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A Senegalese Stomping Ground on 116th Street

17 Apr

Africa Kine
256 W. 116th Street

Mike from Yonkers notified our group via email that he wanted to choose a place from his “old stomping ground.” Who knew that Mike from Yonkers’ old stomping ground was the area around 116th Street and Eighth Avenue known as Little Senegal? What we do know is that Mike from Yonkers has some sort of obsession or kinship with African food. In the past, he has directed us to the late, Treichville Treichville Tasting Menu, African American Marayway in the Bronx The Un American African Place, and Salimata Eating Guinea Fowl in a Guinean Place in Little Senegal, just around the corner from his most recent pick, Africa Kine. And like 116th being his old stomping ground, this obsession has never been explained.

I never claimed the same area as my old stomping ground, but having lived just a couple of blocks from it, I could have been justified for doing so. I even spent a few months volunteering at the community food bank next door to Africa Kine, just after the economic meltdown of 2008.

The soup kitchen next door.

I worked at the soup kitchen washing pots and pans, bagging garbage, prepping food, and even shoveling ice and snow so the food trucks could gain entry to the kitchen. I stopped soon after the chef of the kitchen, who caught on that I was a writer, had me read the beginnings of his autobiographical novel and when, local Mormon missionaries began to flood in to help out making the kitchen more populated than one you would find at a four-star restaurant. But those are stories for another time and place.

Since my work at the food bank, a raucous, busy beer garden, called the Harlem Tavern has opened across the street, along with a meat market that specializes in local, organic beef and where the butchers wear pork pie hats while they work, and a cookie place where the cheapest, albeit, very good and very large cookie, is four dollars.

Those new establishments, among others made parking tough for the group, but Zio and I had no troubles getting to Africa Kine, which was enshrouded in dark netting along with scaffolding in front making it hard to distinguish. On the way in, we passed a legless beggar in a wheelchair and as we entered and started upstairs to the dining area, we both noticed a woman, face down, arms out on a prayer mat.

“Don’t take her picture,” Zio whispered to me. “It would be disrespectful. We don’t want an incident.”

Inflation hits Little Senegal.

Africa Kine is possibly the most notable Senegalese restaurant in Little Senegal. The dining area is spacious and modern, with high ceilings, comfortable booths, big tables and a number of flat screen televisions, and described in the restaurant’s elaborate website Africa Kine as “luxurious.” Either way, it was most definitely a far cry from what we experienced at either Salimata, Treichville or African American Marayway.

The others joined us soon after at a big table in the back of the “luxurious” dining room. While we sipped spicy homemade ginger beer, we perused what, by now was a familiar menu thanks to the African culinary education bestowed upon us courtesy of Mike from Yonkers. There was guinea fowl, chicken, lamb, goat, fish, grilled or fried, and steak. The entrees all came with a choice of one of an assortment of starches; couscous, rice, plantains, yam and a small chopped iceberg salad. Each dish came with onions, sliced, lightly grilled with a mustard-based sauce on them, and scattered over the meat and fish. Most of the entrees also included half a hard boiled egg.

Grilled fish with onions and half a hard boiled egg.

I’m no expert on guinea fowl, but if I recall, the guinea fowl at Salimata was better, or maybe more distinguishable, than what we experienced at Africa Kine. The fish and lamb were also all solid, but there were no raves from our now very picky Senegalese aficionados. So, though the surroundings were comfortable, and yes, bordering on luxurious, the food was not as memorable as many of the more humble African places we have visited.

Grilled guinea fowl with onions and a half hard boiled egg (and plantains).

What there was at Africa Kine, however, was plenty of food; the portions more than generous.

“Really now, how can they say people in Africa are starving? Zio griped. “Just look at all this food?”

“Yeah, we just ate a village,” Gerry quipped.

And of that village, there were no leftovers.

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A Bengali Buffet in the Bronx

3 Apr

Neerob
2109 Starling Ave
Bronx

Eugene’s already swarthy skin was a shade darker when he walked into Neerob, the Bengali place in the Parkchester section of the Bronx he choose for our group’s tasting prompting Zio to comment that he fit right in with the rest of the restaurant’s clientele. And it was true. Eugene could pass for a Bengali. He could pass for an Arab, Latino, mulatto, Greek, or Sicilian. He had that versatile, dusky look; our own Anthony Quinn.

His skin had darkened from a week in Punta Cana, at a resort where he happily exclaimed that you never had to leave the property. “They had 11 restaurants,” Eugene crowed. “Italian, Asian, Tex-Mex, a Brazilian where they come and slice the meat for you. The place was so big they take you around on mini buses.”

Apparently there was no Bengali food at the Punta Cana resort though and when Eugene looked around the small restaurant he nodded approvingly at his choice. “Now this is the kind of place for us,” he proudly proclaimed.

Eugene the Greek (or Arab, or Latino, or Sicilian, or Quasimodo) at the buffet.

He made no mention of the framed New York Times review on the wall. Or of the Daily News and Time Out New York blurbs that were also displayed. And when we first started convening, now over ten years ago, framed New York Times reviews would have been a problem. If the Times had written it up, the place had officially been “discovered” and we had very loose rules against that. We needed to make the discovery and let the Times unearth it after our experience, and many times that is exactly what happened. Now, however, the restaurant world, even the one we lived in, had changed. Nothing was undiscovered anymore whether by the Times or on the internet

Neerob’s  specials of the day.

As it had at Singh’s Roti Shop, (A Double(s) Dose of Roti on Liberty Avenue) where we last met, that I was taking pictures of the restaurant and its food, caught the eye of Neerob’s owner. The camera being a giveaway that this group of non-Bengalis (Eugene aside) and non-Parkchester regulars, were either food critics or food bloggers. He immediately took an interest in our group, arranging tables so our party of six would have enough room and then bringing us a sampling of vegetable pakoras accompanied by squeeze bottles of a hot chili sauce and a cilantro based condiment.

Once everyone found parking, which wasn’t easy, and got to the restaurant, we crammed around the glass enclosed steam table looking at the offerings. Our very friendly host explained what we were gaping at; goat biryani, chicken curry, fried whole tilapia, bright red chicken tikka, saag with chicken, okra, lentils,and a smaller whole fish smothered in a red, tomato-based sauce.

Some of the steam table offerings at Neerob.

“It’s a fish like we have in our country,” our host said when I asked him about the smaller fish. “Like a sardine. One bone. Very good.”

He pointed to something that looked like semi-mashed vegetables and said that these accompany the fish.

I knew I wanted it and the others let him know what they were interested in.

“Leave it to me,” he said.

And we did.

A few moments later, the paper plates and bowls with our favorite utensils; plastic forks and spoons, began to arrive.

The mashed vegetables were placed in front of me. They were powerfully flavored and fiery in spice, obviously an accompaniment to the main dishes. I found out later that they were called “bhartas.”

Roi fish a.k.a. Bengali Sardines

The small fish was delectable, moist with oil, and separated easily from the small bone. We somehow ordered two plates of goat biryani but no one was disappointed; the tiny pieces of goat a gamey match to the bland basmati rice.

Goat biryani

We shared the bowls and plates as they made their way around the table, the fish cheeks of the tilapia, however, were gone before they got to Zio and I; Rick making quick work of them.

Grilled tilapia, cheeks still intact.

Whatever was left was easily finished with the accompanying warm nan bread. And though we ate like the gluttons we are, we wanted more. There were sweets and our host wanted us to sample some. Who were we to refuse?

He brought fried gulab jamun balls in syrup and two, pale sweet balls that had Zio scratching his thinning hair. “It’s a matzoh ball?” he said, staring at it curiously.

But it was more like a sweetened cottage cheese ball. And it and all the sweets helped take the fire out of our mouths.

Matzoh balls the Bengali way.

The almost indecipherable check was brought to us. Eugene squinted but was able to add it up, and when he told us what we owed for the feast we just devoured, I, and everyone else, couldn’t care less that the New York Times, among others, had scooped us.  Neerob, in Eugene’s words, was most definitely, “our kind of place.”

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Adventures in Chow City: The First Decade

27 Mar

This past January, our group celebrated ten years of traveling New York City’s environs searching for mostly unheralded, inexpensive, usually ethnic eating establishments. To honor this very important anniversary, we hoped to gather at a place somewhat representative of the restaurants we had been visiting the past decade. We were looking for something maybe slightly more broadly appealing than a place where cow foot soup and goat belly were the signature dishes. And since this was supposed to be a special occasion, we also decided to invite spouses, partners, significant others; anyone our members wanted to bring along.

Gerry recommended an old time Italian place in Mount Vernon, just over the Bronx border, called the Lincoln Lounge. From his description; “good pizza—old school, family-style Italian in a run down neighborhood with a full bar,” the Lincoln Lounge sounded exactly what we were looking for.

It took numerous group emails to nail down a date when all could attend. And then things happened. A wife dropped out due to family obligations; a girlfriend couldn’t come because of a conflict until we got an email from Rick saying “Sounds like its turning stag. Should we just commit to no wimmin?”

We never did commit to it, but as it turned out, no “wimmin” were in attendance.

And on the appointed day, neither was Rick; a family emergency denying him our celebration.

To make up for the loss of Rick, we were graced with the presence of original member, Charlie, who left us in 2005 for the greener pastures of the Lehigh Valley in Pennsylvania.

It was a Friday night and the Lincoln Lounge was mobbed with large groups; the small bar two deep with “regulars,” including one uniformed policeman who ate at the bar with his bullet-proof vest on and gun holstered around his waist.

No room at the Lincoln Lounge bar.

After we were seated; cramped in a corner, we quickly ordered a sausage pizza and here the Lincoln Lounge did not disappoint. With its thin crust, sauce bursting with flavor, nicely charred crust topped with fresh sausage; the pie, as it turned out was the highlight of the meal.

Lincoln Lounge’s excellent pie.

The antipasto salad, a bowl of greens topped with provolone, sopressata, and olives and doused in a vinegary dressing was passable while the steamed clams in white wine and garlic, standard and more than acceptable.

The calamari pasta, however, along with the shrimp scampi were disappointments. Apparently, when the dishes at the Lincoln Lounge are advertised as family style, they don’t mean our gluttonous family.

The shrimp, of which here they most definitely count, were barely enough for each of us to get a taste. As it turned out, a taste was more than enough.

The modest amount of spaghetti adorned with a light tomato broth and tiny pieces of calamari was devoid of flavor.

Calamari compromised

Zio shook his head as he gazed at the miniature calamari.  “I like big fat calamari rings,” he said. “Not these little ones.”

“Was it really worth slaughtering baby squid for this?” I questioned indicating the “family-sized” platter.

“Yeah, it’s inhumane,” Gerry said as he speared one with his fork.

Thankfully, the pork chops with peppers and onions were good enough to almost redeem the travesty that was the squid and shrimp.

Pork chops with vinegar peppers and onions

While we cleaned our plates, Eugene began to, once again, muse on a trip to a Caribbean all-inclusive he was soon to embark on. “You know what I like to do,” he swooned. “Eat a big breakfast, stay at the beach until two, take a nap, and then eat dinner. You never have to leave the hotel.”

Trying desperately to divert the conversation back to why we were at the Lincoln Lounge, I was curious about our group’s memories of the past ten years.

“Remember the bean dessert,” Eugene barked out. “At the Filipino place in Queens. The worst!”

“Yeah and the cheap Polish place in Greenpoint,” Zio added. “I went back once.”

“What about that one in Chinatown. The place with fish stomach and goose feet,” Mike from Yonkers reminisced.

“Sheesh, that was inedible,” Eugene spat. “Even Gerry had a hard time eating it.”

And from there they all came back. The highlights and a few lowlights of our ten years.

Chow City’s Top Ten Moments (Good and Bad)

Presented in chronological order:

  1. Eugene’s bean drink revulsion The Beans of Halo Halo
  2. Cherriolies and Kvass Kvass and Vodka  
  3. Pan fried chicken and old school soul   Across 125th Street
  4. Eating ribs in a South Bronx backyard junkyard Southern (Bronx) BBQ
  5. Traversing mountains of snow to get to the great Tandoori Hut. Dining With Sikhs

    Tandoori Hut

  6. The rending padang at Upi Jaya  Spice Tsunami
  7. An after dinner espresso served on my lap. The Un American African Place
  8. Broccoli rabe pizza, the choice meal of strippers. Bronx Broccoli Rabe From a Brother From Corona

    Bronx broccoli rabe

  9. Fuzhou fish stomach and goose feet. F(e)asting on Fuzhou Style Fish Stomach
  10. Zio’s upper body massage apres fufu and four fingers. The Bistro that Serves Fufu and Four Fingers

And let us not forget those who are no longer with us.

R.I.P

La Fonda Boricua

LeWoro Dou Gou

La Pollada de Laura

Southbound Bar-B-Que

M&G Diner

Bay Shish Kebab

Uncle Sal’s Ribs and Brew

Malaysian Rasa Sayang

Zabb Queens

Florence’s Restaurant

Yamakaze

Spicy Mina

World of Taste Seafood and Deli

Treichville

M&G Diner circa 2010

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A Double(s) Dose of Roti on Liberty Avenue

20 Mar

Singh’s Roti Shop
131-18 Liberty Ave
Richmond Hill

“Is it Jamaica, or Richmond Hill,” Zio asked frantically over the phone while cruising up and down Liberty Avenue looking for Gerry’s pick, Singh’s Roti Shop.

“Richmond Hill,” I said.

“Jamaica or Richmond Hill?” Zio asked again, his hearing aid obviously not functioning up to speed.

“Richmond Hill,” I repeated.

“Okay, I’ll be there soon,” he said.

I was in front of Singh’s when Zio called, after haven taken a brief walk around, peering in at the nearby Guyanese and Caribbean restaurants, the Brown Betty,” and Sybil’s Bakery, where there was a line waiting for Sybil’s offerings. Whatever it was they were waiting for smelled delicious.

There are rotis (Guyanese style) to be had at the Brown Betty.

There was a small line at the brightly lit Singh’s as well, and Gerry and Mike from Yonkers were already in the bar area to the left. Gerry with a plastic cup filled with vodka and Mike from Yonkers with a bottle of Carib beer. Eugene was once again a scratch; his expertise as a timekeeper for a high school basketball game the priority on this particular night.

While I sipped my own Carib, I wandered over to the steam table and tried to get a look at the many dishes that were available. I had my camera and began to take a few pictures. This brought the attention of a man behind the counter who seemed to be in charge of Singh’s intricate operations.

“Take a picture of him,” the man said, pointing to an Asian man who was carrying what looked like a stir fry lo mein-like dish. “He’s the chef.”

I obliged and snapped the chef’s picture who posed without affectation.

The “chef.”

Mr. Singh, the man in charge, then asked what we wanted. Despite the long line to order, he had one of the female servers “take care of us.” Maybe it was the camera. Maybe it was because we were obviously not from the neighborhood. Whatever the reason, Mr. Singh was giving us V.I.P treatment including a sampling of some of the offerings.

The sampling included pepper chicken; a fried, breaded chicken reminiscent of sweet and sour chicken, but with a spice kick that took that Chinese/American classic to a higher level. There was also stewed pork with vegetables, and something else, Chinese-like, with green peppers and onions, we could not identify.

Sweet, sour and spicy.

Singh’s served Caribbean Chinese food along with, what I thought was Guyanese, but after being chastised by Singh, told were Trinidadian specialties.

The Roti, an Indian bread stuffed with whatever you wanted; goat, beef, chicken, potato, was, of course, Singh’s specialty as was something called doubles; kind of a roti sandwich, a layer of roti bread lathered with chick peas and various condiments, and then topped with another flat roti, making a “double.”

Singh’s Doubles.

While we were devouring the sample platter, Rick called to say he was at Sandy’s Roti Shop, also on Liberty Avenue, but in South Richmond Hill.

“It’s Singh’s, Roti Shop,” I said to him.

“Not Sandy’s?”

“Not Sandy’s,” I replied.

“I’ll be right there,” he said. And then I realized I heard those same words from Zio quite awhile ago. And he still wasn’t here.

“Where are you?” I asked over the phone.

“I’m embarrassed to say I got lost,” he murmured sheepishly.

I gave him the address again and told him what Singh’s looked like.

“I’ll be right there,” he sighed.

And within minutes both Zio and Rick arrived. The line had grown while we were waiting for them, and Mike from Yonkers was anxious to get going—fearing Singh’s food supply might run out. Though from what I could see, that was a very slight possibility.

My new friend Singh again summoned one of his workers to put together our platters. I had no idea what was in most of the trays and when I asked, the female server impatiently blurted out what they were as if, in the bustle of the place, I could hear and register what she was telling me from the other side of the counter. So I ended up just pointing to things, more of that Chinese pepper chicken, a few orders of “doubles,” some of the mixed fried rice and the rice and peas, a container of dark green mashed callaloo, and stewed pork.

The “Chinese” side of the steam table.

We plowed through the food effortlessly. All of it, despite the cafeteria-style, seemed fresh and flavorful, in particular, the unique “doubles,” which, at $1 each, a hefty bargain and enough to fortify even our gluttonous appetites. This Trinidadian street snack was no light appetizer and one remained on our table throughout the rest of our dinner; untouched and tightly wrapped in wax paper.

Despite the mounds of food, Rick was not quite fully satisfied. “I think we should try a few more things,” he said.

No one disagreed.

I went with  him to the West Indian/Indian side of the counter where there were curries displayed along with more exotic dishes like conch (spelled “counch” on the menu) goat, and, something we couldn’t identify our server said was “goat belly.”

If goat belly was anything like pork belly, we had to try it.

The “West Indian” side. Note the doubles being prepared in the background.

Rick brought the second round of platters to the table. The stewed goat curry was tender, the meat easily coming off the bone. The conch could have used a couple more hours boiling, but maybe “al dente” is the preferred Trinidadian way. The goat belly, however, upon closer inspection, was a challenge, even for us.

Zio got close to it and sniffed.

“It’s smells like an old bicycle seat,” he said, and then bravely took a forkful.

“It’s trippa!,” he exclaimed.

The goat belly was indeed, tripe. Gerry sampled some. He shook his head. Mike from Yonkers, tried to chew a piece. “Un uh,” he muttered as he forced it down.

Goat belly and “counch.”

Thankfully, Rick had ordered a few pieces of roti bread to help us quash the foul taste of the goat belly.

We were done…almost.

There were a few brightly-colored sweets I was interested in including one that was purple. “Sugar cake,” was what our server barked out when I asked her what it was.

Singh’s sweets’ sampler.

I brought a small sweets’  sampler back to our table; one of the sugar cakes and a bun. Gerry peered at the bun that was speckled with raisins and other candied fruits. “It looks dry,” he said.

He broke off a piece and chewed.  He nodded. “It is dry.”

The desserts pretty much went untouched. We were done. The line at Singh’s was much shorter now. The damage to our wallets was light and our own belly’s full. We couldn’t ask for anything more than that.  Except for Zio, who, before we walked out the door, grabbed the one untouched, still wrapped, “double,” and shoved it into his pocket.

I looked at him.

“What?” He said. “It’ll taste even better tomorrow.”

The End

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A C for a Chili Place in Chinatown

6 Mar

Old Sichuan
65 Bayard St
Chinatown

The C grade was prominently displayed on Old Sichuan’s window. There were no apologies and no disclaimers that the C was only “temporary.” When Zio, who chose the restaurant for our group, noticed the grade, he shook his head. “Uh oh, they’re gonna have roaches,” he said with a resigned shrug.

But he really knew better. The C was, for our group, in some ways a badge of honor, rather than a scarlet letter. And the hostess, a very pleasant woman who’s gap-toothed smiled never wavered, showed no remorse, urging Zio and I inside despite our telling her we would wait a few moments for the others to arrive. She stuck with us—proudly pointing out the pictures of some of the dishes on the side of the window, totally oblivious that there was C grade next to them.

Some of Old Sichuan’s choices in pictures…and a C grade.

Zio’s eyes went directly to the picture of the ox tongue and tripe.

“You like spicy?” Our hostess inquired.

“That’s why we are here,” I replied.

“That a cold dish,” she said, referring to the ox tongue and tripe Zio was salivating over. “But spicy. Come in. We have table.”

There was no point in hanging around outside especially since the bags of garbage on the sidewalks of Bayard Street were piled high and more than a little ripe. We went in and were given a round table in the back room.

Before Zio could order his obligatory diet Coke (with lemon), the waiter brought us a plate of seaweed along with tea and ice water. Gerry and Rick arrived soon after. Gerry announced that Eugene would be a no-show due to a rare work commitment and that he just got a text from Mike from Yonkers that he would be a half hour late.

Seaweed, compliments of the chef.

While we waited, we put in two orders of Dan Dan Noodles and one of the picturesque, ox tongue and tripe.

The noodles came out first and if Dan Dan Noodles were a barometer for the quality of the food at a Szechuan restaurant, Old Sichuan was clearly a serious contender for top honors. The noodles were fresh; the chili and minced pork perfectly balanced along with the addition of sautéed greens. The dish was sublime.

Dan Dan noodles

We approached the ox tongue and tripe hesitatingly. Rick was even more apprehensive thinking there might be chopped nuts; cashews, almonds, or walnuts, in the dish. We didn’t want to have to insert Zio’s soda straw as a breathing tube if Rick’s throat constricted due to an allergic reaction to the nuts. Peanuts were apparently okay, and that’s what we believed was in the dish along with chilies and tender slices of ox tongue and tripe. So Rick threw caution to the wind and speared a few slices with his chopstick.

Ox tongue and tripe

Needless to say, he survived which was a good and bad thing. We were happy we didn’t have to resort to a tableside tracheotomy, but that also meant there would be less of the delicious ox tongue and tripe for the rest of us, especially since we thought it would be the right thing to save some for Mike from Yonkers if and when he ever showed up.

Some of Old Sichuan’s specials that day.

And he did, just as we were about to order double cooked pork for him. He had no issue with our choice for him, but I was a little concerned about the baby lamb with green pepper I was considering.

“Is it cruel to eat baby lamb?” I asked our table of self proclaimed food geniuses. No one had an answer either way, so I went ahead and ordered it.

Fish in a little “hot pot.”

Zio wanted fish; he just wasn’t sure which one; the options were plentiful. He finally decided on fish and sour cabbage in a “little hot pot.” Rick splurged and ordered the tea smoked duck, while Gerry deliberated between mushroom with “grandma’s” sauce which would have been worth it for the name alone and our waiter’s recommendation; something called “sautéed sponge gourd.”

“What is that?” Rick asked when the platter of pale green vegetables arrived.

“Sponge Gourd, Square Pants,” Gerry replied, straight faced.

And, I must confess, they were the best sponge gourd square pants I’ve ever had….and I’ve had them all over town.

Sponge gourd, square pants.

We made quick work of our food; there were no losers among any of our entrees proving that Old Sichuan might be an oldie, but it was certainly a goodie. The only misstep was when we asked for our check.

The final tally was not unexpectedly, considered we all had two beers and that tea smoked duck and Zio’s little hot pot were extravagances for our group, over budget. But what was more disconcerting was when our gap-toothed hostess took our bill before Gerry had contributed his share. He had to make a run to an ATM: cash only at Old Sichuan.

I wondered where she was taking our money and followed her to a table up front where she gave it to a man who had been eating at a table near us. “He pay for you,” she said.

I watched as she gave him our money.

Bewildered now, I stared at the stranger. “You’re paying for us?”

“No,” he said. “Not for you.”

Apparently he wanted to pay for one of his companions before said companion was given the check and insisted on paying. The hostess realized her mistake and laughed.

“But we haven’t got all the money there yet,” I tried to tell her. She just continued to laugh and smile and took our money into the kitchen.

I peered into the kitchen and saw that she, along with our waiter, were counting our money.

I shrugged and went back to our table.

A few moments later, she returned and began counting out our money for us, indicating that there was not enough there.

“Yes, we know,” we said.

Still not sure if she understood, she left the unfulfilled check on the table, smiled, laughed a little, and walked away.

Gerry returned and we finally totaled out the check. We were about to leave when our waiter said not to go just yet. He had something for us. A pancake filled with melted chocolate. They were tiny squares with toothpicks speared in them. I picked one up. The hot chocolate oozed out and blistered my finger. I put it back on its tray. I didn’t really want it. I was saving what room for dessert next door at the Chinatown Ice Cream Factory.

Black sesame ice cream for dessert next door.

Old Sichuan was very good, but its location right next to the Chinatown Ice Cream Factory made it a standout and Gerry, Mike from Yonkers and I took our cones and happily ate them on the sidewalk amongst the piles of garbage bags and the putrid stench wafting from them.

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The Bistro That Serves Fufu and Four Fingers

22 Feb

Maima’s Liberian Bistro & Bar
106-47 Guy R. Brewer Blvd,
Jamaica, Queens

After learning that we would be traveling to Jamaica, Queens for our next eating adventure, Zio commented that it was our group’s first outing to that section of Queens. He was excited about it, but he had no idea at the time that before our dinner was over, he would, quite literally, be smothered in affection by the ample and genial, to the extreme, hostess/waitress of Maima’s Liberian Bistro & Bar.

I’m not sure why Zio was looking forward so much to visiting Jamaica. From my initial perspective cruising down Liberty Avenue, there wasn’t much more to it than countless auto glass repair service centers.

And then after passing the York College campus and turning onto Guy R. Brewer Blvd, things got even dicier. The streets had a dangerous aura to them. It wasn’t dark yet, but the area reminded me somewhat of the burnt out street of Baltimore depicted in the television series “The Wire.” The only bright spot on the street was my destination: Maima’s.

Omar coming…for some fufu.

Later, Zio confessed to “late night drives” through the neighborhood; his artistic eye appreciative of the dank, post-apocalyptic look of the place. Of course Zio, observed the neighborhood from the safe confines of his used BMW and, wisely, never got out of the car during those nocturnal excursions.

I was the first to arrive and the first to meet, Janis, the aforementioned hostess. Stevie Wonder was playing on the stereo. There was a small wood paneled bar and African-themed paintings on the wall. We’ve been to many other African restaurants over the years, but this was our first taste of Liberian food. And compared to the other African restaurants, (the late Treichville, Salimata, B&B’s African American Restaurant, and African American Maraway) Maima’s was by far the most “elegant,” thus the inclusion of the word “bistro” in its official name.

The Bistro menu of the day

With the help of one of the few African patrons in the small restaurant, Janis put together three of the tables to make room for our group of six. As soon as I sat down at the extended table, a cold Corona in front of me, Eugene, Mike from Yonkers, and Zio arrived.

After Eugene and Mike from Yonkers also ordered Corona’s, Zio  in as deep and manly a voice as he could muster, said to Janis, “And I’ll take a man-sized Coke.”

His deviation from what the rest of us were ordering and the authoritative way he said it must have stirred something deep inside Janis’s generous soul. Almost instantly there was “chemistry” between the two.

After maneuvering through traffic on the Belt Parkway, Gerry entered followed soon after by Rick. The menus were of the take out variety, but as take out menus go, Maima’s was colorful and printed on thick, glossy paper. Each day there were daily dishes offered. We were there on a Tuesday and had the option of either Spinach or Palm Butter, but by the time we were ready to order, Palm Butter had been erased from the chalkboard.

Besides the daily offerings, fufu & soup was available along with fresh fish, “fried, toasted, or steamed.” In fact, fufu, the ball of doughy, beaten (literally) down version of cassava, was available with everything, as we soon found out. The soup was pepper soup, that, according to Janis, was a mélange of meats; chicken and beef, and seafood along with a big pale ball of fufu.

We started with appetizers of roast meat and chicken on skewers, and pepper shrimp. The shrimp was smothered in a thick, burnt red paste. “Be careful,“ Janis warned, “the shrimp is spicy.”

Pepper shrimp

Gluttons for heat, we scoffed at her warnings and dug in. I tried peeling the shrimp but gave up, eating the thing whole. Before I got more than two bites in, however, I was overcome by an uncontrollable attack of the hiccups; a sign that I’ve surpassed my body’s spice index. Sucking down ice water, the hiccups subsided and maybe that I’d already numbed my lips and the lining of my throat; I was able to continue to eat the fiery shrimp.

Janis brought Gerry and Rick their “spinach” entrees. The spinach was served chopped in a bowl with bits of meats and seafood throughout. From what I sampled, those bits were more tiny pieces of meat attached to small bones. The spinach also came, of course, with a ball of fufu as did the pepper soup that Eugene and I were having.

Maima’s spinach

I was about to try the fufu when Janis rushed to my side and added a dollop of the same peppery paste that was on the shrimp to the otherwise bland fufu. I used my hand to break apart the dense ball of fufu and added a small amount of the pepper sauce for flavor.

Fufu with a dollop of pepper sauce.

And then I turned my attention to the soup where a four-fingered hand or foot, I couldn’t tell, was jutting from. So life-like was this appendage that if I dared look closer I might have spotted fingernails or maybe knuckle hair. But for that reason, I kept my distance from it.

The broth was indeed peppery, but mild compared to the hiccup-inducing shrimp. Inside the broth, along with the appendage, were pieces of tripe, gelatinous beef tendon, small pieces of chicken on the bone and even smaller blue crab bits.

Waiter, there’s a hand in my soup.

With fork and knife, Mike from Yonkers delicately began the dissection of his “toasted” fish which, translated, meant that it was grilled while Zio’s approach to his fried fish was more primitive; pulling apart flesh from bone with his palm oil stained fingers. “What kind of fish is it?” I asked him.

“The fresh kind,” he muttered without looking up, his mouth partially stuffed with food.

Fish and fufu

It was about then when Zio noticed Janis bringing a bagged order to a customer waiting outside. Along with presenting him with his order, she gave the customer an overly friendly hug. When she returned, Zio, wiped the grease from his lips.  “I’m a little jealous now,” he said to her.

With that, she grinned, went behind him, wrapped her defensive lineman-like arms around him and began to smother him with affection. Thankfully, Zio had completely drunk the man-sized Coke to keep his now overworked heart stimulated otherwise we might have had to rush him to nearby Jamaica Hospital.

Rick was moaning as well, but not because of an outpouring of affection. The fufu had done him in. “I think it might be expanding in my stomach,” he said of the half ball of fufu he had already ingested.

Still we had to try the rice bread; a sweetened piece of cake that tasted like banana bread and was made, I presume from rice flour and bananas.

Rice bread

Our experience at Maima’s was certainly memorable even if the food did not quite make it to the top of our self-monitored charts. My only regret was that we never got to try the palm butter special.

“Next time you come, you can call ahead and they’ll hold it for you,” Janis said.

“Who do I call?”

“Just call Mama,” was her glowing response.

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The Marathon to Malecon.

8 Feb

Malecon Restaurant
4141 Broadway
Washington Heights

It took three attempts for our group to get to Rick’s pick,  Malecon in Washington Heights. The journey to the busy corner of 175th Street and Broadway where Malecon is located had its winding trails and steep inclines, but in the end was worth the effort.

Malecon was touted by Ubie, Rick’s hairdresser/stylist/barber, as the best place for “Dominican” food in New York. And though we don’t know anything about Ubie’s food savvy, Rick’s hair is definitely impressive, so we just had to go on that.

The first detour on our trip to Malecon occurred a couple of months earlier when on the date we were to gather, Rick informed us that there was an event at the Brooklyn Brewery in Williamsburg featuring the barbecue of Myron Mixon.

The Brooklyn Brewery: The first leg of our journey.

Though I’ve been through a few barbecue wars myself, I don’t follow them on television. Apparently Myron Mixon is a barbecue celebrity and had just written a book on his expertise. This event was in celebration of that publication and included barbecue prepared by Mixon himself. Rick’s influence got our group invites to the event and he presented us with the option of the “Dominican place” or free barbecue and beer. Our decision was unanimous. We would postpone Rick’s pick to experience the Brooklyn Brewery and Mixon’s renowned barbecue.

After arriving promptly at the Brooklyn Brewery on an empty stomach and quickly downing two very cold and very delicious beers, while waiting (and waiting) for Mixon to lay out his food, I desperately reached for the pickles—the  only thing to eat—in hopes of not passing out in a mound of barbecue. Finally the ribs and brisket were assembled on the steam tables and our group, showing the skill and confidence accumulated by years of experience, positioned ourselves at  the front of the buffet line.

Our plates piled high, we began to dig in. The ribs were worthy of Mixon’s reputation; seasoned perfectly, smoked to moist tenderness topped with a subtle glaze of semi-sweet sauce. The brisket, however, even sliced thin, was like eating shoe leather. How could a barbecue master allow such a debacle? Shouldn’t pride itself prevent one from tarnishing one’s revered status? In other words, if I were Mixon, I would have dumped all the inedible brisket rather than foisting it upon the scavengers lining up for the buffet. But that’s just me.

Myron Mixon displaying his gnawing ability.

A few weeks later, channel surfing, I noticed Mixon’s silver-bearded visage on television. He was on a barbecue competition called “BBQ Pitmasters” on TLC (The Learning Channel). I watched as he competed in the “ribs” category and came in third behind a man named Tuffy Stone and the winning team called “Slap Yo Daddy,” comprised of Asian-Americans from California. When the results were announced, Mixon had the same look on his face that I did when sampling his brisket.

A month later, we tried again to visit the “Dominican place” recommended by Ubie. Late on the afternoon of our scheduled gathering, Rick emailed to say a work crisis had come up and he would have to cancel. I was on my way to a Little League tournament game with my son in the Inwood section of Northern Manhattan. I thought I might be able to get to the dinner in nearby Washington Heights, son in tow, if his game ended promptly. But Eugene was cranky and wanted to meet sooner than later; bitter that when most of the world was sleeping, he would be camped out on the RFK Bridge overseeing construction there. Since this was Rick’s choice, it didn’t make sense to assemble without him, but I was away from my email and deferred the executive decision whether to cancel or not up to Gerry. He, wisely choose to cancel.

Malecon’s cafe con leche receptacle.

We quickly rescheduled and this time there were no cancellations. I admit to not being a stranger to the food of Malecon. Though the Malecon I was familiar with was on the upper west side and known, to me, as “El Malecon.” A visit to Malecon’s website revealed that they were related.

The Malecon in Washington Heights was most definitely the big brother of the two. Not only was it located in the heart of New York’s biggest Dominican community, it was larger than “El Malecon” and its menu was much more extensive.

My experience with El Malecon centered around the monstrous roast chicken dinners they featured that included rice and beans or other starches like yuca, tostones or maduros. That and the restaurant’s addictive café con leche that went perfectly with its “desayuno,” the hearty Dominican breakfast comprised of longaniza (sausage), eggs, mangu (mashed green plantains) and guineo (boiled green bananas).

The self-proclaimed King of Roast Chicken.

The Malecon in Washington Heights had everything El Malecon had on the Upper West Side and much more including a large selection of mofongos, parrilladas (grill combinations) and something called picaderas.

Gerry ordered a pequena (small) picadera plate that was big enough for at least half of our rotund group and included a combination of fried meats; sausage, beef, pork, and chicken along with fried plantains.

Picaderas: the “pequena” plate.

Big brother Malecon, unlike El Malecon, was much more festive with tropical murals, meringue blasting and offering ice buckets of Presidente beer which, without hesitation, we crowded our table with.

There were side dishes and a few appetizers that looked tempting and Rick considered a few. I shook my head. “It will be too much,” I said, recalling my previous El Malecon experiences. And I didn’t get an argument from anyone.

A Presidente to accompany the King of roast chicken.

The vast menu made choosing difficult but I narrowed my choice down to one of that day’s specials—Malecon has a number for each day of the week—thinking I might get the roast pork or the bbq beef ribs. I went with the latter along with gandules (pigeon peas) and rice. Mike from Yonkers was considering a mofongo, but realized he didn’t get rice and beans with it…as if he needed more starch. Instead, he chose the codfish stew.

Bacalao guisado

Along with touting the restaurant, Ubie recommended Malecon’s legendary chicken and Rick ordered a “whole” as opposed to a half, which would have been more than enough. Both Eugene and Zio had the “fish of the day,” which was something fried and filleted and even smothered in an unknown sauce was, according to Zio, “still crispy.”

As I expected, the platters were large, the food densely delicious, though the ribs a tad on the sweet side, and the Presidente the perfect accompaniment. It was no reflection on Malecon’s quality, however, that everyone, excluding Eugene and myself, had leftovers; a first for our group.

Despite being overstuffed, I couldn’t resist sampling the coconut flan while Rick and Mike from Yonkers were easily convinced by our waitress to try the tres leches (three milk) cake. The flan I had was as dense as the rice and gandules, but the tres leches was moist, dripping with sweet milk and so good that it alone would make another journey,  detours and all,  to Washington Heights a high priority.

Tres leches cake.

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Shared Secrets of Soft Tofu

31 Jan

So Kong Dong
130 Main Street
Ft. Lee, NJ

We learned after grilling Mike from Yonkers that his choice of So Kong Dong, a Korean “soft tofu” place in Fort Lee, New Jerseey was one he had frequented often. Not a risky discovery, but we had no restrictions that a choice had to be one that was virgin territory. But why would Mike from Yonkers be spending time in Fort Lee, New Jersey ?

“Taekwondo,” he blurted, as if that really meant anything to us. We knew he and Gerry are taekwondo students and masters of that Korean martial arts form. So that meant because of the taekwondo connection he obviously knew of the Korean restaurants in Fort Lee, New Jersey, of which there are many.

“My bank is here,” he admitted after being pressed further. Again, that could have led to many more questions such as why would Mike from Yonkers, New York be banking in Fort Lee, New Jersey? None of us, however, choose to continue our  inquisition; we were all too happy with the end result of his decision and that was really what mattered  most to us.

Anytime we have to go to New Jersey, usually at Gerry’s behest, we worry about traffic complications. But on this evening, Zio and I cruised effortlessly across the George Washington Bridge. We hit minor trouble when, thanks to the incoherent mumblings of the female  voice of my GPS, we headed in the opposite direction of Fort Lee on the Palisades Parkway. We quickly got back on track and again, what she was directing me to do and what the map was showing were not in sync.

“Make a U-turn ahead. Make a U-turn ahead,” she blabbered as if it were easy to make a U-turn on a winding, hilly road. Finally, we righted ourselves, shut the bitch up by turning off the useless device, and found So Kong Dong, the pillars of the George Washington Bridge visible from the restaurant’s small parking lot.

The view from the parking lot.

I pulled into a municipal parking lot across Main Street from the restaurant just as Gerry and Eugene arrived. Eugene muttered that Mike from Yonkers would have to deduct the bridge toll and the parking from his share of that night’s dinner. When we told Mike from Yonkers of his obligation, he responded that by filling up our gas tanks in New Jersey, which both Eugene and I did, that we would actually be saving money, or at worst, break even, on the cost of getting to the appointed restaurant.

So Kong Dong was spacious with rows of wooden tables and Korean artifacts on the walls that no one could identify. The menu also served as a place mat and was limited to just nine varieties of tofu soup along with Korean bbq ribs. None of the soups were over $9 while the platter of ribs was $15, all well within our $20 per person budget.

Eugene suggested a kangaroo court to decide Rick’s fate since he was late. But before we had to actually figure out what goes on in a kangaroo court, Rick appeared and all of us ordered.

“Seafood tofu,” Eugene blurted out to the hovering waiter.

“How spicy?” the waiter asked.

We weren’t sure how So Kong Dong’s heat meter rated in our own spice universe. We looked to Mike from Yonkers for guidance.

“I usually get it hot,” he said. As opposed to the other options offered: “not spicy, not too spicy, medium hot or very hot.”

One seafood tofu times four.

The waiter glanced at Gerry.

“Seafood tofu,” Gerry ordered.

And then to Rick

“Seafood tofu,” he said.

I was next.

“Seafood tofu,” I mumbled into my hand as the waiter scribbled.

Breaking the monotony, Zio went for the pork tofu and, with a knowing grin; Mike from Yonkers ordered the oyster tofu. “I always get the oyster tofu,” he said without any further explanation. We added two orders of the ribs and our waiter departed.

A few moments’ later bowls of Korean condiments began to assemble on our table; kim chee, bean sprouts, spicy pickles, cold cabbage soup, and six raw eggs. “You crack them into the soup,” said the soft tofu wizened, Mike from Yonkers.

Korean condiments

And then the ribs arrived. Layers of thinly sliced beef short ribs in a slightly sweet marinade complete with huge scissors, resembling garden shears, to cut them up and portion them out to the members of our now salivating party.

Before we could finish with the ribs, the bowls of soup began to crowd our table. Each was bubbling; still boiling hot from the kitchen. As our waiter placed our bowls in front of us, I watched as the soup continued to bubble. How could it continue to bubble so long after coming off the flame?  I tried to wait; to give it more time to cool, but I’m an impatient eater. I  scooped some into my spoon, blew on it and then tentatively sipped. It had cooled down enough, or so I thought, not to have seared the inside of my mouth and was able to swallow it. The soup was fiery and loaded with shrimp, oysters, and clams. I cracked the egg into it and, as Mike from Yonkers instructed, stirred it before it turned into one solid hard boiled egg yolk. I also added rice into the soup in hopes that would also bring the temperature down, and it did, but not by much.

Ribs with garden shears.

There wasn’t much conversation as we worked through the soup, intermittently draining our spice assaulted sinuses into the much too thin paper napkins we were administered, and, as usual, Mike from Yonkers trailed behind all of us, methodically spooning his soup into his bowl of rice instead of vice versa as I was doing. Some secrets of soft tofu, he obviously wasn’t willing to share.

Dessert

Dessert was a stick of gum that held its flavor for less than five minutes. We all praised Mike from Yonkers for his choice but the next day, thinking I had escaped burn damage, realized there were blisters throughout the insides of my mouth, under my tongue, wherever the blistering soup touched.  The mutilation of my mouth notwithstanding, if I’m ever “banking” in Ft. Lee, I won’t hesitate to return for another chance at a bowl of soft tofu.

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A Taste of Bronx Honey

24 Jan

Honey’s Thai Pavilion
3036 Westchester Avenue
Bronx

When asked why he chose Honey’s Thai Pavilion, Eugene’s response was: “Someone told me it’s the best Thai food in the Bronx.” And on the restaurant’s website, www.honeysthaipavilion.com, they repeat what Eugene heard and state it clearly on the site’s home page. I’m not sure how many Thai restaurants there are in the Bronx. And as far as I know, the Bronx is not known for its Thai food. Still the honor, however it was bestowed, was enough for Eugene to justify our gathering in the Pelham Park section of the Bronx, just under the number 6 elevated train, to see if we would concur with the restaurant’s lofty claim.

I arrived early and had a beer at Vivienne’s Bar next door to Honey’s. As I sat in the bar with a few regulars in this predominately Italian-American neighborhood, I wondered if Vivienne, who served a cold Corona to me personally, had ever met Honey next door. And then I wondered if there really was a Honey of Honey’s Thai Pavilion.

Vivienne, meet Honey. Honey, meet Vivienne.

Eugene and Rick were waiting as I entered the sparsely populated, sparkling, diner-like restaurant. Zio was risking the long train ride from Astoria and I noticed there was a message from him on my cell phone. Train troubles apparently.

Mike from Yonkers came in soon after I did, and we all perused the plastic-coated menu searching for something that might distinguish Honey’s as the best Thai restaurant in the Bronx. From a quick inspection, the evidence was not obvious. There was the jerky appetizer; pork or beef, and mussels on the half shells. We could try them and hope for the best.

We waited a bit longer for Zio and just a few minutes before he slowly made his way to our table, we ordered the fried fish cakes, the beef jerky, and a bowl of steamed mussels on a half shell in a spicy broth with galangal and lime. Galangal, to those unfamiliar with Thai ingredients, is the more robust sister to ginger.

Fish cakes: cooked to a perfect rubber-like consistency.

The silvery growth under Zio’s nose, also known to some as a moustache, was the source of our early conversation as we waited for the appetizers. We wanted his reasons for attempting such folly, but he had no explanation for it. Maybe he needed a few of the rubbery fish cakes to help jog his memory. Or maybe one of the over-cooked, and evidently frozen, mussels that were in what was a very good, spicy broth accented by the presence of the aforementioned galangal would do it. But neither helped Zio come up with a coherent answer to the moustache question. And by the time we devoured the addictive sweet and spicy beef jerky that was fried to oblivion and accompanied by a chili sauce (chilly on the menu) we realized Zio needed no justification for his facial hair choices.

Mussels (frozen) accented in a galangal broth.

The entrees were relatively pedestrian. I was hoping to find something unusual when I ordered the pad key mao, flat noodles with basil leaves, onions and peppers in a spicy chili sauce. Our waitress inquired if I wanted it spicy. I tried to tell her that I wanted it as it should be prepared. Not quite understanding what I meant, she retorted that there were four grades of spicy: mild, medium, hot, and very spicy. I was considering one of the latter two when she suggested the medium as if she knew my tolerance for heat. “I can bring you extra chili sauce if it’s not hot enough,” she reassured me. What arrived needed no extra spice—medium had my mouth nicely charred.

Pad Key Mao

Nothing else that I tasted would have me exclaiming that Honey’s was the best Thai food in the Bronx. And I think the others were in agreement. Mike from Yonkers complained that the chicken in his spicy phik king was over-fried while Zio’s curry noodles with beef brought out a twitch in his new moustache: “There’s no excuse for beef that tough,” he grumbled, though ate it all anyway.

The curry noodles with beef had Zio’s sorry excuse for a moustache twitching.

I know Rick and Eugene ordered entrees, but I have no idea what they were and I think that tells you all you need to know about Honey’s Thai Pavilion.

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Morgan the Egyptian

17 Jan

Morgan Fish Restaurant
2801 John F. Kennedy Blvd
Jersey City.

The temperature was dropping as I left my apartment on the way to the number 2 train. At 72nd Street I switched to the number 1 train. Two stops later I got off at 59th and onto the B train downtown. At 34th, I walked through the tunnel to the PATH train where I found Zio fumbling with a Metrocard/PATH vending machine. He was not clear what it took to gain entry on the PATH. He didn’t know that all it took was his Metrocard. Our next stop was our destination: Jersey City.

One of the several trains it took to get to Jersey City.

This journey was orchestrated by Gerry who, predictably, had chosen a place that would not be easy to get to. We were headed to a seafood place called Morgan Fish Restaurant. I think Morgan being the generic Captain Morgan because it certainly isn’t an Egyptian name and Morgan’s was most certainly an Egyptian establishment and one of the excuses Gerry used to drag us to Jersey City as he said: “To show solidarity with our Egyptian brothers and sisters.”

Zio and I arrived first and besides a woman sweeping the floor and another in the kitchen, we were the only people in Morgan’s. There were fresh fish displayed under a glass counter along with a platter of potato salad and small, pickled eggplants. The woman sweeping offered many friendly smiles, but either didn’t have much to say, or was hesitant because of language difficulties.

The fish of Morgan Fish

A man appeared. He did speak English and also possessed a friendly smile. He pointed to the fish; tilapia, striped sea bass, and branzino. There were also large, full-bodied shrimp and a few flattened pieces of uncooked calamari minus the tentacles. He could prepare the fish, he said, either fried or grilled.

We were hungry and while Gerry and the rest of the Westchester contingent were circling John F. Kennedy Blvd trying to locate Morgan Fish with Mike from Yonkers’ faulty GPS device, Zio and I hoped to get started with the ordering. The menu promised shrimp and/or seafood soup but our male host shook his head sadly: “Soup run out,” he said.

As we were about to order hummus and baba ganoush, (spelled humos and papa ghanoosh on the menu) the rest of the group, Rick included, entered. We found a table suitable for six and our host followed us in to commence with the ordering. We figured hummus, baba ganoush, and some of those tiny eggplants would be a good start. He concurred.

Before he could even get his winter coat off, Eugene was expounding on his Punta Cana vacation where the food at the all-inclusive Bavaro Beach resort was “incredible.” None of us, all stuck in this miserable New York winter, could debate his claim. I shut him off to concentrate on the menu.

Morgan’s menu

It was all simple enough. The question was how much to order and whether the fish should be fried or grilled. We compromised on fried shrimp and calamari along with one fried fish and one grilled. I don’t think we specified which fish should be fried or grilled; the branzino or the sea bass,  and when they arrived, none of us could tell the difference.

Fried shrimp and calamari

Our host brought not one, but two platters each of fried shrimp and fried calamari. Both were lightly crisped; the batter containing a distinctive dusting of some unidentifiable, but clearly Middle Eastern, spice. We picked through the calamari rings and shrimp, but, knowing we had two whole fish to also contend with, went slow and restrained ourselves from devouring them all.

Fish before

The fish was served with a brown (not health food brown) rice and a sofrito-like sauce. We took turns excising the flesh from the bones until all that remained were their skeletons.

Fish after

Once we were finished,  Zio, just making small talk,  mentioned his admiration for the movie, The Black Swan.

“Did you like the dance scenes,” Gerry asked.

“Huh,” Zio seemed surprised by the question. “No, the sex scenes,” he said with noticeable longing.

Eugene was studying his phone and then began to read from its tiny screen. “Natalie Portman. Born June 9, 1981 in Israel. Attended the Solomon Schecter Day School of Glen Cove, New York. First movie, “The Professional…”

What’s a nice girl from Glen Cove doing making Zio’s heart race?

Thankfully the check came and the Natalie Portman biography, as read by Eugene, was cut short. All that seafood and we were still a few dollars under our allotted $20 per person budget. Morgan Fish was a worthy choice, but just not one where it took four trains to get to. There had to be another way to show solidarity with our Egyptian brothers and sisters.

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