Does an Mexican-Italian infusion mean the menu at the Avenue A Bistro Cafe might include rigatoni with an adobo scented marinara sauce served with fresh steamed corn tortillas? Or is it the other way around? Maybe enchiladas stuffed with fennel spiced salsiccia served with a side of escarole and pane di casa? Just wondering.
I guess if those “infusions” don’t appeal to you, there’s always sushi.
Just about one year ago, our “gang” met in Astoria on a cold January night. I was laid up with a post-holiday stomach thing and had to bow out. Instead, Zio was assigned to report on the meal. What follows is his interpretation of the dining experience that night.
Balkh Shish Kebab House
2310 31st St
Astoria
There were still some leftover glaciers under the el on Thirty First Street, remnants of the holiday blizzard. For a very short time the snow was pristine and white . Now as it melted and refroze it resembled an ugly kind of frozen gravy, riddled with dog piss holes and fossilized cigarette butts. Above me, the N Train crashed by and I thought of young Michael waiting for the same noise before shooting the veal parmesan out of Sterling Hayden’s throat.
“How’s the Afghani food in this restaurant?” “Try the ‘manto’ it’s the best in the city.”
I guess I felt a little nervous. my thoughts were on the grim side, after all, Balkh Shish Kabob House was my first restaurant selection without Neckbones’ help and to boot he was AWOL. How friendly could the Afghani staff be when our military was sniffing around their country? I began to pace up and down the street checking the time every thirty seconds. I was sure nobody was coming at 6:59.
One minute later, they all showed up, snapping me out of my anxiety spiral. The waiter seated us in a comfortable, secluded corner at a big round table near a huge hand painted map of Afghanistan, outlining all the regions. Eugene was quick to comment on the pleasing temperature of the room, maybe sensing my hopefulness.
We decided to pick four appetizers. , all of them were served with minted yogurt sauce. We knew to skip the samosas and ordered two kinds of dumplings. One was “manto,” beef meat dumplings with curry sauce and yogurt, the other was “aushack,” this was boiled and filled with scallions and herbs. Mike from Yonkers made it clear he would steer clear of the “bandanjan borani,” fried eggplant, and the “borani kadu,” fried pumpkin with homemade sauce. We ordered them anyway. These were fresh tasting and personally I would almost eat anything in dumpling form.
While we were deciding what to order from the Balkh Special entrees list, we got help from the cook (I think), who said he would feed us like “An Afghan Family”. This took the pressure off and also gave us hope that we would have an authentic eating experience.
While we waited for the slaughter of the lamb, we heard the praying begin with earnest devotion. We countered the discordant chants with ramblings of our own which ranged from our favorite “Honeymooners” episodes to the fact that Ann Coulter is dating Jimmy Walker, the mystery of Alfalfa’s cowlick, Lee Meriwether, Spanky’s amazing performances as an infant, and of course the incredibly nubile “Darla”. ..This is why the rest of the world hates us.
Our “gang” at dinner.
Finally our entrée arrived, As I remember, it was a combo of a combo, kabli palow, and the fish combo. What we didn’t expect was that it came in a wheelbarrow. A mountain of tender lamb shanks and fish buried in basmati rice, raisins ,and carrots was placed before us.
A “mountain” of kabli palow
Our “family” did what it could so as not to offend our hosts. The large portion did cost us $75, one entrée multiplied by five plus the appetizers. We went over budget by five dollars each. Not too bad, but no way to treat a family.
A couple of months ago I documented some of the abuse of “the other white meat” that I discovered around New York in a post titled A Little Love For the Pig (please).
Sadly, since that post, the hate has only increased. Recently, I found another hater.
Yeah, yeah, “no ham on my pan” sound cute, but it’s hurtful, Makkah brother.
If we didn’t get the anti-pork policy the first time, it’s repeated two more times in living color.
Would a few thin slices of prosciutto really be so bad?
And when I noticed that Mookie’s, a leader of the “No Pork on My Fork” crusade closed, I had hopes that a new establishment at the same location would display a more open mind on matters swine related.
Mookie’s before.
I was wrong.
The new “Mookie’s” but with the same negative message.
Once again, all I can ask, is to give the pig a little love…please.
Jang Tur Noodle
35-38 Union St
Flushing
After walking up the steps to Jang Tur Noodle and entering the very brightly-lit restaurant, the smell of cooking cabbage almost overwhelmed me. I was the first to arrive at the Korean noodle shop I chose in the Korean enclave of the Asian community of Flushing, just off Northern Boulevard. And after a few whiffs inside the restaurant, even with the door open on an early winter evening, I was tempted to send out an all-points bulletin via my cell phone that we should find another venue—there certainly were plenty within the vicinity. But it was too late—I could see Gerry, Eugene, and Mike from Yonkers through the glass windows as they climbed the steps that led to the Jang Tur’s entrance.
I didn’t say anything about the smell; I was waiting to see if any of the others would comment. No one did and maybe it was because the door was open for a bit. Or maybe because I was becoming acclimated to it that I no longer found the smell offensive and instead of my stomach wrenching, it was now clamoring for sustenance.
The restaurant’s lone waitress brought us plastic glasses of what looked like beer but was actually warm, barley tea. There were pictures of the noodle dishes offered on the wall with descriptions of them underneath. The descriptions were in Korean only and the waitress spoke no English. There were, however, a few laminated one page menus that did give English translations of the noodle dishes offered.
I’ll take the one with the noodles.
While we waited for Rick, Eugene chatted about the five Christmas parties he was soon to attend including one that featured a “Viennese” table. Rick’s arrival saved us from hearing more about the Viennese table and, with the exception of Zio, all were present.
A few days earlier we received an email from Zio with his apologies for not being able to make the dinner. “I have a chance to make a good chunk of money if I go to ct (Connecticut) on Tuesday,” was Zio’s brief email message. The murkiness of it led to wild speculation about what he would actually be doing in Connecticut to make a “good chunk of money.”
The noodles at Jang Tur were, according to the English-language menu, “hand cut or hand torn and made on the premises daily.” There were also two variations of dumplings, chive and beef and when the waitress came to our table we pointed to them. And then doing more pointing, we picked out our noodle bowls.
When I arrived, there were two diners in the tiny restaurant, a man and a woman. The man was slurping magnificently. I peered to see what it was he was so proficiently devouring. It was a bowl of something dark red, almost clay-like in color. It could only be the noodles in red bean porridge. If he was having it, I wanted it too.
Red Bean noodles and dumplings
“Red bean?” our waitress said in her very limited English. She wanted to make sure that it was really what I wanted. I confirmed with an enthusiastic nod. Mike from Yonkers pointed to the noodles in spicy anchovy soup on the menu, Gerry the rice cake and dumpling soup, and Rick, the stir fried squid with rice.
Instead of pointing, Eugene insisted on speaking in loud, clear English and asked for the noodles in a spicy red pepper sauce with vegetables. Our waitress looked at him blankly. He then pointed. She nodded.
“No, mushrooms, right?” he bellowed as if she had any idea what he was asking. We’ve learned over the years that Eugene has an unusual aversion to mushrooms that’s so drastic it’s as if he has a life compromising allergy to the fungi.
Seeing she wasn’t responding, he tried again. “I can’t have mushrooms,” he said shaking his head. “No mushrooms?”
“Mushrooms,” she mouthed like an alien learning the language of the foreign intruder.
Eugene shook his head again. “No mushrooms,” he repeated.
Mimicking Eugene, she shook her head too and said, “No mushrooms.” Apparently that was enough to satisfy Eugene and we were spared anymore mushroom discussion.
Jang Tur’s kimchi
The dumplings arrived along with big bowls of kimchi and a spicy, pickled squash. The dumplings were light as tissue and perfect with the salty dipping sauce that accompanied them. The steaming, dark red porridge came next. I took a few bites. At first it was bland, like porridge can be, and negotiating the thick noodles with the silver chopsticks at the table proved troublesome. In the bowl also were small dumplings similar to those found in traditional chicken and dumpling soup. I added a bit of the hot pepper condiment to give it a little bite, but it wasn’t needed. What started as bland evolved into a comforting, unique taste.
Spicy anchovy noodle soup
Mike from Yonkers was struggling with his soup; taking tiny sips because of the intense spice of it. Soon his nose was flowing freely and he was honking loudly into a handkerchief. Eugene incorporated the Sicilian method to eating noodles, using a spoon with his chopsticks. He had no complaints about the heat. “It’s like a noodle salad,” he said of his bowl.
Eugene’s “noodle salad” sans mushrooms.
While Rick was picking out the larger, tough pieces of squid from the smaller, more tender ones on his plate, Gerry was deliberately sipping his soup; savoring it. “The best soup I’ve ever had,” was the supreme compliment he uttered after finishing it.
“The Best Soup Ever;” so said Gerry.
With all the bowls just $7.99 each, we were way under budget. We had some extra time so we crossed Northern Boulevard and entered the Cool Hope Beer Hall. The “Hall” was practically empty and the five of us spread out at the bar. The television above the bar was broadcasting a Korean version of “Dancing With the Stars.” We watched silently while we enjoyed a round of soju, Korean sake, chased by Budweiser before heading back out into the winter night.
The day before Christmas, it’s no meat for me,
Even though I’m a non-believer,
on Christmas Eve,
I only eat from the sea.
The feast should have seven dishes
of fishes that day.
No one really knows why,
it’s just what they say.
Here then are the fishes,
in no particular order.
For the feast,
I present to you.
On my own fingers I counted,
To make sure it’s true.
They call it squid, but it’s calamari we know.
Cook it fast or cook it slow.
Any other way,
and it’s a no go.
Stuff with breadcrumbs, parsley and nuts.
Enjoy the stuffed squid,
but don’t eat too much.
There’s six more dishes to go,
before you bust.
It comes from a snail, is what I’ve heard,
this thing called scungilli;
I know, it’s a funny word.
Italian Escargot?
The French shake their heads
and say, ‘oh no!”
Boil until it’s tender, and then chop it
real fine.
Add to a salad,
and maybe drizzle with lime.
Long and slithery,
it looks like a snake.
With dark beady eyes,
this fish is not for everyone’s taste.
We call it eel.
In Italian it’s capitone.
Its flesh is oily,
its look surreal.
Be careful there are bones.
You don’t want to choke,
especially while giving the
Christmas Eve toast.
Chop into pieces,
then fry or grill.
With garlic and vinegar,
this eel will thrill.
When the faint of heart see it coming,
they shriek and wail,
‘cause it’s got a slimy body and a prickly tail.
It’s a small fish, the little anchovy,
but the flavor it packs,
makes up for any good looks it lacks.
Dissolve in hot olive oil with garlic, of course.
Add some peperoncini,
and a little broth.
Pour over spaghettini
and you’ll be one of the first,
to line up at the trough.
Four dishes done, three more to go.
The feast of seven fishes,
can become quite a show.
Along the way,
things could get bumpy,
causing anxiety and stress;
a chef could get jumpy.
Time to bring out the fish,
the one that no one complains.
The reliable flounder,
it causes no pain.
Bake it with butter or oil, some
lemon and herbs.
Its mild mellow flavor,
will take the edge off,
will ease the nerves.
It comes in all sizes, this mollusk of grey.
But I like the small ones;
what they call vongole.
Clean them and make sure the sand is all gone.
Add to a pot with oil, garlic and white wine.
When they open just a bit,
they will release their magical brine.
Eat them from the shell or over
linguini.
Either way, you can’t go wrong,
with a clam this teeny.
Oh it smells something fierce,
this fish called baccala,
Just wait till you see it;
it looks even worse.
In a pot or bathtub,
soak it for days.
Change the water
a few times or more.
Yes it’s hard work;
it can be a chore.
Do it until that fish;
the one that smells,
grows larger,
until it swells.
Steam or bake,
soon the tender flesh will flake.
With onions and garlic,
what a delicious dish
this hideous monster makes.
Its appeal is so huge,
There’s even a poem called,
The feast over;
all seven fishes you’ve tried.
But now your mercury level is high.
No fear, everything will be okay,
because Christmas comes the very next day.
There will be more food.
Another big feast.
And this one, I’m sure,
will include juicy red meat.
Eddie’s Pizza
2048 Hillside Ave
New Hyde Park, NY
I didn’t know when I walked into Eddie’s Pizza on Hillside Avenue in New Hyde Park that the place was some sort of Happy Days throwback. Gerry was at the bar, alone, sipping vodka and watching ESPN. The bar area was dimly lit. There were framed photos on the walls of Long Island celebrities like Boomer Esiason and a poster of the HBO series “Entourage.” The bartender was certainly a throwback; big frosted blonde hair, brassy nicotine ravaged voice and kiddingly friendly in that old school way.
And when I pulled up to the bar next to Gerry, she said, “What’ll you have, hun?”
For the first time in the almost ten years we have been convening, we were in Nassau County. This was Rick’s pick and he had taken us to the area where he grew up. Where, as he told us later, he and a few other friends, known as the Valley Stream “Fat Boys,” would cruise the strip malls in search of whatever place would satisfy their insatiable food cravings. That meant usually diners, but also, according to Rick, included Eddie’s Pizza.
Rick was stuck in the inevitable traffic on the LIE and Eugene was a late scratch, but Zio and Mike from Yonkers made it and after we all had a drink at the bar, moved to a table in a much more brightly lit area surrounded by posters from 1950’s teen rebel movies like Elvis’s “King Creole,” “Rock Around the Clock,” with Alan Freed, and of course, “Rebel Without a Cause.”
There were two televisions tuned to ESPN, but the sound was muted replaced by a stream of oldies. At first the music was just background noise, but soon it became intrusive not because it was too loud, but because there was something just not right with it. We were familiar with the songs, but they were off—remakes of the originals but meant to sound exactly like the original.
Though Rick was the man we needed at Eddie’s, we couldn’t wait much longer and ordered appetizers and by the time the sweet potato gnocchi and fried calamari ravioli arrived, so did Rick. The gnocchi was a nice balance of sweet and salty, but the fried calamari ravioli was an enigma. It was something deep fried stuffed with something else that had a briny, seafood flavor, more like the stuffing of a baked clam than anything reminiscent of calamari. We ate it anyway.
Our waitress, a brunette version of the bartender, suggested three pies. “They’re thin crust,” she said. “Kind of pizza on a matzoh.” The connotation was not the most appealing but we tried one tomato cheese pie, another white clam and a third tomato with anchovies. All three were regular-sized pies as opposed to the restaurant’s famous “bar pies” which were really just smaller, individual-sized pied that were said to fit perfectly on the bar. While we waited, glancing occasionally at the televisions, the music began to take over.
The “matzoh” crust of Eddie’s.
“Johnny Angel,” was the title of the female weeper about a teen rebel’s early death. Who was the singer?
“Lesley Gore?” Mike from Yonkers offered.
“No, not Lesley Gore,” Zio, the senior in our group, said adamantly.
“Connie Francis?” I tried.
Zio shook his head again.
Where was Eugene and his usually useless oldies’ knowledge when we needed him?
“I think it’s Shelly Fabares, but it’s not really her,” Zio said.
Yes,Zio, it was Shelly Fabares.
The pizzas arrived. The clams on the white pie were a bit tough, but the clam juice flowed through the grooves of the cheese which I thought was a good thing. The anchovies on the tomato pie gave it much needed flavor while the standard tomato and cheese pie was a disappointment.
We could hear “The Great Pretender,” playing in the background.
“That’s not the Platters,” Gerry said.
“That’s someone singing ‘The Great Pretender,’ I said. “Pretending to be the Platters.”
I poked at the matzoh-like crust to see if it would break. It didn’t. The sauce held to it. At the moment I couldn’t decide if that was good or bad. There was one clam slice remaining. No one wanted it. Not even Zio.
The waitress returned with espresso. There were lemon peels with each demitasse cup. Zio was impressed. “They never give lemon peels anymore,” he noted. “You gotta always ask.”
At Eddie’s you don’t have to ask for lemon with your espresso.
“Here we always bring them,” the waitress said proudly.
“But what do you do with it?” Zio wanted to know as he tried to squeeze the thick peel, hoping to extract some juice from it.
“You rub it around the rim,” she said. And this she proceeded to do, working over his shoulder to show him and then spilling half his espresso. She returned with another espresso, but after two super-sized diet Cokes, more caffeine was something Zio did not need.
“Come Go With Me,” a doo wop made famous by the Dell Vikings played, but this wasn’t the Dell Vikings. Zio was listening closely.
“The scream’s off,” he muttered in disgust. “They couldn’t even get the scream right. Let’s get out of here.”
So went our Long Island strip mall experience at Eddie’s Pizza, Home of the Bar Pie.
Where you will find this model replica of Al Capone along with a shrine to gangsterism.
And where they sell rabbits and calf brains.
You will also find this.
Broccoli rabe
And this.
Dried peppers, fruits and vegetables.
Here inside this place.
Known as the Arthur Avenue Retail Market, in the Bronx.
Thank you all for playing and showing off your New York foodie creds. Keep your eyes open for a new edition of Name that Place in 2012.
This one is so easy, I’m a little embarrassed to actually be posting it. But in the spirit of the season; a time of tenuous comfort and forced joy, I am offering this bonus round of Name That Place.
There’s obviously a gangster theme going on here. Is that supposed to be Al Capone? Or is it supposed to be this guy?
Either way, it’s just another sad stereotype of the Italian as gangster.
Ooops, I just gave away a hint, as if you need it. Where is this tribute to gangsterism? I won’t use the “M” word to describe what is depicted because my Poppy from Calabria always said there was no such thing.
Since I’m in such a giving mood, I’ll add a few more photos of what you might find at this place.
You can buy calf brains there.
And even fresh coniglio, also known as rabbit.
Is it a meat market? One with a statue of a gangster? Am I confusing you now? I certainly hope so, but doubt it. No, from what I’ve revealed here, I might as well just wrap this gift up and put it under the tree for you.
As always, leave your answers in the comment section below. The place will be revealed here on Monday.
Zlata Praha
28-48 31st Street
Astoria, Queens
“Polish cuisine,” Mike from Yonkers wrote in his email to our group alerting us of his Astoria-located choice called Zlata Praha, and what he thought they served there. “Unlike most of you, I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure with that part of the world.”
He was obviously absent when, years ago, we traveled to Greenpoint to the Old Poland Bakery and endured silent glares from the waitstaff and local clientele as we devoured enormous platters of kielbasa, pierogies, and boiled beef for next to nothing. But after a quick visit to Zlata Praha’s website http://www.zlatapraha.cc/main.htm, I noticed the proclamation that the restaurant was the city’s number one destination for Czech and Slovak cuisine. Mike from Yonkers was going to have the pleasure of dining on food from that part of the world, though in this case, just a little bit west and south of Poland.
Walking past the bar area where pictures of Czech and Slovak celebrities; hockey players, tennis stars, unknown singers and actors adorned the walls, Zio and I entered the empty dining room where only the rumbling from the N and R trains on the elevated track above 31st Street intruded on the silence. We were shown to a table with table cloths and cloth napkins tucked ornately into stemmed wine glasses. A stuffed deer head smoking a pipe peered over the room.
Some of Zlata Praha’s rustic decor.
Zio noticed that there was an outdoor garden. It was a pleasant evening; we hadn’t dined “al fresco” in many years, possibly since we ate in the back garden of Uncle Sal’s Ribs and Bibs in the Bronx where we were surrounded by a junkyard and serenaded by a nearby boom box. So despite what Zio, showing off his expertise in such things, pointed out was a decorative rock that really was camouflaging rat poison, and with the distinct smell of fresh bug spray in the air, we decided to eat outside.
I was thirsty and the Pilsner Urquell displays were enticing, but our smiling waitress, instead, recommended her favorite Czech beer called Staropramen. I figured she knew her stuff and went with her choice. She returned with a thick, cold mug of what was a full bodied, rich colored brew that was better even than the very good Pilsner Urquell.
We sipped the beer and pondered the typically hearty Eastern European items on the menu; schnitzels, sauerbraten, goulash, pierogies, potato pancakes, and assorted dumplings.
Of the cold appetizers, a selection of head cheese was debated roundly between us. “I’d get it,” Mike from Yonkers said boldly, but he was the only one that would dare attempt to penetrate the gelatinous mix of animal body parts that was an acquired taste none of us had the desire to acquire.
A no to the head cheese.
The head cheese was nixed, instead replaced by an order of the comparatively tame herring in cream sauce. We rounded out the appetizers with a sampling of potato pancakes, dense and bland, the accompanying apple sauce very much needed and a kielbasa, Czech-style, which tasted just like the Polish counterpart with mustard, ketchup, and fresh horseradish that was minus the accustomed zing.
While we waited for our entrees, we listened to Zio complain about his current residence on a rustic Connecticut lake. “I gotta get outta there. There are canoes,” he moaned and shook his head.
Before we could make sense of his objection to canoes, the entrees arrived. The ever smiling waitress placed a plate in front of me with a Frisbee-sized, flattened piece of pork fried in potato pancake batter while Rick, sitting next to me, was the recipient of half a duck that looked like it had been cooked with a blow torch. He offered samples for all. I declined, but Gerry took a bite. “Very good,” he proclaimed. “Good and gamey.”
“Definitely gamey,” Rick sighed.
I sawed through the wiener schnitzel cutting off portions for all who wanted a taste. I was more than happy to share the pork that could have used a generous portion of Tabasco to spice it up. I was more protective, however, of the very good potato salad that accompanied the meat.
Wiener Schnitzel: serrated steak knife mandatory.
Trying not to be negative and suppress the unusually good spirits he was in; the prospect of a trip to Italy within days will do that, Eugene mentioned that the sauerbraten he ordered “didn’t have much meat,” under the brown, soup like gravy it was immersed in. Mike from Yonkers had the same gripe about his goulash and agreed to help Zio with his order of chicken paprikash that was supposed to be red with paprika but had a goulash/sauerbraten-like dull brown tinge. Gerry, however, is generally easy to satisfy and he plowed through his order of spaetzle with feta cheese without objection.
Sauebraten or goulash?
Zio and Mike from Yonkers were the only ones who could manage the large portion of apple strudel topped by whipped cream and ice cream after that leaden meal. And the more I sat there after all that food, the nearby rat poison and the smell of bug spray still evident, the more I wanted out of Zlata Praha no matter how enjoyable the company and food was.
I signaled to the waitress and asked her for the check. I didn’t know it at the time, but this was the moment she was waiting for. Her ever present smile was now glowing “Here I am,” she said and stood there, waiting for my response.
The food and beer had obviously dulled my thought process. Gerry nudged me with a grin. “Get it,” he said. She was still standing there smiling and I still didn’t get it.
And then the Czech went to get the check and I finally got it.
As seen in the People’s Choice Kitchen.
And the beef patties were good too.
Fried Neck Bones...and some home fries 