BRIGHTON BEACH

Did you know that Brighton Beach is the best place in Brooklyn? It is scientifically proven. And we are the only people who know. So essentially, we're letting you in on a Revolution. We could tell you what you stand to gain by visiting this stretch of litter-addled, seagull-infested sand. We could tell you that you'll glimpse Brooklyn's leading Slavic Seniors gossiping on folding chairs and practicing calisthenics in all seasons, barely clad, along the shallow, contaminated waves of the Atlantic. Or we could accurately promise you Russian delicacies like pickled watermelon, salmon egg crepes and assorted vareniki (from cheese to cherry) at the local digs. But more importantly, if you don't go there, what do you stand to lose? EVERYTHING.

We suggest that you find a ghetto-blaster in the local bargain-basement and two sides of an entire audio cassette with a rendition of Коробейники (Romanization: Korobeiniki), or, "The Tetris Song" so that you can bask in the cultural relativism of it all and maybe break the ice with some locals. What for our generation is largely associated with sleepover party gaming and those weird night-time Tetris visions you get when you played for too long is actually a olden-days club hit cooked up in Nikolay Nekrasov in 1861. Recounting a tale of teen debauchery in a rye field between a peddler and his dark eyed client, this racy but era-appropriate classic leaves plenty to the imagination. Perhaps if the unsavory present-day vendors lurking around the stairs leading to the Brighton subway were so gifted in courtly speak, they'd garner a greater romantic fee for their contraband wares...

"I paid no small price myself,
So don't bargain or be stingy,
Bring your scarlet lips to me,
Sit closer to this fine lad."

We hereby submit this hypothesis to peer review. No one's allowed contest Brighton Beach's borough-specific primacy until they've gone and done the research themselves. Take the B or Q train to the selfsame stop and walk 2 blocks to the ocean. From there, follow the boardwalk to the unmistakable Coney Island, stopping along the way to walk the pier, gawk at Arctic sunbathers and cluck your tongue at unforgivable dog owners as the sands of time chase your heels, and strains of Mother Russia's lullaby whet the appetite for dill and brine. We expect a full report in longhand on our desk by Monday morning.