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A Bosnian Taste in Astoria

16 May

Ukus

Not many food dives escape Zio’s nose—and stomach. And the power walks he takes through his neighborhood of Astoria require nourishment. No doubt on one of those power walks Zio sniffed out the scent of grilling meat coming from a small Balkan restaurant in ethnically-diverse Astoria called Ukus Pie and Grill.  The Bosnian word “ukus,” I learned can be translated to mean “taste,” and after a taste of Ukus’s “mixed grill” and bean and smoked meat stew, Zio was hooked and was soon a frequent enough visitor to be able to address the owner of the restaurant by his given name.

“Say hello to Fico for me,” Zio told the man, who was not Fico, but who was serving us on the night our group got together to experience what Zio had become well versed in.

“You picked a winner,” Eugene bellowed at the end of our meal and after tallying up the modest bill.

And none of the five present in Astoria on what was a pleasant spring evening could disagree.

On this rare occasion, Zio took charge. As familiar with the Ukus menu as he was with the 1977 New York Yankee lineup, he got up and ordered at the counter/grill starting us off with a tomato and onion salad, followed by a two slices of pie; phyllo-dough layered bread stuffed, in our case, one with cheese, and the other with cabbage. The “slices” so large and dense they could sustain a man for days during a harsh Balkan winter.

Cheese pie

Cheese pie

Hearty, crusty bread also came with the tomato salad and was the perfect vessel to soak up the juice from the tomatoes.

The man who was not Fico made it easy for our group by splitting one order of the bean and smoked meat soup three ways. We slurped from three smaller bowls; the smoked flavor of the meat intense; the broth rich with pureed white beans.

Bean and smoked meat stew

Bean and smoked meat stew

The platter of grilled mixed meats came out next. Dark, charcoal-colored meats including a kebab of lamb layered the plate with a piece of grilled chicken being the only exception to this red meat extravaganza. Eugene quickly speared a piece of one of the charred meats and shoved it into his mouth. A grimace soon followed.

“No…no…liver,” Eugene spat, the frown still on his face as he forced the piece of veal liver down his throat.

Hearing that there was liver on the plate brightened Gerry’s sleepy eyes and he quickly zeroed in on the much-desired organ meat.

All the meats were accompanied by a bland cream cheese and a yellow-orange sweet pepper spread.

Mixed grill

Mixed grill

Rebounding nicely from the shock of the liver, Eugene proclaimed his approval for the piquant pieces of sausage that were on the grill plate. “You know what these remind me of,” he said, dangling a speared piece of sausage in front of all of us. “Slim Jims…remember them.”

We did remember the pencil-sized cut of beef jerky sold individually in the delis of our youth, but frankly, I didn’t get the comparison. Still, Eugene made a point of repeating his claim until the dishes were all cleared from our table.

A Bosnian treat?

A Bosnian treat?

Wandering a few feet to the counter, we spied several dessert options. Again, Zio showed his leadership capabilities quickly picking out a slice of baklava and another, a sphere-like object that was described to us as a coconut cake stuffed with chocolate.

And, once more, after sampling the coconut cake, Eugene displayed his baby boomer knowledge. “Just like a Hostess…whaddya call them?”

“Sno balls,” Mike from Yonkers said, quickly filling in Eugene’s blanks.

Bosnian sweets (sno-ball on the right)

Bosnian sweets (sno-ball on the right)

I took a bite from the Bosnian coconut concoction.  It was there—that distinctive taste and something I hadn’t experienced in many years. A Sno Ball.

snoballs

The starch of the desserts was the perfect accompaniment to the protein assault from all that meat. And also the perfect finale.

To conclude, we often ridicule Zio for some of his food choices on foreign turf, but in his ‘hood, the man knows where to go to find the gold.

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Scungilli and Red Sauce in the South Bronx

15 Apr

 

Venice Restaurant

I pulled into Venice Restaurant’s private parking lot just off 149th Street in the Bronx and noticed its neon sign claiming the restaurant’s establishment as 1951. How did an Italian restaurant in the Bronx that had been around for 63 years escape my radar? I was ashamed of myself.

“At work we take out from there every two weeks,” proclaimed Eugene in an email after Rick chose Venice Restaurant. Unlike the rest of us, to the grizzled Eugene, the restaurant was no secret.

With Rick back after a hiatus, this was the first time our group was fully assembled in over six months. The rust was evident as Rick first suggested a few restaurants that just did not meet our criteria including one our group, without Rick, previously visited. He finally settled on the Venice for its old school “red sauce” appeal. And there was nothing wrong with that as far as I was concerned. And that it had its own private (under 24-hour video surveillance) parking lot just added to the appeal.

Venice

The dining room had images of Venice painted over the walls while the tables were covered in mustard-colored glossy vinyl. Rick wasted no time in adding to the atmosphere by ordering a glass of Chianti. Old school red sauce aside, Gerry and I took advantage of the restaurant’s full bar and instead ordered Swedish vodka.

Old school appeal

Old school appeal

“How’s the Italian food in this restaurant,” I couldn’t resist asking Eugene, whose swarthy features were actually very similar to those of Sollazzo the Turk.

But, for whatever reason, Eugene was a bit slow and didn’t get the reference. So instead of responding with, “Try the veal. It’s the best in the city,” he just shrugged and reminded us that he only had take out. He did, however, whisper to Gerry that the fried calamari wasn’t very good.

"Try the veal, it's the best in the city."

“Try the veal, it’s the best in the city.”

We stayed away from the fried calamari but couldn’t resist the seafood salad and baked clams. Overflowing with calamari, shrimp, and, as a bonus for those who care about such things, sliced tender scungilli, the seafood salad was served family-style to the extreme and more than enough even for our gluttonous family.  The baked clams, though far from the best in the city, were good enough to quickly leave 12 empty shells floating on the oily breadcrumbs that remained on the platter.

Seafood salad

Seafood salad

“Whaddya gonna order?” I asked Zio.

“I dunno. I think a sandwich,” Zio responded with a straight face.

“A fish sandwich? Gerry joked, reminding Zio of his unfortunate choice at our last destination, The Cutting Board (Uni and Ovaltine).

“Maybe you’re right,” he realized. “I’ll try the veal and peppers.”

Keeping it safely within the red sauce barometers, I chose baked ziti with meatballs while Rick went with the white clam sauce and Eugene the red. Gerry veered somewhat by ordering the penne with sausage and broccoli in a white sauce. Saddled by a mild gluten allergy, Mike from Yonkers had to refrain from pasta instead choosing the balsamic chicken—with a side salad.

Soon enormous platters began to arrive on the already olive oil stained vinyl tablecloth. The pastas and entrees were all very close to family size. I picked at the baked ziti; the anticipated red sauce overly sweet and not up to my very high standards while the meatballs, though spiced correctly, a bit leaden. Zio’s veal and peppers, on the other hand, were smothered in a more piquant red sauce and outstanding.

Who says they don't know red sauce in Venice?

Who says they don’t know red sauce in Venice?

I looked at Rick’s platter of linguini with white clam sauce. “Are they canned?” I asked, referring to the clams.

Rick nodded. “Yeah, they’re canned, but I’m not complaining.”  And neither was Eugene who, working silently and with purpose, slowly devoured his monstrous platter.

The rest of us, however, on this evening, just did not have the stamina Eugene had and, possibly a first in the 12 years we had been doing this, had no choice but to ask the waiter to bag up half of all our respective dinners to be eaten for lunch the next day.

The shoveling of the red clams begins...

Devouring the red clams

As we headed to our cars in the private, security-maintained parking lot, no one had much to say about Venice which was maybe an indication why it had remained “undiscovered” for over 60 years. But despite the restaurant’s mediocrity, we were able to all convene again as a complete group and over a seafood salad that included scungilli. We couldn’t really ask much more than that.

Venice Restaurant

Venice Restaurant
772 E. 149th St.
Bronx

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Uni and Ovaltine

17 Mar

Cutting Board

I was in the rest room of the Cutting Board, on Bayard Street in Chinatown staring at the cheery murals in front of me when I heard Zio’s voice.  I got to the restaurant before Zio and he must have come in just behind me because now I could hear him speaking loudly from our table.

“I waved to him a few times: no response!” he said incredulously.

Was he referring to me?

I cleaned up and headed back to our table. He looked at me.

“What?” I wondered.

“You just ignore me on the street?” Zio asked.

“What are you talking about? I didn’t see you.”

“I waved to you a few times. Looked right at you. It was like I wasn’t even there.”

“Did you call out my name? Did you say hello?” I asked.

“No…but how could you not see me?”

It was another frigid night. Chinatown’s sidewalks were even narrower and difficult to navigate on this evening; dark overstuffed plastic garbage bags piled on top of, and next to gray mountains of ice that had not yet melted from the winter’s multiple storms crowded the sidewalks. I had my head down and was walking with a purpose. I was hungry. I just wanted to get out of the cold and to our destination.  Even if my head were up, I would not have noticed Zio. His rotund physique, stuffed into a dark down coat, rendered him camouflage amongst the garbage bags on the street.

But I didn’t tell him that. “Why would I be looking?” I said instead.

He just shook his head and stared down at the menu. Something we all decided to do.

Some of the happiness inside the Cutting Board rest room.

Some of the happiness inside the Cutting Board rest room

.The Cutting Board was my choice and picked because it was, according to my research, an odd amalgam of cuisines with a heavy Asian accent. Here you had your choice of Western starters like chicken wings, chicken tenders, and fried calamari, or the Asian standards; bbq spare ribs, edamame, and shrimp toast. And then there were the blending of cuisines like the Cajun fries with seaweed, the Caesar salad with pork katsu, or even the pasta with uni.

“What’s uni,” Eugene inquired.

For a man who had been dining with our group for 12 years, eating just about every type of ethnic food offered in the Tri State region, Eugene’s lack of food knowledge was disconcerting.

“Sea urchin,” Gerry told him.

“What’s sea urchin?”

“That spiny mollusk you don’t want to step on in the ocean,” I said.

“You eat that?”

“You scoop out the creamy stuff inside…” I tried to explain but wasn’t doing a good job of it.

“What’s it taste like?”

Eugene’s food curiosity was as impressive as his food ignorance. One canceled out the other in my opinion.

No one at our table could really define the taste of uni. It was more about its consistency.

Undaunted, Eugene put his menu down. “I’ll have the spaghetti with the sea urchin,” he told the waiter.

Spaghetti with sea urchin

Spaghetti with sea urchin

On the menu was something I had not seen before in a Chinese restaurant much less any other restaurant called “creamy rice.” Could it be a bastardization of Italian risotto? The idea was enough to convince me to give it a shot and I chose mine with “fatty beef.” Also intrigued by the concept, Mike from Yonkers tried the creamy rice with grilled chicken, which the waiter mentioned was one of the more popular items on the menu.

Gerry veered toward the “rice” section of the menu and zeroed in on the “classic beef in curry sauce.”

And then the waiter was hovering over Zio.

“Oh, um, I’ll have a fish sandwich,” Zio said and then added: “With Ovaltine.”

The waiter left and I stared at Zio. This time it was my turn to be incredulous. “You could have had the pork katsu spaghetti” I said. “You could have had the juicy bobo burger. You could have had the kimchee beef udon. But you chose a fish sandwich? Why?”

He just shook his head. “I…don’t know…” he muttered.

“All right, listen, if you’re good I’ll let you try my fatty beef,” I said. “And you don’t even have to give me a bite of your  fish sandwich. But I definitely want a sip of that Ovaltine.”

Cajun fries and clams

Cajun fries and clams

We started with a bowl of clams steamed in light red tomato, wine sauce that was good enough to soak up with a loaf of crusty bread.  Unfortunately all we were given was one thin slice of garlic bread. Along with the clams were the thinly sliced, tender barbecue ox tongues and a side of Cajun fries salted with dried seaweed.

Barbecued Ox Tongue

Barbecued Ox Tongue

Also arriving was Zio’s Ovaltine. The promised sip was offered to me. It had that same, bland taste with just a teasing hint of chocolate I remembered the last time I sipped an Ovaltine; probably 40 or more years ago. I chased the Ovaltine with a gulp of Sapporo beer and returned the paper cup to Zio.

Zio's beverage of choice

Zio’s beverage of choice

Our main dishes came soon after we devoured the starters with Eugene’s spaghetti with sea urchin the first to arrive. In the menu the sauce was described as a “pink creamy.” What appeared in front of Eugene had more of a yellowish hue to it. He shared with all. The spaghetti was,  as if I expected otherwise, overdone, the saltiness of the sauce the only indication that there was uni in it. Maybe it melded with a light tomato sauce to form the creamy, yellow consistency? Either way, Eugene was pleased and that was really all that mattered.

The creamy rice with the fatty beef that I was hoping would resemble Italian risotto was closer to Campbell’s tomato rice soup with thinly sliced chipped beef as a topping. But I didn’t hold that against it. The dish was hearty and comforting and Zio, who I shared some with, agreed.

Creamy rice with fatty beef

Creamy rice with fatty beef

The comfort level increased when Gerry’s classic beef curry arrived. More a diner/comfort food concoction than anything purely Asian, the beef was ground and the curry sauce strong flavored like the kind you might have found in a curry dish prepared in the UK decades ago. Topping the dish was an egg over easy and a side of potato salad.  And all of that for only six dollars. You really couldn’t get much more comforting.

Beef curry-Cutting Board style

Beef curry-Cutting Board style

Finally Zio’s fried fish sandwich arrived and was no different than any other fried fish sandwich you might find in a thousand restaurants and delis throughout the city. Zio made sure to apply tartar sauce.

Tartar sauce fish sandwich

Tartar sauce fish sandwich

Eugene had cleaned his plate of spaghetti and uni and nothing remained of either my creamy rice with fatty beef or Gerry’s classic beef curry. We all looked toward Mike from Yonkers.

“Some things never change,” Eugene said as he watched and  waited while Mike from Yonkers deliberately and methodically ate his creamy rice with chicken.

“I like to savor my food,” Mike from Yonkers said in response to he always being the last to finish.

“We do too,” I said. “We just savor it with much more urgency.”

With that, Mike from Yonkers shoveled down  the last kernels of creamy rice and the five of us left the warmth of the Cutting Board for the icy streets of Chinatown.

Cutting Board
53 Bayard Street
Chinatown

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A Creole Chill in Cambria Heights

3 Feb

Brasserie Creole

I had maneuvered the car on top of a mound of snow. I hesitated before opening the door. The temperature was barely in double digits and the city had just been blanketed with a foot of snow. I was a block from our destination, Brasserie Creole, on Linden Boulevard in the Cambria Heights neighborhood in Queens. I finally opened the car door and shuffled tentatively on an icy sidewalk toward the restaurant chosen by Mike from Yonkers.

Before I got to the restaurant I noticed the “Handz of Godz” barber shop across Linden Boulevard. I fumbled with my camera, reluctantly taking off my gloves; my fingers practically useless against the cold metal of the camera. I clicked a few shots and then moved my camera to Brasserie Creole, which, according to the sign said “La Boisserie”

Who wouldn't want their hair styled by the "handz of godz?"

Who wouldn’t want their hair styled by the “handz of godz?”

As I was trying to focus in the limited street light, a voice in the dark called to me. “Hey, you. What are you doing?”

I ignored it at first. The voice, which had a Caribbean lilt to it, was not familiar and why would it be addressing me?

“I’m talking to you,” the voice said, making it clear who it was addressing. I turned to see that it was coming from a man in a parked car that had rolled down his window.

I wasn’t sure how to respond.

“I see you taking pictures around my neighborhood. Why are you doing that?” the man asked in a not very neighborly tone.

I was cold. I just wanted to get into the restaurant. I really didn’t know what to say to him.

“I…I…ah…I’m going to eat here,” I stammered, indicating Brasserie Creole, “I like to take pictures of the places where I eat.” He obviously was not familiar with the annoying food blog universe trait where everyone photo documents their meals; a trait I am admittedly often guilty.

“I know you are not from this neighborhood,” he added.

“No, I’m not,” I agreed.

I could see him nod from inside the car. “We need to know who’s in our neighborhoods. It’s dangerous out there.”

“Yeah, it can get dangerous,” I said with my own nod and shoved my camera into my coat pocket. “Now I’m gonna go eat.”

And with that I pushed open the doors to Brasserie Creole.

With the exception of a couple of patrons at the bar, the restaurant which featured a dance floor and small stage for live acts, a bar, and a dining area that wrapped around the dance floor, was deserted. We were seated at a table in the moodily-lit (meaning dark) dining area where cloth napkins were ornately tucked into stemmed water/wine glasses. Not a good sign for our unrefined group. And that I was still cold after taking off my winter coat, but keeping the other multiple layers on was another bad sign. Still I was excited. We were at a Haitian restaurant and though I’ve had Haitian food and liked it, for our group this was a first.

Cloth napkins and stemmed water glasses at Brasserie Creole.

Cloth napkins and stemmed water glasses at Brasserie Creole.

A tall man came by our table and introduced himself as “Alex.” He said he would help us with any questions about the menu.

He mentioned that the steamed fish was the most popular menu item.

“What kind of fish?” Zio inquired.

Alex thought for a moment. “It’s a big fish,” he said, opening up his arms to indicate how big. “The chef cuts it into slices.”

“Do you want to start with appetizers?” he asked.

There were no appetizers on the menu given to us.

“We can cook some up for you,” he offered.

“Sure, why not,” Mike from Yonkers said with a wide smile. “Make it enough for the five of us.”

Alex nodded and went into the kitchen.

It wasn’t getting any warmer in the restaurant as we waited. I was glad I was wearing long underwear, but even with two pairs of socks, I was starting to lose feeling in my toes. Our waitress and Alex returned carrying two large platters of assorted fried appetizers; calamari, chicken wings, accra (fried yucca) and fried plantains. On each platter was a small bowl of what looked like cole slaw but was actually a fiery hot sauce. The hot sauce was very welcome because without it the dense fried selection was just dull. We picked at the appetizers, leaving half of one of the platters untouched.

Two platters of fried appetizers with Haitian cole slaw.

Two platters of fried appetizers with Haitian cole slaw.

Taking Alex’s recommendation, three of us; Eugene, Mike from Yonkers and me, ordered the steamed fish while Gerry chose the fried goat and Zio the pedestrian. chicken Creole. We noticed people coming in out of the restaurant with orders to go and there were a few bar patrons eating, but it was primarily just our group that was keeping the kitchen busy.

Kompa, one of the many music traditions of Haiti, flowed from speakers on the stage as a sound technician worked on the audio equipment; the volume jumping between loud and not so loud. Over the music we listened and shivered as Eugene boasted about his upcoming Punta Cana all-inclusive.

“It has eight restaurants,” he said.

“Are you going to leave the property?” I asked.

He shook his head definitively.

“Yeah, and I’ll be in Puerto Rico,” Gerry announced out of the blue.

“When?” I asked.

“Tomorrow,” he said as if a trip to Puerto Rico during a polar vortex was no big deal.

Zio and I just muttered into our plates.

Thankfully the talk of tropical vacations was interrupted by our dinners—the portion of steamed fish placed in front of me enormous and accompanied with a family-style mound of rice and beans.

“This is the tenderest fish I’ve ever tasted,” Eugene shouted from the opposite end of the table.

The "tenderest" unidentified fish.

The “tenderest” unidentified fish.

It was tender; the flesh succulent and seemingly never ending. We may not have known the name of the fish we were eating, but after a few bites, we didn’t care. I piled some of the rice onto my plate and shoveled a forkful into my mouth. In the dark of the room, I hadn’t noticed the Scotch Bonnet pepper that was concealed within the rice and on my fork about to enter my mouth. Needless to say, the hiccups were fierce and a beer was very much needed to put out the fire.

Yet despite the heat of the pepper, my toes were still frozen.

“I can’t believe how much meat was on that fish,” Eugene again bellowed over the music.

Mike from Yonkers nodded his agreement as he slowly and methodically worked on the fish not caring that everyone else was done and waiting to get out of the frigid restaurant and into their comparatively balmy cars.

Feeling impatient eyes on him, he threw up his hands and announced that he was done.

But we weren’t done yet.

When our waitress asked about dessert, Zio couldn’t help himself and suggested we try the Haitian cake.

Apologizing, our waitress said they were out of the Haitian cake, whatever that was. So, thankfully, we all passed on dessert and began to assemble the layers needed to exit the restaurant when, from across the room, our waitress announced that she had “good news.”

“We do have Haitian cake,” she said.

The good news kept us waiting almost fifteen minutes for two slices of what was an ordinary, layer cake with colorful frosting. I had a few bites, but really couldn’t discern what distinguished Haitian cake from Dominican cake or any other cake for that matter. Most of the two pieces were left untouched especially after, along with the cake, we were brought our tab.

The remains of the Haitian cake.

The remains of the Haitian cake.

“We have a new record,” Eugene announced after tallying up the bill. “$38 per person.”

“Maybe now they’ll have the funds to turn on the heat,” I grumbled as we headed out into the polar vortex.

Only Gerry smiled. “Thank God. I’m finally off the hook,” he said. Our tab at Brasserie Creole had eclipsed the former record held by Bay Shish Kebab, the overpriced Turkish place in Sheepshead Bay, The Lamb in Sheepshead (bay) Gerry had burdened us with many years ago.

The next day Mike from Yonkers, still deflecting responsibility over the folly of his choice, sent an email explaining why we were way over our loose $20 per person budget.  He wrote: “I’ll have you all know that the love-of-my-life forgot to tell me that Haitians charge an arm and a leg for appetizers!  Could have been invaluable information, you think?” The “love of his life,” being his girlfriend, who, of Haitian descent, was the person who suggested Brasserie Creole for our group.

There was a lesson in there somewhere, I thought, but it had nothing to do with what Haitians charge for appetizers.

Brasserie Creole
22702 Linden Blvd.
Queens

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Curry Exotica

2 Jan

Amarin Cafe

“Why did you pick this place,” I asked Eugene as we warmed up inside Amarin Café, the “modern” Thai restaurant he chose that was surrounded by Polish restaurants in Greenpoint, Brooklyn.

“Because  we haven’t had Thai in a while and I looked at the menu and it’s cheap,” he replied.

I tend to struggle with my picks for our group; trying to find something a little different, unique in its own way and of course meeting our group’s budget criteria. Unlike mine, Eugene’s process seemed effortless. Why had I not thought of it before?

There were four of us waiting in the small restaurant; an open kitchen providing well needed heat. Rick had put himself on the temporarily “inactive” list for our group as he dealt with family issues. But Zio’s absence was a mystery. No one had heard from him. I texted to see if he was on his way.

In the meantime, we went ahead and ordered appetizers; fish cake, Thai spring rolls and something I had never seen before on a Thai menu, mussels “a la mariniere.”

There was no response from Zio, so I tried calling him. He picked up after several rings. “Where are you?” I asked.

“Home,” Zio said as if my question was a dumb one.

“We’re at the restaurant,” I told him. “About to order.”

“Restaurant? What are you talking about?” Zio tends to get flustered, but this was worrisome.

“The food group? It’s today.”

“I didn’t know anything about that,” he said, now comprehending the reason for my call. Apparently, for whatever reason, he never got any of mine or Eugene’s emails. It was now too late for him to get to our table in Greenpoint from Astoria before our appetizers arrived. We would remain only four.

Before I could hang up, the fish cake, spring roll and a steaming bowl of mussels arrived on our table. The fish cake and spring roll were  standard Thai fare, but the “modern” mussels mariniere were nothing like you would find in a French Bistro or a New York Thai restaurant for that matter. The mussels were steamed in a herb broth made up of white wine, garlic, shallots and plenty of chopped Thai basil and chilies. The only thing missing was a loaf of crusty bread to soak up all that glorious broth. The lack of bread, however, didn’t stop Gerry from using his spoon and slurping it down like a soup.

Mussels Mariniere Thai style

Mussels Mariniere Thai style

The entrée decision came soon after we devoured the appetizers. As is our custom, we asked our waiter, one of two women also working the cash register, what the specialties were. She mentioned the “exotic” penang curry with salmon. Exotic curry appealed to me and I ordered it, but with chicken.

“How do you like it? Spicy?” she asked.

“I like it the way you like it,” I replied.

“I like it spicy, she said.

“Then so do I.” I nodded and she noted it on her pad.

“What’s the curry with the coconut milk? I want something with coconut milk,” Eugene barked to her.

“You like red curry then,” she said.

“If it has coconut milk, then I like it. With chicken,” he said, tossing his menu.

Mike from Yonkers ordered the same, but with shrimp while Gerry braved another offbeat Thai selection; the spinach spaghetti with shrimp. We rounded out our order with Pad Thai for the table.

A bowl of what looked like a tomato based curry was placed in front of me. There was chicken and a few other vegetables. I had a small taste. The heat of the spice instantly stimulated the nerve in my throat that controls my hiccupping reflex. The hiccups came despite swallowing some ice water and shoveling white rice into my mouth. Finally, my body adjusted to the spice and the hiccups subsided replaced now by a sheen of perspiration around my forehead. I had settled into hot sauce nirvana.

Exotic Penang Curry

Exotic Penang Curry

Eugene’s hiccups matched my own, though his red curry chicken was no match in terms of spice to my exotic Penang. Mike from Yonkers, deliberately mixing the white rice in with his red curry, taking his time to savor every curry-coated kernel didn’t have the same reaction as Eugene and I. And Gerry’s non-traditional Thai green spinach spaghetti coated in an Asian, cilantro, garlic and basil-based sauce, though not hiccup inducing, was a revelation.

Pad Thai

Pad Thai

“The only thing missing is a cold beer,” Gerry mentioned as we cleaned our plates.

“Maybe so,” Mike from Yonkers said. “But there is crème brulee on the menu.”

“Crème brulee? I don’t think so,” I said, maybe a little hastily after experiencing the anti-Thai mussels and spinach spaghetti. “Let’s go get some Polish vodka instead.” We were, after all in Greenpoint.

“Now you’re talking,” Gerry responded quickly rising from his seat.

Amarin Cafe
617 Manhattan Ave
Brooklyn

 

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The Big Ceviche Chill

26 Nov

El Miski

I had my gas tank full even before Gerry announced where we were to meet. There would be no doubt that he would have us (Zio and I) travel to Westchester.  And that county has more than its share of Chow City standouts (Chalanas) being the most the recent example. Unfortunately, El Miski, located in White Plains, which Gerry dubbed as El Miskito in his email to us was not one of them.

After dodging an obese panhandler claiming he was hungry in front of what looked like a former diner, I entered El Miski to find Eugene waiting inside. The front of the restaurant was narrow with a few small tables, booth and a counter with red swivel stools. The woman who was to be our waitress took us through the room, past a full festive bar still in Halloween regalia with the bar stools up on the bar, and into a big, frigid back room where one long table was centered. I sat, keeping my jacket on and zipped to my neck.

A bar only an evil clown could love.

A bar only an evil clown could love.

Zio walked in next, covered in a large goose down jacket making him look even more rotund than usual. In the cold room, he had the courage to unzip the jacket. Our waitress got on a step stool to turn the television on to a telenovela—maybe hoping the steamy drama would warm the room.

Gerry arrived next and as he sat down, his jacket still on, mentioned that the owner of El Miski was a client of his. Whether that was a good thing or not, we would soon find out.

“Gerry, do they have heat in here,” Eugene asked as if Gerry, because he chose the place and also because they were one of his clients was responsible.

“It’s not that cold,” Gerry said; his lips a bluish gray color.

Mike from Yonkers filled out our group; keeping the collar of his heavy fleece high up on his neck as he sat.

When the waitress came over with menus we asked about the heat. In her struggling English she explained that she just turned it on and that it should warm up soon.

One of the first Peruvian restaurants our Chow City group experienced was the tremendous, but now defunct, La Pollada de Laura (Cooked in Corona) in Queens. We have yet to replicate that experience including the Peruvian Chinese restaurant, Chifa, we visited on our most recent expedition (The Big Chifa of Northern Boulevard). The menu at El Miski was similar to what I could recall from La Pollada de Laura; a number of ceviche options, lomo saltado, jalea, and various mariscos dishes; some with fried rice, others with potatoes, and even a few with yucca. There were also special that included tallarin also known as Peruvian spaghetti, but more like lo mein noodles. After the unfortunate experience with Peruvian/Chinese at Chifa, none of us thought it smart to chance the tallarin dishes.

Gerry ordered the table a ceviche “mixto,” along with an appetizer recommended by the very affable waitress of mussels on the half shell. We learned well after asking for recommendations and some of us making our choices based on them that our waitress was new on the job—in fact it was her first week working at El Miski.

Ceviche mixto

Ceviche mixto

“They have good bread here,” Gerry said as we worked through the tart ceviche and mussels; both served cold.

“Are they gonna bring us any?” I asked.

Gerry shrugged.

By the time the various seafood dishes we ordered arrived, I was able to unzip my jacket. But as soon as I moved my fork through the mound of fried rice, soggy potatoes, and equally soggy fried fish, shrimp, and squid that made up my “saltado pescado, I had to stop and swat at an army of gnats that were hovering around my plate. I added each of the three hot sauces to my dish, pale green, green, and red, hoping the spice would keep the gnats away, but more seemed to arrive.

Pescado saltado

Pescado saltado

I noticed Mike from Yonkers also swatting at them—and Gerry and Eugene. If they were cruising over Zio’s picante de mariscos (seafood in a special Peruvian sauce) he didn’t seem bothered. He was, however, wary of the pinkish special Peruvian sauce. “It’s like Velveeta,” he mentioned, though not in a derogatory way.

Seafood with Peruvian Velveeta

Seafood with Peruvian Velveeta

“This place used to be called the ‘Oasis,’” Eugene, whose knowledge of White Plains’ past is legendary, said.

“Yeah, I heard rumors about it that this back room was used for…,” Gerry said.

“What???” Zio’s fading hearing had suddenly revived.

“Girls,” Gerry said. “A whorehouse.”

Eugene nodded. “That was the rumor.”

Our waitress returned and asked if we wanted more plates, napkins, water, beer, another ceviche…anything.

We told her we were good.

“What about dessert?” She asked.

Even though the gnat attack had not ceased, Gerry went ahead and ordered us a few Peruvian sweets including a dense bread pudding.

Bread pudding

Bread pudding

“Anything else? More beer. Cake?” Our smiling waitress inquired after we dug through dessert.

Eugene asked for the check, but before she went to tally it up, she told us that men come on weekends and use the back room.

“And there are women too,” she said innocently and with a smile. “For the men.”

Gerry raised a bushy eyebrow and looked at each of us. The look reminded me of the final shot in the original  The Taking of Pelham One Two Three, of Walter Matthau who realizes he just nailed the final accomplice in the subway robbery.

Did she say what we thought she said???

Did she say what I thought she said???

None of us dared inquire further; instead we surrendered to the invisible gnats and settled the check before heading back out onto the silent streets of White Plains.

El Miski
73 W. Post Rd
White Plains.

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The Big Chifa of Northern Boulevard

22 Oct

 

Chifa

As we were presented with our check for our meal at Chifa, there was some grumbling from the Westchester contingent that it wasn’t right that Zio and I ordered soup as appetizers.

“I didn’t think we could have soup,” Gerry stated.

“Yeah, it’s against the rules,” Eugene bellowed.

“Show me where it says we can’t have soup in our rules,” I responded defensively.

“That’s just wrong,” Eugene said, shaking his head.

“Hey, you could have ordered the soup. Nobody would have stopped you.”

“But you can’t really share soup, so we don’t order it,” Gerry explained.

“All you had to do was ask,” I said. “I would have gladly shared my soup with you.”

“What are we gonna do share spoons? It just doesn’t work that’s why we don’t do it,” Eugene argued.

“How can you eliminate soup from the choices? I love soup,” Zio said.

Mike from Yonkers, technically also from Westchester, wisely abstained from the debate, content to slowly pick at the hominy kernels that surrounded what was left of his ceviche mixto.

Zio shrugged. “That duck soup was really good,” he said.

I nodded. “I know, the sopa pac pow was the highlight of my meal.”

And I wasn’t just saying that to further infuriate Gerry and Eugene who were still steamed that Zio and I had the temerity to order soup. It was the truth.

Sopa pac pow

Sopa pac pow

Granted, Zio and I ordered the soup before Eugene and Gerry arrived and without their consultation—we were waiting in the restaurant, along with Mike from Yonkers, for what seemed like a long time, later finding out there was some confusion on the timing of when we were to meet.

Zio’s pick, Chifa, was located on a small stretch of Northern Boulevard that wasn’t a car wash, lube job joint, gas station, or fast food place. Down the block was the Taste of Lahore, which was right next to a dark, inconspicuous Italian restaurant called Trieste.  Doing his due diligence as always, maybe Zio was drawn to Chifa, learning that its name translated to mean Peruvian Chinese food and that it was something our group had not yet experienced.  Either that or that it was not far from his Astoria love nest. Whatever the rationale for making the pick, Zio wasn’t divulging it.

Mike from Yonkers arrived a few minutes later and after sipping cold Cusquena beers while perusing the Chinese-dominant menu, we went ahead and ordered the soups and a couple of appetizers; “wantan frito” also known as fried wontons and “lomo asado,” Chinese bbq pork slices.

Gerry and Eugene walked in just as the soups arrived. The sopa pac pow was a steaming bowl of what seemed like a glorified egg drop soup; the big bowl thick with pieces of chicken, duck, asparagus pieces, and shrimp.

Eugene eyed Zio’s soup, redolent with tender slices of duck, noodles, and vegetables. “What’s that?” Eugene asked him.

“Duck soup,” Zio replied, his face down, steam coating his eyeglasses, as he carefully sipped the scalding soup.

“That was on TV the other day,” Gerry deadpanned.

“Hail, Freedonia,” I mumbled, not looking up from my own soup that also had a few slices of that tender duck.

Duck soup

Duck soup

After that there was no further discussion of the soups until the complaints at the end of our meal that I’ve already chronicled. Instead the others ordered beers and their own dishes including lomo saltado for Eugene, tai pa, for Gerry, the aforementioned ceviche mixto for Mike from Yonkers, while I went with a noodle dish, tallarin taipa, and Zio choose the pork with garlic.

Besides the gargantuan size of the platters—everything was big at Chifa—there wasn’t much to distinguish the Peruvian Chinese from the standard Chinese-American Cantonese that we are so familiar with.  The tallarin taipa, a “mei fun” type noodle dish with an assortment of meats: pork, chicken, baby shrimp, and the duck, was swimming in an oyster/soy sauce while Zio’s pork with garlic was just more of the roasted barbecued pork we had earlier now presented in a barely perceptible garlic sauce with the addition of a few vegetables.

The tai pa Gerry ordered, according to the menu, “Chifa’s most popular dish,” was more of the same; chicken, pork, shrimp, duck but with welcome addition of a quail egg and fish ball all combined on a large platter and coated with an oyster/soy based “special sauce.” Even Eugene’s traditional lomo saltado, a mountain of beef, French fries, and onions over rice was not up to my high Peruvian standards for the dish.

Tai pa

Tai pa

Maybe it was the addition of the controversial soup or maybe it was just that the dishes were so big, but both Zio and I went home with leftovers.

“And that ain’t right either,” Gerry remarked, his eyes on our packed doggie bags. “Maybe I’m still hungry? Did you think of that?”

Noting the size of the tai pa that Gerry was putting the finishing touches on, I hadn’t. But also knowing Gerry and his prodigious appetite, I should have.

No soup for you!

No soup for you!

Chifa
73-20 Northern Boulevard
Jackson Heights, Queens

 

 

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Pizza Interloper on Arthur Avenue

27 Sep

Arthur Avenue in the Bronx, once a prominently exclusive Italian/American neighborhood, has over the past couple of decades, opened its welcoming arms to immigrants from other countries, in particular Albanians.

Arthur Avenue: where pizza and bureks live in harmony.

Arthur Avenue: where pizza and bureks live in harmony.

You will also now find Mexican and Japanese restaurants nestled side by side and close to both an Italian cheese store and a dried sausage place where they co-exist peacefully.

arthur

But Arthur Avenue can be fickle about newcomers. Several years ago, McDonald’s made an attempt to infiltrate the block. Thankfully they were soundly rejected.

No love for McDonald's on Arthur Avenue.

No love for McDonald’s on Arthur Avenue.

And then a legendary downtown seafood joint, Umberto’s Clam House;  it’s legend born from the graphic and gruesome blood and tomato sauce murder of a famous mobster, tried to make it in the Bronx on Arthur Avenue on the site of what once was a live poultry store.

Tourists came, but no mobsters.

Tourists came, but no mobsters.

Umberto’s tenure on Arthur Avenue was longer than McDonald’s, but whether it was just because most people can’t name the mobster who was gunned down at the original Umberto’s it was so long ago, or that the ghosts of thousands of butchered chickens have cursed the location, it is now gone, replaced by a “Mediterranean” restaurant.

So today, with so many very good, established pizza options on the block…

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Cafe al Mercato

Cafe al Mercato

…should Arthur Avenue accept this new interloper from downtown?

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Can another pizzeria survive on this glutenous stretch of landscape?  Will the display of co-allegiance to the Garden State forever diminish the reputation of this fabled establishment? And finally, will the restrictive and somewhat haughty “no slices” policy be amended to reflect the open door sensibilities of the neighborhood?

Only time will tell.

 

 

 

 

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Who is Tito Rad?

18 Sep

Tito Rad's

Rick was waiting in his vehicle on Queens Boulevard a few minutes before we were to convene at a Filipino restaurant curiously named Tito Rad’s. He was deep in text mode when I roused him from his stupor by banging on his side window. Startled, he juggled the cell phone before cradling it safely back into his hands after he noticed that it was only me and not a potential carjacker.

After missing practically six months of our eating adventures, Rick had been shamed back into circulation. Not that he was complaining especially after glancing at the menu inside Tito Rad’s that featured, among other Filipino dishes, grilled tuna jaw. We were at our capacity of six for the first time in a very long time and I planned accordingly, making sure I reserved a table.  When we entered, the table we were directed to offered us a view of picturesque Queens Boulevard where there were police flyers on every post detailing an assault that took place in the very early morning hours just a few days earlier. It was still daylight when we entered so none of us were concerned with our physical well being. Our concern was what to order from the intriguing menu.

Once we were all in attendance, the hostess, who I will call “Sadie,” came over and in a soft, melodic voice announced that she was there to help us through the menu. To give us anything we might want—that she was very happy and honored that we had chosen Tito Rad’s. And then she looked at Eugene. “Where are all of you from,” she asked.

“White Plains, New York,” was his gruff response.

“Yonkers,” offered Mike from….Yonkers.

“Astoria,” Zio said.

Gerry, sitting across from Eugene and close to where Sadie was standing, mumbled incoherently. He had no desire to divulge his living information and before Rick or me, who were at the opposite end of the table could answer, Sadie was on to something else.

“I just like to know who is in my restaurant and where they are from,” she continued as we tried to be polite and listen to her while also taking peeks at the menu. We were hungry and anxious to order.

“I say that because we once were robbed and the other day there was an incident just across the street in the park,” she said, referring to the police flyers, her soft melodic voice turning now into an monotonous drone.

As she went on describing the robbery that occurred several years ago, I had decided on appetizers for our group.

“And we also had, you know, one of those house invasions, so you need to keep your eyes open…”

I couldn’t wait any longer. “I think we know what we want to start with,” I said, abruptly cutting her off.

Sadie, taking no offense at my interruption, departed and sent over a waitress with a t-shirt that read: “Got Tuna Belly.”

We started with the ukoy, fried bean sprouts, lumpiang Shanghai, Filipino egg rolls, and an order of barbecued pork on skewers. Gerry whispered to the waitress that he wanted another appetizer, but wouldn’t tell any of us what it was he ordered.

Filipino chitterlings

Filipino chitterlings

The appetizers came out quickly and even when it became known that Gerry’s order, chicaron bulaklak, fried pork intestines, also known as Filipino chitterlings, no one protested and dipped in the house vinegar sauce, was a nice start to the meal. The same, however, couldn’t be said about the lumpiang Shanghai. The egg rolls were dry, stuffed with an unidentifiable meat saved only when drenched in the accompanying sweet and sour sauce. Thankfully the tender, succulent barbecued pork was there to offset the onslaught of fried appetizers.

Lumpiang Shanghai

Lumpiang Shanghai

The entree options were vast and the choices many, but I quickly chose a Filipino standard, beef adobo, while Gerry went with my second choice, kare kare, oxtail in a peanut sauce, and Zio, also preferring beef, ordered the beef kaldereta, a supposedly spicy version of beef stew. Eugene is a coconut milk aficionado and ordered the manok sa gata, chicken with ginger in coconut milk.

Getting inspiration from our waitresses’ shirt, Mike from Yonkers chose the tuna belly also cooked in coconut milk and Rick, maybe because Mike from Yonkers already chose a tuna body part, passed on the tuna jaw and decided instead on the grilled Pampano, also known as “butterfish.”

While our appetizers were cleared, Sadie returned to ask how we liked the food so far. We, of course, told her we liked it very much.

“I am here to help,” she repeated. “Anything you need us to do to make you enjoy your meal here we will do.”

The restaurant was busy; all the tables occupied with Filipino couples and families. It looked like business was good at Tito Rad’s yet Sadie was working us hard. The appearance of our entrees saved us from more “small” talk from Sadie. I quickly dug into the slow cooked moist beef adobo, tangy from the vinegar sauce and then sampled Zio’s beef stew, also tender and falling apart, the peppers and olives giving it a Latin flavor that is typical of Filipino cuisine but minus the spice advertised.

Beef kaldereta

Beef kaldereta

“This is the best thing I’ve ever had,” Eugene said of the beef adobo after tasting it. We weren’t sure if he meant the beef adobo was the best of what we ordered that night or the best thing he had ever eaten. No one bothered to ask him to clarify his proclamation.

After tasting Eugene’s chicken in coconut sauce, I can safely say that it was not the best thing I’ve ever eaten…and not even close to the best thing on our table that night, but I never announced that. The oxtails in the kare kare were lean and the meat easily separated from bone and tendon, but the peanut butter sauce was just too bland for me. The addition of very pungent shrimp paste helped liven up the dish.

Kare kare

Kare kare

The tuna belly and pompano came out last. Anticipation was high. Zio took a piece of the tuna belly as did I. I chewed. He chewed. I looked at him. He looked at me. He shook his head. “This is bluefish,” he said in an uncharacteristically loud voice. “There is no way this is tuna belly.”

“It does taste rather fishy for tuna,” I said.

“I’m telling you, it’s bluefish…”

“Okay, don’t make a federal case out of it,” I said, noticing that Sadie was approaching and not wanting Zio to possibly upset our very good-natured host with his bold accusation.

Tuna belly or...

Tuna belly or…

The Pampano was—butterfish and grilled simply. Rick making sure, as he always does, to dig out the tender cheeks for himself.

“I hope you liked our food,” Sadie said as she stood by our table, her tone never wavering. “We always want to make sure our customers like our food. We are appreciative that you have come here today and hope that you will come again soon…”

Zio nudged my leg under the table. I got the implicit message.

“What do you suggest we get for dessert?” I quickly interrupted her.

“Well that’s a good question, it depends on what you like…”

Zio gave me another look.

”I think he might want to try the halo halo,” I said, indicating Eugene.

Halo halo is part of the now 11-year lore of Adventures of Chow City. Back in the first year of our group’s existence, we gathered at a Filipino restaurant not far from where we were on this day called Ihawan, and for dessert, Eugene sampled the halo halo (see The Beans of Halo Halo). At almost every meal since that one at Ihawan, he has made it a point to state that the halo halo was the worst thing he’s ever eaten—as opposed to the beef adobo, which we learned today was the best.

“How can you put lima beans in a dessert?”  he wondered incredulously.

Maybe sensing Eugene’s aversion, Sadie did not suggest the halo halo instead indicated that the “Tito’s Delight,” a sampling of three desserts, the avocado shake, and the fried sweet banana with ice cream would be a good choice for us.

Eugene was skeptical—especially about the avocado shake.

“In our country, we eat avocado like a fruit,” Sadie explained.

Avocado shake

Avocado shake

And in a shake it was remarkable; the best of the three desserts brought to our table. There was no halo halo revulsion, but the fried banana did get Zio to remark that it looked identical to the unfortunate lumpiang Shanghai.

“Who is Tito Rad?” Mike from Yonkers asked Sadie as we were reaching into our wallets to pay.

“Oh, one of those names is my nickname,” she answered coyly.

“Which one?” Eugene inquired.

“Well my friends know,” she said, a sly smile on her face.  “But I don’t know you well enough to tell you.”

None of us pressed her on it, instead we handed her the check with our money and thanked her for her attentive service.

“I just hope you enjoyed our food. We really do try to accommodate all your needs. Anything you request we can adjust….”

But we were gone before she could finish.

Tito Rad’s
4912 Queens Boulevard
Woodside

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And the Answer is…

16 Sep

 

 

 

Melons

IMG_4227And more melons.

Melon BurgerEqual a “Melon” burger

At…

J.G. Melon

 

On Friday you were challenged with trying to Name That Place. I thought the photo hints gave away this 40-plus year old Upper East Side institution. But I was wrong. You were stumped.

And what of that famous burger? Where does it rank on your New York burger meter?

 

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