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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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Pig Prejudice Revisited

6 Jan

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.

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The Ham Hock Hangover Cure

30 Dec

Start with a pound of black eyed peas.

Chop up a few cloves of garlic and a large onion.

Take a good-sized ham hock, it’s restorative powers never factually documented, yet hotly debated among nutrition professionals, and add it and all the other  ingredients to a big pot.

Sprinkle in at least six dashes of hot sauce.

Cover with water and cook over very low heat for about eight hours.

While the peas cook, enjoy your beverage of choice, be it alcoholic or not. By the time a headache or general malaise ensues, the peas should be cooked and the meat easily shredded from the bone. Consume even if you feel like you might retch.  Eat with rice and greens.

While you eat, try not to dwell on the mistakes you made the previous year and direct your positive thoughts to the 365 days ahead, beginning with the most delicious Ham Hock Hangover Cure in front of you.

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Pizza Unleavened

20 Dec

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.

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The Jamaican Beef Patty Gospels

9 Dec

As seen in the People’s Choice Kitchen.

And the beef patties were good too.

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Biryani Joy

6 Dec

Rawal Ravail
641 Lydig Avenue
Bronx

A little bit of Pakistan in the Bronx

The din from the uptown/downtown 2 and 5 trains on the elevated tracks above White Plains Road was really nothing more than background noise to the constant cacophony that resonated in the frantic Morris Park section of the Bronx where Gerry had summoned us. It was our third straight session in that borough proving that the Bronx could hold its own with Queens and Brooklyn in ethnic food diversity. This time we were to sample Pakistani food; strictly Halal; meaning no pork and no alcohol.

Located next to the Islamabad Deli, an uplifting message on the Rawal’s window read: “Everyone brings joy to this restaurant. Some when they enter and others when they leave. Thank you. Management.”

Forced joy is not one of my strong points, but I told myself to at least make the effort. The lone person inside the restaurant—a young man wiping down a table—didn’t even notice me or my joy as I entered. Compared to the frenzy outside, even with the babble in Urdu coming from the gigantic flat screen television tuned to a Pakistani television station, inside it was calm.

The news from Pakistan was from what I could translate, not good.

No one else had yet arrived and due to a last minute work engagement where pork might be served and alcohol most definitely would be, Rick had already bowed out. Soon the others arrived including Eugene, who was daringly dressed in short pants.

Rawal’s only menus were of the take-out variety and we quickly discovered, pretty much useless. The dour owner begrudgingly had our group come with him to the steam table where he could explain what was available that day. There he pointed to each tray where there were various curries; chicken, goat, and kidney/liver, two vegetable dishes, three solitary small grilled fish, a tray of bright red chicken tikka, and another of chopped grilled chicken. He lifted up the rice containers; two biryanis and one with plain white basmati rice.

The process was more complicated than it should have been. To make things easier, we had him fix each of us a platter with a sampling of some of the dishes. And this he did with not a trace of joy.

Rawal Ravail’s steam blurred steam table.

Within a few minutes, a female server in traditional Pakistani dress, brought us a plate of lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, chilies, and a raita dressing. Soon, the man in charge returned, accompanied by his female helper with our individual plates and five, Frisbee-sized loaves of nan bread. Each curry, goat, chicken, and liver and kidney, were fiery. Even the channa (chick pea) and cabbage curry was hot. The only respite from the spice was the rice and bread. All the curries were delicious, but, with the exception of the unique texture of the kidney and liver, very much alike and, crowded on our platters, they bled together making them somewhat indistinguishable.

Channa and cabbage and…biryani

Despite the heat, we quickly devoured our plates with the exception of Mike from Yonkers who was deliberately picking at his liver and kidney, dabbing each forkful into the cooling raita. We tried to be patient and display some level of dining etiquette, but Eugene and I could wait no longer.

While Mike from Yonkers continued to maddeningly play with his liver, we headed toward the entrance of the restaurant where there was a display of sweets including a few that were alarmingly colorful. Among them was a tray of milk where blobs of dough bobbled, a pink rice pudding, an orange coconut pudding, and a carrot orange sweet along with a white, nut-filled sweet. Eugene took a bite of the latter and proclaimed it second only to the “lima bean dessert” we had years ago at a Filipino restaurant in Queens, as the worst dessert he ever tasted.

Dessert offerings.

Zio added that the carroty orange thing had a distinct cardboard taste. Everyone agreed that the orange coconut pudding was the best of the bunch, though Gerry had no complaints about any of them and what no one else would touch further, he piled in front of him to quickly finish off.

The tab; well below our group’s $20 per person allotment left plenty of leeway for a generous tip despite the lackadaisical service. And after handing over our cash to the owner, for the first time that evening a smile was apparent on his face. The message on the window, prophetic, for we indeed, upon our exit, brought joy to the restaurant.

Our tip left the staff of Rawal Ravail extremely joyous.

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A Slice of Ernie Ottuso Square

29 Nov

Louie & Ernie’s Pizza
1300 Crosby Avenue
The Bronx

The day after dining at Louie & Ernie’s pizza in the Pelham Bay section of the Bronx, I saw a man wearing a John’s Pizza t-shirt that proudly and in quotes stated “No Slices.”  I’ve been to John’s on Bleecker Street several times. It’s one of just a few remaining of the city’s original Italian-American, coal-fired, brick oven places. And they make a decent pie, though now, with a branch in Times Square, on the Upper East Side, and in Jersey City, they have slipped a bit into tourist trap mode. And, no, they don’t serve slices. You have to wait for a table (and sometimes the waits are interminable) and order a whole pie. Now there is nothing wrong with that, but the proclamation on the t shirt was, after sampling Louie & Ernie’s where they, refreshingly, do serve slices, took, in my opinion, pizza arrogance to a level it should never go to. Maybe John’s really doesn’t mean it, but the “no slices” policy implies that because  they don’t serve slices, their pizza is better than those who do. Or maybe I’m just a little oversensitive.

Yeah, yeah, we know.

With our group in full attendance for this, Zio’s pick, we immediately found out that there was no such pretension at Louie & Ernie’s. Located below a typical Bronx 1950’s row house, on a stretch of Crosby Avenue renamed Ernie Ottuso Square after one of the original owners, and with the constant roar of arriving planes into LaGuardia above, this was old school New York pizza, slices and all.

The six of us squeezed into one of the small pizzeria’s largest tables and glanced at the menu. There were no surprises; pizza and calzones was all they served. Anchovies, meatballs, sausage, and all the other usual toppings were available. But, according to the accolades on the walls from various publications, it was the white pizza and the calzones, including a broccoli rabe calzone, that were the standouts at Louie & Ernie’s.

A slice of white.

We ordered three pizzas: a fresh garlic, sausage and onion, and a white pizza along with a few broccoli rabe calzones; the greens a little something to offset the starch onslaught.

All the pizzas had thin, nicely charred crusts from a conventional pizza oven. The combination of sauce to cheese was balanced properly and both ingredients fresh and flavorful. Oozing with creamy fresh ricotta and mozzarella was the white pie and it was as good as advertised.

The calzone

The sausage, out of its casing and crumbled in clumps, made in house was tangy with bits of fennel but unfortunately was paired with onion which overwhelmed both the sausage and the sauce. The pie with the addition of fresh garlic was a mistake and unnecessary. Good pizza really should be eaten with as little adornments as possible. Despite these very minor shortcomings, we devoured the pies, and the outstanding calzones, oblivious of the ongoing football game that was broadcast on the television in the front of the restaurant. Even our chatter was kept to a minimum, so intent were we on our mission.

Not even football could distract us from our mission.

With just a few bites remaining of the multiple pies, Zio turned to me and in a soft tone said, “Did you think the sausage was a bit undercooked?”

I replied that I did not and went back to finishing the pizza but was distracted when I noticed Zio’s finger in his mouth, probing for something.

Does the sausage look undercooked?

“I think I chipped a tooth,” he hissed.

On what, we wondered? The creamy mozzarella? The broccoli rabe? He opened his mouth displaying a tiny gap in his front teeth that wasn’t there before. He now bore an eerie resemblance to the British actor from the 1950’s Terry Thomas, but with a Sonny Bono haircut and smile. He had indeed chipped a tooth. But he shrugged it off, not holding it against Louie & Ernie’s, even ordering two broccoli rabe calzones to go.

Did Terry Thomas lose a tooth eating Louie & Ernie’s Pizza?

To add to our starch intake, Theresa’s Bakery next door offered freshly made cannolis. It was a mild night and we ate ours standing outside Louie & Ernie’s while children played, dogs were walked, and the planes above continued to make their descent into LaGuardia.

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A Green(s) Thanksgiving

24 Nov

Chop and wash the collard greens (enough to fill up a large pot).

Chop one large onion.

Mince two cloves of garlic.

Take a big pot and saute the onion and garlic in the olive oil until they soften, careful, don’t burn the garlic.

Throw in a few smoked turkey necks or turkey wings (optional).

Add the chopped greens until the top of the pot can barely be covered.

Add about three cups of chicken or vegetable stock.

Sprinkle in some dried hot red pepper.

Salt to taste.

Bring to simmer and cook about an hour or until the greens are tender.

Add a tablespoon of cider vinegar and a few dashes of Tabasco for some extra kick.

Enjoy with turkey.

He who hesitates…

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Saltfish Season

18 Nov

I’m not sure why,  but the chill in the air  and the impending holiday season brings on a distinctive and maybe unnatural craving for the taste of saltfish. Also known to Italians as baccala,(a ditty to that Christmas Eve treat was published in these pages last year titled Baccala Blues )to those of Spanish background as bacalao, and to the Portuguese as bacalhau,  Saltfish is the West Indian name for what we know as salt cod.

Not the most appetizing to look at or, for some, to smell, but after the dry, salted fish is soaked to rehydrate it to a moist tenderness and then simmered,  a man can get very used to the taste.

“Very well I like the  taste
Though the smell, sometimes out of place
It hard to take, but make no mistake
I want you to know, it’s because it extra sweet it smelling so boy it’s

Saltfish”

The words above are from the great Calypsonian, Sparrow’s love song dedicated to saltfish’s wonderfulness named, appropriately, “Saltfish.” He does a much better job articulating the appeal of saltfish than I ever can, so I’ll let him do it for me.

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The Many Pizzas of Sal’s

11 Nov

Here in New York there was an overblown controversy about who retained the rights to be known as Ray’s Pizza. The original Ray’s, at least I think it was original, was in Greenwich Village on 11th Street and wildly popular for the excessive amounts of cheese piled onto each slice rather than for its overall quality. So says I, the pizza snob.

Ray’s popularity spurred a flurry of Ray’s imitators, or so “Original Ray” claimed. Lawsuits were threatened and to avoid them, the numerous Ray’s throughout the city slightly tweaked their names.  “Famous Ray’s,” “World Famous Ray’s,” “Original Ray’s” “Ray Bari” were some of them. There was even one called “Not Ray’s Pizza.” Soon the controversy fizzled and recently the Original Ray’s closed ending “Ray’s” pizza(name) dominance in the city.

You know it’s over for Ray’s when the name is blocked out and no longer “of Greenwich Village.”

On a smaller scale, but higher in the pizza royalty chain, was the battle over the use of Patsy’s in connection to pizza. There was the original Patsy’s on First Avenue in East Harlem that still remains. And then there was Patsy Grimaldi’s in Brooklyn, just over the Brooklyn Bridge who was legally forced to drop the “Patsy’s” part of his actual name and became known as Grimaldi’s.  Patsy’s revival and the ensuing controversy led to a chain of Patsy’s designed to emulate the original, but none had that pizzeria’s magical ancient coal oven and, as a result, the pizza just wasn’t of the same quality.

The original Patsy’s.

It is now my pleasure to report that probably the most prolific pizza name of all has not sparked any controversy or legal action that I know of. That name is Sal’s.

Still, though, many Sal’s have found it necessary to inject something else to their name to differentiate themselves from the other Sal’s out there instead of just relying on their location and the distinction of their pizza.

There are many Sal’s in New York, but obviously only one New York Sal’s.

If Sal were to have a pizza making partner, Carmine is a natural.

Sal’s of Little Italy is no ordinary pizzeria, it’s a cafe.

Now why did they have to go and make Sal fat?

I’ve often wondered why a man named Sal would allow himself to be known as Sally.

Sal’s even made it into the movies.

But why no BROTHERS ON THE WALL??

I make no judgement on any of the other Sal’s pizzerias, but for me, there is only one Sal’s Pizzeria.

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