. As you inhale your cancer stick, take in the stunning graffiti adorning the crumbling walls, and, as the smoke makes you lightheaded, you could feel transported to early-‘90s New York City.

There’s not much light inside this tiny corner bar, all the better to hide the thin film of filth covering the floor.

When you’re tired of $12, strawberry-flavored drinks at glittering lounges, Mars Bar gives you the polar opposite. There’s a rare jukebox geared toward their regular punk crowd, but it’s also speckled with a few indie and mainstream bands – whatever suits your mood. Beers are a little under $5, while mixed drinks are a little more. Don’t be surprised, though, if you have a hell of a hangover when you choose liquor over beer…they don’t exactly use the highest quality alcohol. No Grey Goose here.

To absorb the alcohol swirling in your stomach, there’re candy machines filled with M&M’s and nuts. You won’t even taste how stale they are, because at these drink prices, you’ll be too far gone.

For a true adventure, wander into one of the two bathrooms, sometimes seen as the entrances to hell. Even a frat house doesn’t have as much grime or as many unrecognizable substances on the walls. Ladies, bring your own toilet paper. You’ll need it.

Oh, and don’t be afraid of the…um, how should I put this…regulars passed out on the bar who wake up every now and then and try to pick a fight. Just look straight ahead and act like you belong there.

After being surrounded by mohawks, spiked hair, and hardcore kids, you might even leave humming a different tune than the new Britney Spears song, maybe something just a little harder.

After entering this undiscovered haunt, Danny and I are always presented, respectively, with a Budweiser and glass of chardonnay. Tommy, our usual friendly, funny bartender, stopped asking for our order long ago. Now he simply raises a wine glass in my direction and waits for me to nod. Is that a bad sign?

After I admonish Danny for his beer choice, Nicole, a bartender with more ink than my drinking partner, comes to greet us. We tend to talk amongst and Tommy and ourselves when not surrounded by friends, but other bar-hoppers strike up conservations outside their cliques—unusual in Manhattan. And the crowd here is not generic. You have your frat boys, nerd types, normal 20-somethings, and one or two awfully quiet, slightly strange males.

Although bar seats do fill up early on weekend evenings, the wooden booths reminiscent of oversized church pews are equally appealing. Beside them, the pool table is never deserted. New York bar patrons don’t let amateur pool players lose, either; you should know what you’re doing or be able to fake it really well.

If you start to stumble by the 4am closing time, Tommy and Nicole will take embarrassing alcohol-induced moments in stride. They don’t let it get out of hand, but they don’t sneer at you either. And the less-than-intimidating "bouncers" they’ve employed couldn’t exactly throw you out; maybe "drag" would be a better word.

If staying out till sunrise isn’t a novelty anymore, consider The Abbey for a possible Sunday-afternoon sanctuary. Bowls of popcorn from their very own machine dot the long bar, and old movies play on their two TVs. The 10 to 15 drinkers remain hushed, only rarely imparting sarcastic remarks regarding the movie of choice. Sometimes even the down-to-earth owner quietly patters in, like the time when Bonnie and Clyde covered the screens, making one big happy (tipsy) family.

Searching for the mysterious Garment District Button on 7th Avenue, which was deemed the New York meeting spot (there’s also one in Jersey) for the Sopranos Tour, I pondered my intelligence in choosing this tour, provided by On Location Tours, over the Central Park Movie Tour—after all, I had watched less than five episodes of The Sopranos, and was now embarking on a 4-hour tour conducted in (shudder) northern New Jersey.

But as soon as I stepped on our bus (don’t worry, you can’t miss the humongous Garment District Button), I was overwhelmed by Sopranos mania from our tour guide and fellow passengers. The conglomeration of my fellow travelers surprised me, as people from Sweden, England, and Australia packed in alongside others from Chicago and Miami (even two couples from the suburb in Miami where I’m from!).

And off we went, our guide spouting trivia questions as we began churning towards the Lincoln Tunnel. As an actor who works as a double on the set of The Sopranos, it was as if you could ask our guide the most obscure, insignificant question about the show and extract a truly correct answer from him. I wondered how, on a lazy Sunday afternoon, he could be so upbeat and interactive, encouraging the crowd to win trivia prizes, such as bags of pasta (and one girl did, winning most of them to the dismay of the others).

Before we even stopped in Secaucus, New Jersey, we had already named all the episodes filmed in Manhattan and had energetically discussed every detail of the opening scene of The Sopranos, when Tony is leaving Manhattan. The guide also makes entering the Jersey area a bit more interesting, as he steps away from Sopranos facts for a bit to tell and show you about the area streaming past our bus, like where the first baseball game was played, located in Hoboken. After this brief departure from Sopranos bloopers and questions, he dives back into the backgrounds of the actors chosen for the show, humorously going back to their connections to Christopher Walken, the husband of the casting director for the show, throughout the trip, as well as pointing out the diners that abound in Jersey.

We drove by St. Peter’s Cemetery, pictured in the opening credits of the first season; the driving range where Tony and A.J. once shared a moment together as father and son (or attempted to); and La Pizza, where A.J. ordered the pizza he ate before vandalizing his school (which we also saw). Sounds of, "Oh, yeeeeaaaaaah," filled the bus whenever the guide pointed out a new spot. One unknowing tourist even jumped when the guide played a small prank on her when we stopped at the Skyway Diner, the set of a shooting scene (if I told you what it was, that wouldn’t be any fun, now would it?).

The defining moment of the tour, after we had been fed delicious cannolis, a famous Italian pastry dessert, was stopping at the Bada Bing, the well-known strip club of Tony Soprano. After we had been told a long list of rules—twice (you, or actually your camera, will be beaten Mafia-style if you take pictures inside)—the door is opened. And damn, there’s a lot television can do for a place that would otherwise be known as a hole-in-the-wall on the side of the highway, good for a drooling boy on his 18th birthday. Don’t expect much, men—there was only one girl dancing during these late-afternoon hours, with a handful of men around the bar drinking their Coronas quietly.

As soon as everyone had the chance to use the bathroom or choose from the load of Sopranos paraphernalia, we were rumbling back along to my beloved New York.

At $40, the trip may seem like a lot of money, but if you’ve seen every episode and randomly repeat lines from the show to annoy your friends, this is the tour for you. Yet, if you’re not absolutely obsessed with the show, it might seem like a bit much, especially as, at 4 hours, it is probably one of the longest tours you’ll take in New York. Even with the free, sugar-filled cannolis, you may find yourself drifting towards the end.

Tours: Saturday and Sunday at 2pm
Contact Information: 212/209-3370 or visit their website at www.sceneontv.com

But to say you’ve had the New York experience, a venture outside Manhattan is essential. No, taking the L train into "East Village" Williamsburg doesn’t count. Park Slope, equal parts city sophistication and suburban homeliness, provides the perfect Brooklyn meeting point between the city and the outer boroughs.

The ideal serene introduction to Hipster Kingdom is achieved with the Brooklyn Botanic Gardens. Before arriving, though, you come to a harsh realization – it’s a pain the ass to get there on the grinding subway. Your options for the Gardens include taking the Q to Prospect Park or the 2 or 3 to Eastern Parkway, and since I’ve stepped on a bus maybe four times in the past 5 years, let’s skip that option altogether. Still, the Gardens provide an urban oasis worth enduring the decaying subway system.

When I ventured here with a hangover headache on one overly bright Sunday morning, the winding line made me stop and rethink my decision. It was May 1, the second day of the Sakura Matsuri (cherry blossom) Festival. Determined to go on, I sucked up last night’s recklessness and patiently waited. Then I flashed my old college ID for a discounted ticket—a habit I plan on continuing until I’m 30.

What appeared to be a modest-sized garden with only spots of cherry blossoms turned into a park-size monstrosity with rows of the celebrated trees. I shuffled briskly through domed conservatories of cacti, tropical flowers, and seemingly deformed plants, but because of the trapped heat, I firmly committed myself to the cooler outdoors thereafter.

Unsure if I had entered through the main gate, I continued in what seemed the opposite direction. Commanding trees stretched their thick, bulky arms, birds silently fluttered by, and rows of bright petals seduced me with their muted scents. My throbbing head calmed by the unpolluted air, I could see the end, or beginning, down a long row of scrawnier trees and shiny buds.

Lungs clear and eyes sparkling, by now it was midday, and lunch, my friend, was definitely on the horizon. Actually, even better were the crumbly brunch croissants and fresh-squeezed juices at Moutarde, at 239 Fifth Ave., at Carroll Street. But you have to get there first.

Somehow, you need to make your way off the R or M at the Union Street station. From the Gardens, it’s a labyrinth of subway transfers. Maybe you’d rather cross from the east side of Prospect Park to the west. The east side, known as Crown Heights, is more than a little sketch, but once in the park, you’re surrounded by strollers, runners, and walkers. At least there are giant signs on the park’s outskirts indicating which side you are actually on. Once outside on the west, any Brooklyn-ite with a hint of dignity can point you to Carroll and Fifth.

Moutarde’s purpose is to imitate a French bistro, right down to the sometimes aloof staff. A forgotten croissant is a minor annoyance, though, when the Mohawked bartender greets you with a shy smile.

After politely conveying your desire to sit, you are confronted with the biggest decision for the day: inside or outside. Even on July 31, it was cool enough for us to choose the latter. And although a few sweat droplets had appeared by the end, it was far better for our child-phobic ears than the inside, crowded with foursome families.

Eggs Florentine with a fresh, small side salad and home fries has become my fallback. Of course, there is also a side of extra-crispy bacon, a fresh-squeezed orange-and-grapefruit-juice concoction, and a deliciously flaky, soft croissant. (Forget my 2-hour workouts; I use the model explanation of a "high metabolism.") My entrée, though, with its silky Hollandaise sauce dribbled over smoothly poached eggs and lightly browned English muffins, is always the highlight.

But even I’m tormented by the second-hardest decision of any Brooklyn excursion: choosing between brunch staples and lunch specialties. Not only does Moutarde offer Eggs Florentine, French toast, and other breakfast goodies, but it also offers specials like steak and eggs and hearty meals like salmon and burgers. Those fresh-squeezed juices, coffee or tea, and a common assortment of brunch drinks can accompany your midday feast, as well. On my July trip, a mojito with a hint of rum and refreshing lime-and-mint mix cooled my warming veins.

With the sun moving into its late-afternoon nook, shopping was the obvious next activity. Fifth Avenue, decidedly the most active street in the Slope, has lengths of independent boutiques, burgeoning chains, record stores, flower shops… you get the point.

Veer through the incoming super-strollers for about a block, away from Union Street, to Lucia, at 272 Fifth Ave. My current favorite boutique, Lucia stocks small-label clothing and shoes and unique, well-designed jewelry. The young owner, who is often present, is as beautiful as she is endearingly sweet, and her mother, smiling behind the cash register, will be your number-one fan.

I bought my most complimented piece of clothing here: a short beige skirt with layers of lace and an intricately designed waist. What could have sold for $800 at Prada or Bergdorf was a comparatively mere $75. I continued on to buy a pair of Pilgrim-esque (in a good way) heels, which, I admit, have sat in my closet unworn. And just when I thought my 2-hour chat with the owner was over, the spunkiest purse caught my eye – a hot-pink number with silver glitter and dark wood handles. It sounds hideous, but in New York, hideous fashion is often "interesting." And a purse for $35? Not in Manhattan! Hell, not even in Staten Island! I was in love.

Pull yourself away from the delicate silver necklaces, just like I had to, and double back towards Union. Breeze on—or not—by kitschy trinket stores, Italian delis, and hair salons to Fifth Avenue’s emerging chain, Brooklyn Industries, at 206 Fifth Ave. I admit I have never left with bulging shopping bags, but with their tiny logo of the Brooklyn skyline, it’s the answer to subdued New York tourist paraphernalia. Eschew their messenger bags, which are a little pricey, at about $50. Instead, opt for their form-fitting girl shirts with creative Brooklyn proclamations, like Brooklyn’s two O’s spelled with the arches of the Brooklyn Bridge. They come in just right at around $25. Don’t worry, men, there are large versions for you all, too. And their offerings are one hell of a step from those omnipresent I Heart New York shirts.

When you feel yourself starting to fade, you’re ready for your plush, if tiny, Manhattan hotel room. But don’t stagger to the subway yet – you need a sugar rush for the long trip back. Enter Uncle Louie G’s, at 741 Union St., practically on Fifth. Having never tried the ice cream, I can only comment on their Italian ice, which is slightly thicker and definitely tastier than the supermarket variety of your childhood.

The Italian ices can’t be described as mouthwatering, outstanding, or heavenly; they are simply good. Plus, the variety of flavors, from fruity to chocolatey, lets tangy and rich exist peacefully in one cup. My personal mix tends to include at least one chocolate-heavy flavor, like Chocolate Peanut Butter Cup or Mudslide Mania. A regular—two scoops—only requires $1.50, which is virtual blasphemy in Manhattan.

Now you can go, but you have to promise one thing – you’ll catch a train that traverses the Brooklyn Bridge, like the N, Q, or D. You’ll only catch the edges of these two much-loved cities (yes, Brooklyn is its own city), but viewing the river nestled under the setting sun makes even weary eyes sparkle.