Everyone said there would be thunderstorms but we threw caution to the wind. Kurt and I arrived first to what Kurt calls the biergarten. It’s actually a cordoned off collection of picnic tables on the lower level of the pier with slow service, cheapish beer and a view of the Brooklyn Bridge. By the time we had all assembled, there were nine of us: Dean, Pepper, Riff, Eileen, Meg, Doug, Monisha, Kurt and the pie basket.
Unspeakable things happened.
Please don’t ask me to explain. Those of us who could bear witness are bound by discretion not to divulge the results, but I can tell you that one contestant’s face turned the color of a sour cherry from effort.