Archive | June, 2011

The Last Days of Fufu on Eighth Avenue

28 Jun

It was early 2007, around the peak of the real estate boom that had overtaken New York City, when we traveled to Harlem to dine at Florence’s Restaurant.  The restaurant was located on Frederick Douglass Boulevard just a few blocks north of 110th Street. I don’t recall that the trendy moniker SoHa, meaning South Harlem, had yet been awarded to that quickly gentrifying neighborhood, but, as I wrote below, all the signs were there that soon this would be a place that would be awarded a trendy moniker.

Florence’s Restaurant

After lengthy and near hysterical deliberations, our disparate group finally agreed to a date. Our choice was a Friday, certainly not ideal for anyone, but the only day all could make it. Rick was saddled with the pick and had to take weekend traffic and restaurant crowds into consideration when choosing the destination. Those considerations eliminated Brooklyn and Staten Island. The Bronx was a possibility, but the Yankees were at home that night. There was always Queens, but Rick wanted a break from that food bounteous borough.  Downtown Manhattan could be risky, so that left Harlem. Rick’s research unveiled a conveniently (convenient to me at least) located African restaurant named Florence’s specializing in home cooking and, as Rick added: “that is if your home is Ghana.”  We expected our full group of six until Friday afternoon when Rick had to suddenly drop out due to a family emergency. Though it was his pick, it was too late to find another destination. We would meet at Florence’s.

What recession?

Walking up Central Park West and past 110th Street when it becomes Frederick Douglass Boulevard, or as it is also known, 8th Avenue, and passing the distinct signs of gentrification; where on every block new apartment buildings are rising and brownstones gutted and ready for renovation; where real estate is now into the multi-millions, there was Florence’s, a tiny and untidy symbol of resistance to change.

When I arrived a few African men were sitting at the Formica-topped tables adorned with cheap plastic table mats decorated with ducklings in bonnets. They were dining on large bowls of stews, using mashed fufu, a yellowish plantain meal formed into a smooth ball, as a utensil and scooping up the stew with it. A television was on to the news and a little boy was laughing and playing with books on the floor of the restaurant near where I was sitting. To capture my attention, the boy began to raise the level of his giggling. The owner, probably the boy’s father, scolded him. The boy went quickly silent.


I was alone but given a table for five until a large group of young tourists staying at a nearby hostel entered. I gave up my table and switched to another, smaller table. I sipped a fiery, homemade ginger beer and tried calling Gerry and Zio wondering when they would arrive, but couldn’t get through to either. I was worried that with the group of tourists that Florence’s might run out of food as small, family-run restaurants like these are apt to do. I didn’t know then, but my worries were unfounded.

Zio waddled in soon after, fedora on head, followed by Gerry who announced that Eugene was out due to a work commitment. Mike from Yonkers completed the group and wasting no time, we perused the very informative menu. When we gave the waiter our usual spiel—that we like to sample the traditional favorites, he genially pointed out a number of Ghanian and Ivorian (Ivory Coast) specialties starting with the aforementioned fufu and groundnut (peanut butter stew). With it we had a choice of beef, chicken, fish, goat, or cow foot. Before I could say “goat,” Zio blurted out “cow foot,” his insistent craving for the gelatinous hooves that would accompany our peanut butter stew went without explanation.

Kelewele: peculiarly mouth-watering.

Our waiter also recommended the fried fish served with banku, fermented cassava dough and rolled into balls, the baked fish, an item called kelewele, sliced plantains seasoned with ginger, chilies, and cloves and fried giving it, according to the menu, “a peculiar mouth-watering flavor.” Lastly, we were steered toward a supposedly popular dish of black-eyed peas called “red red.”

The groundnut stew with cowfoot arrived first along with the mound of fufu. I picked up one of the hooves, found it impenetrable and quickly gave up on it, but Zio determinedly found a way to gnaw the clear gristle surrounding bone. Unlike the Africans, I tried to eat the fufu with fork and knife—a big mistake; it was like cutting through rubber. The banku that accompanied the excellent fried fish was a better option, soft and starchy, a nice compliment to the tangy sauce of the fish. The menu said the baked fish was bluefish, but devoid of that fish’s oily, distinctively strong flavor, it was more likely tilapia. Whatever the species, the fish was moist and full of meat and flavor.

“red red”

The last two dishes to arrive were the “red red,” a bowl of black-eyed peas drenched in an oily crimson-colored sauce that was, despite it’s appearance, rather bland, and the kelewele, plantains fried to a crisp, deep brown color and speckled with chilies and ginger, again not as spicy as it appeared. The four of us finished everything and were shocked at the miniscule bill for all the food we consumed. Had the owners of Florence’s not seen the construction that I saw? Did they look at the overpriced menu of the new, upscale Ethiopian restaurant with the fancy wine list across the street? Were they not aware that the immediate world around them was about to drastically change? I could only hope that they did not.

Brunch and dining “al fresco” where Florence’s once stood.

 But of course it did, though not without a serious bump. Construction in Harlem and elsewhere halted temporarily during the financial crises of 2008 and 2009, but the growth resumed in 2010. I ‘m not sure when Florence’s closed, but it couldn’t have been more than a year after our visit. Where Florence’s once was there is now a wildly popular beer garden called Bier International with “al fresco” seating featuring “brunch.”

Read Before Entering

24 Jun

I had $21 cash money in my pocket, but already spent $8 on a small (under 750 ml) bottle of sake. Do you think they will be so kind as to count the $8 I spent on the sake toward the $18 minimum? I would really like an eel and cucumber roll to complement my sake.


Stay tuned for another Adventure in Chow City on Tuesday.

A Tibetan Chef in a Japanese Kitchen in Sunnyside, Queens

21 Jun

The night after the Di Fara experience, our group dined at Yamakaze, on Queens Boulevard in Sunnyside, Queens. Apparently, Yamakaze is no more, but here is a brief testament to its short life.


 The trip out to Sunnyside, Queens on the 7 train was an easy one especially compared to the previous night’s trek to Midwood. Eugene’s puzzling choice was a Japanese restaurant called Yamakaze. We were all more than familiar with the obligatory Japanese restaurant menu—the sushi, the tempura and teriyaki dishes, the udon and soba noodles, What would make Yamakaze a unique experience; one worthy of our efforts? I would withhold judgment. We all had confidence in Eugene’s peculiar, but effective approach to his choices. There was a method to his madness.  We hoped.

The carbohydrate-induced bloat in my stomach after Di Fara’s pizza the night before had subsided throughout the day, but to make sure I ate a light, fiber-rich lunch in preparation for the additional starch to come. The 7 train got me to the restaurant early where I saw Zio waiting outside, perusing the menu skeptically.

  “Whatta we gonna eat here?” he asked, gesturing dramatically with his hands.

  I shrugged and mumbled that maybe the noodles would be good. Again, I was resolved to withhold judgment.

Dazie’s : Live entertainment with your linguini, Thursday through Saturday.

 To kill some time, we walked a block for a drink at Dazie’s Italian restaurant. The bartender, who introduced himself as Dominick, informed us that they were “auditioning” piano players. Before we could withdraw our drink orders, Zio and I had the misfortune of sitting through an abbreviated set of “My Way” and “New York State of Mind.” Thinking we might actually consider returning to Dazies, Dominick gave us each a card and carefully wrote on the back that on Thursday, the entertainment at the piano bar would be “Danny” while on Friday and Saturday, “Jimmy” would be the featured act. We graciously accepted the cards and then got out of there as soon as we could suck down our drinks.

 Yamakaze was empty, but the waitress led Zio and I to our “reserved” table for six. Eugene showed up on time, but Gerry and Mike from Yonkers took a wrong turn off the BQE and ended up in Brooklyn while Rick was stuck in traffic near the Kosciusko Bridge. I’d often heard about the dreaded Kosciusko Bridge and the traffic jams attributed to it, but this was the first time somebody I knew was actually stuck in it.

Fun time on the Kosciusko Bridge

 Taking a look at the menu again, I did notice a few unusual, non-traditional Japanese items. Among them were “Buffalo wings,”  “chicken pocket,” and a Caesar salad.” But along with the above-mentioned non-appetizing appetizers was something called “choi-la,” spicy grilled beef and cucumber stick, and “alu tarkari” spicy potato on deep fried bread. On the entrée portion of the menu, there were others that looked promising like the “Himalyan rasha,” braised goat meat in Thai red curry sauce, and the “sha-ngopa”, sautéed beef or pork with jalapeno, garlic pepper and served with bread. These were definitely not Japanese in language or food. The waitress said that the chef was Tibetan and the menu included a few Tibetan dishes. Did Eugene know this was a Tibetan-Japanese restaurant? Was he, the man who brought us to Himalayan Yak, still fixated on the cuisine of Tibet? Or was it just coincidence? Eugene claimed the latter.

Once Gerry and Mike from Yonkers arrived, we ordered two of those Tibetan hot starters, the choi-la and the alu tarkari along with Japanese gyoza. Rick arrived just as we were cleaning up the very tasty alu tarkari with the deep fried bread and ordered another for him. Tibetan seemed the way to go here—not much excited us on the Japanese menu, but Zio and Eugene ordered noodles, ramen for Zio and thick noodles for Eugene. I mistakenly, maybe intrigued by the name, ordered something called momo which turned out to be the Tibetan version of gyoza. Gerry, who can never get enough of goat, couldn’t resist the Himalyan rasha. This Tibetan goat, however, didn’t meet the high standards set by the Punjabi or African versions of goat we enjoyed at previous outings.

Alu Tarkari: Fried bread and spicy potatoes

There was nothing really wrong with Yamakaze. Sure the muzak of Celine Dion and Barbra Streisand we had to endure while dining didn’t enhance the experience. But we met our $20 limit, even with a few rounds of hot sake. Everything was perfectly fine. That being said, I doubt any of us will ever return.

And no one did.

The Fusion Files: Old School Edition

17 Jun


Why is it that I’m a sucker for anything old school? All right, don’t answer that. My feelings on fusion, when it comes to food are well chronicled.  But I make an exception with comidas china y criollas.  A large wonton soup and a heaping plate of yellow rice and black beans is my kind of comfort food, fusion be damned.

Enjoy the weekend. Another installment of Adventures in Chow City will return on Tuesday.

One Man’s Pizza

14 Jun

I consider myself a pizza aficionado (or should I say snob) and have sampled many of the legends. For old school, brick oven, coal fired style I’ve been to original John’s on Bleecker Street, Grimaldi’s just over the Brooklyn Bridge, Patsy’s in East Harlem, Lombardi’s in SoHo, and the original Totonno’s in Coney Island. I’ve experienced the pleasures of the perfect New York “regular” slice at Joe’s on Bleecker. For Sicilian slices, there wasn’t much better than Sal’s in Mamaroneck. Back in my college days, I often ditched dorm dinner to drive over an hour for the clam pie at Frank Pepe’s in New Haven or a meatball “apizza” from Zuppardi’s in nearby West Haven. But I had never been to the much celebrated Di Fara’s Pizzeria in Midwood, Brooklyn.

The crowds waiting to eat at Di Fara’s were as legendary as the pizza. Di Fara’s definitely took planning; open for lunch from 12 until 4:30 and then closed until 6 made the timing tough.  Do you get there before 6 and hang out outside waiting for it to open? Do you time it so you arrive after the first wave has ordered? Or do you make Di Fara’s an afternoon- long lunch break?  It all seemed too complicated until, finally, Gerry and I ventured to Midwood 2007; leaving in the late afternoon hoping to arrive just as Di Fara’s opened for dinner. It just so happened that our group was scheduled to convene the following night at a traditional, not so celebrated place.  What follows below is part one of what turned out to be an eating doubleheader.

Di Fara Pizza
1424 Avenue J
Midwood, Brooklyn

Gerry and I knew it would be a challenge. Zio couldn’t do it; the termites were beginning their early spring spawn and his talents were needed elsewhere. Mike from Yonkers claimed other commitments such as a job. Eugene claimed other commitments such as working out, if that can possibly be believed. Rick was a Di Fara veteran and a hard working executive; consecutive eating orgies might appear to be frivolous. That left only Gerry and I. We were braced for back to back expeditions to the outer boroughs and the culinary pleasures they promised starting with a long anticipated trip to the much hyped Di Fara Pizza followed by a trip to Queens and a Japanese place picked by Eugene called Yamakaze.

Normally we wouldn’t consider a food destination if we classified it “much hyped,” but for Di Fara’s we were willing to make an exception. Yes, the pizzeria had been ballyhooed in all the local publications, many claiming it to be the best pizza in the city. And after making the trek, finding it surrounded by Kosher bakeries and grocery stores on Avenue J in the heart of Jewish-orthodox Midwood, Brooklyn; the exterior non-descript, the interior cramped, the few tables either occupied or empty but with bits of  congealed cheese, olive oil, sauce, and crust from possibly a generation of diners still on the tables, the walls, where the paint wasn’t peeling or crumbling, covered with accolades from all the usual suspects: New York Magazine, Time Out New York, Newsday, the Daily News, the Times, along with a photo of Di Fara proprietor and master pizza maker Dominic DeMarco and his daughter with Rob Reiner, and a framed, and very apt quote credited to Mohandas Gandhi: “There is more to life than increasing its speed.”

Gerry and I both were prepared for a wait. We knew Dominic DeMarco took pride in making every pizza himself and his way, which was, so we heard, painstakingly methodical. There is no defined ordering system at Di Fara. When we walked in there were a number of people scattered around the counter. Was there a line to order? I asked but all I got in return were bemused smiles and shrugs. I took that to mean that there wasn’t. But when Dominic’s daughter, who was the old man’s only help that evening, actually asked us what we wanted, we knew we had to be ready with a quick answer. That didn’t leave any time to peruse the options so Gerry and I went with the easiest; a regular “round” pie and two slices of “square.” And to our surprise, there were actually two hot square slices available as well as a just vacated, oil-streaked, tomato sauce-stained table. The slices would work as the perfect appetizer as we waited for our pie.

Square Pie

A stack of empty boxes that held cans of San Marzano tomatoes was piled next to the counter which I quickly attributed to the robust sauce on our “square” slices. When lifting the slice the olive oil slid gracefully over the cheese while the crust, cooked not in a wood burning brick oven and despite being saturated by the oil, retained a crunchy, almost fried-like texture. Before even tasting the slice, Gerry, reflexively, added granulated garlic which he almost immediately regretted; the addition totally superfluous.

  So we devoured our slices and then began to wait. We had no idea who might have ordered before or after us. People began to fill the small confines, gathering around the counter. DeMarco’s daughter had disappeared into the back; presumably to prepare additional ingredients like sausage, pepperoni, onions, and mushrooms. When she returned, she didn’t immediately go to the counter to take orders but went about her business oblivious of the hordes that were forming. I went out and bought a few beers for the wait and bagels from one of the kosher bakeries for the next morning’s breakfast. A half hour went by. A group of high school students who were there before us were still waiting for their pie. A man sitting and staring at the counter expectantly, also ahead of us, would occasionally get up, take a look at what was going on behind the counter only to return to his seat and resume his staring. The area around the counter was now three deep. Some were waiting for orders, others waiting to put in an order whenever the daughter got around to asking.

 Our appetizer, the square slices, instead of holding off our appetites, increased it. We were ravenous. The daughter noticed us and checked her pad; she confirmed that our order had been placed. “Just a few more ahead of you,” she said. That was reassuring.

Forty five minutes had passed. Our beers were gone. I was contemplating the bag of bagels. The high school kids finally got their pizza; we watched as Dominic, a bit stooped, accompanied the pie to the counter, hand grated parmesan cheese from a huge wedge and sprinkled it on the pie, added a slather of olive oil from an old fashioned spouted tin and then brought over a bunch of basil and using scissors, clipped a few leaves onto the pie. Gerry and I eyed the pizza as the kids began to eat. The man waiting next to us got up, made his way to the counter and tried to peer over it. Dominic noticed and nodded. The man acknowledged the nod. Progress. The next pizza out was his.

The hands of DeMarco at work.

 We were close. We had been waiting just over an hour when we got the nod from Dominic. Gerry got up and let Dominic prepare the pie the Di Fara way; a sprinkling of grated cheese, a few swirls of olive oil, and then the freshly scissor-cut basil. Gerry brought the pie to the table. We waited just a few moments for it to cool down while admiring its aesthetic perfection and then, despite hungry, envious eyes upon us, began to deliberately consume it, slice by slice, finishing in less than a quarter of the time of our wait for it to arrive.

 It was large pie and despite its somewhat delicate crust, still heartier than the thin, coal-fueled oven pies from say, Patsy’s in Harlem or Totonno’s in Coney Island. which made finishing it in its entirety an accomplishment or a blatant display of gluttony, depending on your point of view. Gerry and I certainly believed it was the former. What was the point in taking a slice or two home? We could have been generous and shared a last slice with one of the many now waiting anxiously for DeMarco to make their pizza. But then who knew when we would ever return to Midwood and subject ourselves to the bitter and the sweet of Di Fara Pizza? The pizza was extraordinary, but was it worth the long, confusing wait within Di Fara’s dingy, cramped confines. Di Fara’s requires work; you have to plan your visit, trying your best to avoid prime times, but, in a strange way, maybe the extra effort enhances the flavor and overall dining experience. Maybe Di Fara’s pizza would not taste so special if it were more accessible? If nothing else, it was something to think about on the long ride home.

Where the man works.

Since our visit in 2007, Gerry has returned to Di Fara’s several times, but I’ve never been back. Again, it’s the planning thing; I just haven’t cleared the afternoon/evening to make the trek.  And Di Fara’s is seemingly recession-proof; in 2009 they upped their slice to a whopping $5. But Di Fara’s is unique; the pizza cannot really be replicated. Or so I thought?  According to Di Fara’s website;, there is the sobering news that there will be a Di Fara’s debuting this summer in, where else, Las Vegas. The only good news about that is that the time it takes to get to Midwood from where I live in Manhattan along with the requisite hour plus wait for a pie,  it actually might be faster to  get a Vegas Di Fara slice into my mouth than a Brooklyn slice.

The Weekend Special

10 Jun

Sunday is the big parade. You know the one I mean: the National Puerto Rican Day Parade. And to show respect to all my friends who claim roots from Las Isla Del Encanto, Fried Neck Bones hereby proclaims this Cuchifrito Weekend. So go out there and eat all the deep fried pig parts you can find, particularly the delectable ears. Don’t be shy about devouring chicharron (fried pork skin),  papas rellenas (fried potato balls stuffed with meats), bacalaitos (fried stuffed codfish balls), morcilla (blood sausage), and pasteles (pork-filled deep fried pastry)  to your, by now, overworked heart’s content.

Cuchifritos and frituras

To add to the spirit of the weekend, here’s a treat from that honorary coqui, the late, great vibraphonist, Cal Tjader who had the very good sense to compose a piece about the goodies above he titled Cuchy Frito Man. Click below to listen.

1 – Cuchy Frito Man

A Cold Sweat in Flushing

7 Jun

Little Pepper
18-24 College Point Blvd

A few days before the long overdue gathering of our gallant gang, Eugene, who was to make this much anticipated pick, had to bow out due to more a more pressing professional commitment, as if there actually is such a thing. His last minute announcement, however, was only a minor setback. Our collective hibernation during the recent frigid spell just further fortified our determination to carry on without Eugene, and as we quickly learned, without Rick who also had a business engagement that he unconvincingly explained took precedence over our mission. Displaying leadership skills long dormant, Gerry unhesitatingly assumed Eugene’s pick and steered us, with his usual creative gusto, to a part of Queens we had, inexplicably, neglected in the four years we have been assembling. We were going to Flushing—to the largest Chinatown in New York.

Heading east off the Grand Central, away from Shea Stadium and under the 7 train tracks on Roosevelt Avenue, Gerry and I in Gerry’s jeep, crossed what seemed like in the dark, a bridge over very muddy waters. Once over the bridge, we were in Flushing’s Chinatown, crammed with buses, police cars, slow moving traffic, busy sidewalks, tea houses, banquet halls, bakeries, Asian supermarkets, and noodle houses. Before entering the somewhat controlled chaos of the Flushing streets, we saw the yellow awning with the English-language name of the restaurant that was our destination: Little Pepper, also known in Chinese as Xiao La Jiao Sichuan.

Descending into the basement restaurant, we noticed ornaments of chili peppers and posters of bucolic scenes that could have been New England.—or somewhere in China. The restaurant was mostly empty except for one large round table occupied by a Chinese family who stared at us incredulously upon our entrance.

 We were, apparently, assigned the one waitress who spoke some semblance of English. That, and the specials on the wall written in Chinese characters, increased our anticipation. We like it when communication is difficult—when we need help to decipher a menu. But this menu didn’t seem too problematic; it was written in English and offered an assortment of non-traditional eats such as bull frog, rabbit, duck, and eel along with a variety of offal; stomach, intestines, tongue, pork blood, ox tripe, and pig kidney. The menu also featured numerous little peppers next to items signifying that the dish would be spicy.  Our waitress’s first words to us were; “You like spicy?” We understood; we were in an authentic Szechuan restaurant; there would be no compromise when it came to the heat level of the dishes. We would not have it any other way.

spicy pork dumplings

We began the ordering drill, or more aptly, the pointing drill. We pointed to what was on the menu and our waitress wrote it down starting with pork dumplings in hot sauce, noodles with minced beef in hot sauce, diced rabbit in a red chili sauce, lamb with hot and spicy sauce, that szechuan classic, double cooked pork, and Chinese string beans with intestines in hot sauce which, even after pointing to it, our waitress seemed unconvinced of our intentions. She peered closer over my shoulder and, in her broken English said either “interesting” or  “intestines” in an unbelieving tone. She wanted to make very sure that we were indeed ordering  the intestines, not “interesting” string beans.  My finger hadn’t moved from the spot on the menu and, finally convinced we were serious, she smiled tightly and wrote it down. We concluded the ordering with the only nod to a non-little pepper signified item was sautéed snow pea leaves.

The dumplings arrived first swimming in chili oil along with the noodles covered in minced beef and topped with a generous handful of coriander leaves. Almost instantaneously our tongues began to tingle. But it took the arrival of the diced rabbit in red chili sauce to initiate the raves; the tiny pieces of rabbit, cooked tender and still attached to small bones was served room temperature and coated with a fiery chili sauce.

We could smell the intestines even before they hit the table; their earthy, distinctive aroma and flavor definitely an acquired taste. And after one bite, I had not yet acquired it. Mike from Yonkers commented, as if he were an expert in the preparation of Szechuan-prepared intestines, that he thought they were a tad undercooked. Zio wasn’t sure what they were exactly. “Chinese chitlins,” Gerry barked back. Whatever they were, they obscured the Chinese string bean, because if there was a string bean in the dish, it was impossible to find. The double cooked pork was thinly-sliced and with a salted, bacon-like flavor and a comforting rim of fat around the me. The most remarkable dish, however, was the lamb, served in aluminum foil, coated in a cumin-Szechuan peppercorn rub and tongue numbingly addictive. Despite our pleasure with the intense spice of the dishes, we were pleased when the sautéed spinach arrived to offset the heat onslaught.

cumin rubbed lamb

 Dessert was not on the menu; there was nothing to cool down our palates, no orange slices, no ice cream, no pineapple; nothing except for the frozen Flushing air. By the time we left, the round tables were full; patrons were dipping raw meats and vegetables with chopsticks into boiling pots of water cooked on burners on the tabletops and holding them in the pot until they cooked. I wanted to know what it was they had ordered. I asked, but the only response in English I got was “hot pot.” I left it at that—it was their world, we were only visiting. 

Little Pepper, I think, along with Tandoori Hut and Upi Jaya, remains as one of our best experiences.  But I have not returned since our 2007 outing and was very disheartened to read a rumor that it had closed. The news about its closing throughout the New York food blog world was sketchy and thankfully, not accurate. Little Pepper did not close, but relocated from the original Roosevelt Avenue location in Flushing to College Point Boulevard, also in Flushing. There are no more excuses. A return visit is now required.

And the Answer Is

6 Jun

No one was able to identify where I was below:

In my subtle hinting, I mentioned that the competition was fierce for the salt fish, baccala, bacalao, and link fish business within the confines of where I was.

Here's one


And another


And more

Pigs tails, pig snout and other goodies are also available in abundance at this place.

So what is the name of this foodie wonderlad; the poor man’s Eataly? Here, while you shop, the rumbling of trains above will serenade you. That’s because you are on 115th Street and Park Avenue in East Harlem at…

Until the next installment of Name That Place, eat well and don’t forget to change the water a few times when you soak your salt fish.

Name That Place

3 Jun

As instructed by the sign above, I checked this place out. As you can see it is in a industrial-like setting. It is not a restaurant, but you will find food here with the emphasis on salt fish, a.k.a  salted cod, baccala, bacalao, etc, etc. In fact, the competition for the best “salt fish” boneless or not at this place is fierce. That should be enough of a hint for all you New York food junkies. Leave your answer in the comments section below. On Monday, the place will be revealed right here at Fried Neck Bones…and Some Home Fries.

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