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The Beans of Halo Halo

5 Oct

Our fourth expedition of 2002 took us to Queens again. Queens, I might point out, has probably been our most visited borough; the variety and number of restaurants that fit our criteria almost endless. This visit to a Philippine restaurant remains memorable by Eugene’s vehement, bordering on obsessive, dislike of a certain dessert he had. It has become the one dessert that, almost on cue, he reminds us of whenever the subject of dessert comes up. Here, then, is the origin of Eugene’s fixation.

Ihawan
40-06 70th Street
Woodside, Queens

Ihawan

Zio labored hard on his pick, our fourth since beginning these adventures. Not quite sure of himself and his instincts, he constantly sought out my consultation for his choice. This was the man who introduced me to the heavy brown sauces of subterranean Wo Hop, the sublime calamari marinara at Dominick’s on Arthur Avenue, the “zuppa di pesce” at the Pine Tavern on Bronxdale—well before the New York Yankees discovered it—one of Manhattan’s original Thai joints, the now defunct Bangkok Cuisine on Eighth Avenue, and the marinara pizza at Patsy’s in East Harlem. Now, years later, he wanted my advice. He can’t say that I didn’t warn him about what would happen if he moved to the food wasteland of Hartford, Connecticut.

What we ultimately came up with was a Philippine restaurant called Ihawan. The last time I had eaten Filipino food was in Los Angeles during my time as a starving screenwriter. There was a small, inexpensive family place near where I lived on Sunset Boulevard that specialized in Filipino dumplings and soups served by the very friendly daughters of the owner. The soups and dumplings were good, but I think I went more for the overly attentive service of the daughters.  What we were to experience at Ihawan was much different than my recollection of the Filipino food I had in LA.  Advertised as the “Home of the Best Barbecue in Town,” Ihawan was an easy find.  In Woodside, just off the BQE and under the number 7 train, Zio and I made it in less than a half hour, including the ten minutes we waited in front of the restaurant as a parade of busboys and kitchen help unloaded huge bag after bag of garbage into a garbage truck.  We were also, unfortunately, downwind of the truck and able to capture the alarming essence of the restaurant’s ripe leftovers.

Gerry and Eugene were already seated in the upstairs dining area. We would be a smaller group for this adventure with Rick and Charlie having to bow out due to last minute commitments. For a Tuesday evening, the mirrored, very bright dining room was bustling with local Filipino families, a variety of different ringtones constantly emanating from the multitude of cell phones. The menu was an immediate challenge to us. With items such as “milkfish in tamarind soup with vegetables,” “sizzling sisig” (pork ears and liver marinated with lemon and hot pepper on a hot plate), “dinuguan” (pork stewed in pork blood gravy), “laing” (gabi leaves sautéed in coconut milk), “kare-kare” (stewed oxtail in peanut butter sauce with mixed vegetables), and fried “lapu-lapu” (grouper) with sweet and sour sauce, we didn’t know where to begin or end. We started with drinks, Zio and I trying the cantaloupe juice, Eugene opting for the iced buko (young coconut juice), and Gerry, attempting the “sago at gulaman,” also known as sweet drink mixed with tapioca pearl and gelatin. The drinks came and we sipped, but none of us got much further. The sugar content would make a diabetic go into immediate insulin shock. And it was worse for Gerry; he had those multi-colored tapioca pearls to deal with.

The dinner plates began to pile onto our table soon after; chopped pork belly in liver sauce, deep fried marinated milk fish, sautéed long beans with shrimps and pork, the stewed oxtail in the peanut butter sauce, minced pork spring rolls, and barbecue pork and chicken on a stick. The tastes of the entrees were varied; there was Chinese, Thai, Vietnamese, and even Spanish mixed in there. The four of us easily consumed everything with the exception of Eugene, whose pathetic excuse for not finishing the pork belly in liver sauce was his lame claim that he ate too much the previous two days.

We forced ourselves to try the desserts; how often do you get to experience “mais con hielo” (sweetened corn with milk & crushed ice),  Filipino flan, and “halo-halo” (mixed fruits with milk & crushed ice), ?  As it turned out, the flan was the highlight of the desserts, denser and even more flavorful than the flan at La Fonda Boricua. Zio and Eugene took a few sips of the halo halo and while Zio finished the unusual offering, Eugene could not. Pondering the tall frothy glass that contained his drink, he said, “Sometimes when you order chili it comes with only meat. Other times it comes with just beans. I like to know what is in my chili when I order it.” I think what Eugene was really trying to say in his own bizarre way was: “Where the hell was the fruit? And why were there cannellini beans in my dessert?” Cannellini being the bean Zio thought they most resembled. Whatever they were, Eugene was actually offended by their presence in his dessert.

 

 

Despite the misfortunate, at least for Eugene, beans of halo halo, Ihawan, with its very exotic (to us) offerings proved to be a very worthy choice and at $13 per person, well under our allotted budget.

Ihawan is still around and doing so well that they have opened a sister restaurant. This one called Ihawan2 is located amongst the new condo empire of Long Island City. Though from what I can tell, maybe to best serve the demographic of that high rise haven, they do not highlight their Filipino food.  On their website, www.ihawan2.com, they instead have opted to feature those two dreaded words: “Asian fusion.” So if grilled pork ears and snout (sisig) just don’t work for you, you now have other options like California rolls, tempura, and chop suey. And for dessert there is always halo halo.

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Life Before the GPS

1 Oct

Back in 2002, none of our group had GPS navigational systems yet.  And I’m not even sure if they were around at that time.  For those who drove, getting to our third destination, an African restaurant in the now bustling, and renamed by real estate prospectors “Gold Coast” of Harlem, was comical.  What follows is my depiction of that experience in the spring of 2002.

Leworo Dou Gou
(R.I.P.)

When I arrived at Leworo Dou Gou restaurant, after getting off the B train at 116th Street and walking two blocks up “8th” Avenue to 118th street, I was relieved to see Charlie already at a table and waiting. In fact, he was the only one waiting in the restaurant. Our dinner was scheduled for 7:30. Charlie and I waited, inhaling the pronounced aroma of a fish market mixed in with other strong, yet unfamiliar smells. The aroma, coupled with the fuzzy reception of “Wheel of Fortune” on the restaurant’s television, was beginning to make me feel a bit dubious about this outing, our third of 2002. I glanced at the menu and was relieved to see that none of the “Natural African Dish From the Motherland” were priced above $7. At Leworo Dou Gou we would be very hard pressed to surpass the $20 limit we imposed on ourselves when beginning this venture.

The Motherland encompasses a very vast mother of a land, but Leworo Dou Gou claimed to represent the Ivory Coast portion of that continent. Charlie and I were still waiting when my cell phone rang. Zio was close by, searching for Eighth Avenue. I told him to look for Frederick Douglass Boulevard, which on maps and in the phone book goes by the name of Eighth Avenue. A few minutes later, he walked in. So now there were three of us. The smells, which were beginning to test my stomach, immediately enticed Zio.  But Zio would salivate at the smell of burnt toast. While we waited for the remaining three in our party, we studied the menu wondering what “dry okra sauce,” “cassava leaf,” and “LaFide” might be. There was also something called “agouti.” The name was familiar and I recalled that I actually tasted agouti on the island of Grenada in the Caribbean. It was in the rodent family and I remember it being very tough and gamey. That not so complimentary description only reinforced Zio’s determination to taste the rat.

The three of us continued to wait, we were beginning to worry. The phone rang in the restaurant and a woman behind the take out counter of the restaurant answered. I could hear her struggling, in her English with strong French inflections, to give directions. One of our own was lost. A few minutes later, Rick pulled up. He had been searching for Eighth Avenue. A big mistake, as we were beginning to find out, since there were no street signs proclaiming the street we were on as being Eighth Avenue. After a few more minutes the phone rang again. Again the same woman was attempting to give directions. She gave up and handed the phone to a man who was sitting behind us, the owner, we later learned. He spoke perfect English and explained, on the phone to whomever he was talking to, that Frederick Douglass Boulevard was Eighth Avenue. He had been, it turned out, talking to Gerry and a few minutes later both he and Eugene walked in.

By now, either the smells had mellowed or I was too hungry to notice or care anymore. We all were ready to eat, but we had no clue what to order. We did learn that there was no more grilled fish, and to Zio’s disappointment, no agouti. Rick made the wise choice, he told the waitress to bring six dishes, a combination of some of the different items on the menu. While our food was being prepared we all had homemade ginger beer, tangy with a sharp hint of lime along with the zesty ginger. To entertain us while we drank and ate, the owner switched from the fuzzy network television, to a video of “soukous” music from West Africa, some of which, he claimed he personally photographed while at a concert back in the “motherland.” The music was infectious and the video production, gritty especially the scenes with the dancing midget. Or was he a dwarf?

Our food came, one heaping plate at a time. Fried whole fish (croaker) with plantain. Fried whole fish with cassava and yams. Stewed “hard” chicken, grilled chicken and beef on a stick, stewed fish in okra sauce, and an aspic-type wedge of what seemed to be pounded banana, which, by itself was bland, but worked with the sauce from either the stew chicken or fish. We were given forks and knives, but noticed that one of the restaurant’s customers expertly ate his meal without either. Even with forks and knives, our hands got greasy and we made what probably was the unusual request at Leworo Dou Gou for napkins. What we got were sections of paper towels.

The six of us soon devoured the food leaving only fish bones and cleanly picked pieces of chicken. Everything else had been eaten with Zio and Gerry even sucking up the last of okra sauce with the remaining few kernels of rice. There was no mention of dessert on the menu and the owner wasn’t offering anything but coffee, so we ended it there. All that for only $12 dollars per person left us wondering how Leworo Dou Gou could stay in business.

Leworo Dou Gou did not stay in business for long. Within a few months of our visit it was gone.  But that’s not uncommon among the African restaurants around the area of West 116th Street known as “Little Senegal.” They come and go with great frequency.  Though as the neighborhood changes and rents increase, I wonder how long the African influence in the area will remain. In 2002 there were vacant lots and tenements surroiunding Leworo Dou Gou. Now, across the street from where Leworo Dou Gou was there is a market price condo with a Chase bank, Starbucks, and a gourmet supermarket. A few blocks up an Aloft Hotel ( a divison of  W Hotels) will soon open while new restaurants are so prevelant on Frederick Douglass Blvd that some are saying the street will become Harlem’s “Restaurant Row.” But will they qualify for our $20 and under crowd?

The storefront that was once Leworo Gou Dou

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