Whenever stories of trips to the bowling alley or amusement park come up with friends, shrieks and puerile groans of disgust generally precede tales involving vomit, vicious in-fighting and bizarre displays of religious mania. Almost universally, these purveyors of organized amusement conjure a fulsome, stomach-wrenching buffet of traumatic memories from which Pepcid-popping Freud acolytes could dine for decades.
On outings to the alley, it seems every generation gets screwed in a unique but equally horrifying way. On one particularly memorable occasion, I watched my normally reticent mother shriek “Boo-yah!,” do a dramatic karate kick in the air, point at my father and shimmy her hips Chubby-Checker style after garnering a strike and beating him by one point in a tense two-hour match to the death.
My grandmother quietly fingered her rosary and shook her head sadly, and I concluded the day by barfing on my mom’s rented shoes. (Too many Ho-Hos). We haven’t been bowling as a family since.
But perhaps we should. It seems that the savants behind Brooklyn Bowl (61 Wythe Avenue, Williamsburg, BK) were raised in an alternate universe; a wonderful planet on which bowling alleys were created for, and successfully produce, this strange concept known as family fun.
Gone are the horrible tunes (instead, find DJ Uncle Mike and actual live, cool bands you’d normally have to stand in a cramped music hall to see), the insouciant disregard for the environment (it’s totally green, the world’s sole LEED certified bowling alley), and dreadful dining options (Blue Ribbon toques were brought in to consult on the food; make sure to hit the fabulously junkie, comforting oyster po’ boy, pigs in a blanket, sloppy joe and the gut-busting Mac and Cheese).
Gone are the crap drinks (the Bourbon Street Shake is made with bourbon and Nutella), the ego-busting air of failure and sad-sackery (any place that cards preening, female senior citizens is onto something).
Time for a re-match!
TOPICS: Eat to the Beat, Kathleen Willcox