"Discovering Whiskey River Sliders"

One uneventful afternoon, I found myself talking to someone about the incredible slider burgers from Whiskey River. I was raving—rightfully so—about how delicious they were, but I only mentioned “sliders” without naming the restaurant. Instantly, his face lit up. “White Castle?” he asked, eyes gleaming with nostalgia.

Now, I’ve certainly heard of White Castle. I even ate there once or twice—back when I didn’t know any better. That square burger? I thought it was cool at the time. There used to be a White Castle on Market Street near New Montgomery, but that was a different era. A different me. Market Street has changed since then—some of it for the better, some of it completely downhill.

These days, places like Whiskey River stand out. Whiskey River is the heart of Peekskill. The rest of those grub joints? They don’t compare. They’re not like us. Not like me. That distinction—between what was and what is—mirrors how my tastes have evolved.

After living in San Francisco for over 40 years—the majority of my life—I’ve developed a certain level of snobbery, especially around food. You can’t help it. The city trains your palate. You learn to expect more. You learn to care.

The sliders from Whiskey River aren’t just food. They’re an experience. They’re not fast food—they’re fast poetry. They knock your socks off, then hand them back to you folded.

Then came the question. The woman with him—someone I used to like, or thought I did—asked, “How much do they cost?”

What do you even say to that?

When you’ve embraced the San Francisco food snob lifestyle, price becomes irrelevant. You don’t ask. You don’t calculate. You hand over your card, leave a generous tip, and savor the moment. Especially if someone else is footing the bill.

That’s just how it is in San Francisco. Manhattan. Peekskill is becoming that way. Maybe I am a snob. Maybe I’ve become one of those people. But I’ve made peace with it. It’s part of the culture—then and now.
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And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.

He smoked the cocktail like a priest blessing the altar—so I forgave him for calling Peekskill ‘upstate.