If all else fails, there is salt and pepper.
Why does Spanish get top billing? They should at least consider listing their eating options alphabetically to prevent any type of conspiracy thinking or to further fuel border conflicts whether in North America or South East Asia.
Have a great weekend. Adventures in Chow City returns on Tuesday.
Our visit to Pho Viet Huong marked our group’s third anniversary. It also was our first without original member, Charlie. We were now down to five and needed to decide whether to bring in a sixth again and if so, who might be a good fit for us. It had to be someone with the advanced qualifications of being able to eat huge quantities without shame and with no dietary restrictions or taboos. Also someone who might just display their own foibles while blending within the particular eccentricities of a few of our current members, myself included. It would be awhile before we found that person.
Pho Viet Huong
73 Mulberry St,
Chinatown
Eugene was becoming suspicious. Because we could not meet last month, he was beginning to believe that we were purposely delaying his well-researched pick of Pho Viet Huong on Mulberry Street in Chinatown; that the man who regaled us with tales of his “Crocodile Dundee (I & II)” viewings was somehow being slighted in our strict order of things. Nothing could be further from the truth. Eugene conveniently forgot that it was he who steered us to one of our greatest finds to date: Tandoori Hut; albeit the same man who made us trudge out to Brighton Beach for Café Glechick and the still talked about fermented raisin “soft” drink, kavas. After a two-month layoff for reasons beyond everyone’s control, we were more than ready to resume, minus Charlie who declared he would be on at least a six-month sabbatical while he sampled the culinary goodies around his new residence of Emmaus, PA, if there was such a thing.
But instead of gambling on a Queens or Brooklyn destination, Eugene played it safe with his Vietnamese Chinatown pick. And when, after Zio and I arrived in the restaurant and declared that we had previously eaten at Pho Viet Huong, recognizing it not by its name but by its location and decor, I could tell he immediately regretted not choosing the Tibetan place he had earlier hinted at.
I certainly wasn’t complaining that we were in Chinatown. The weather was typically miserable, as it often seems to be when we convene. An easy, safe destination was fine with me and Zio, though he had already dined at Pho Viet Huong, never had the opportunity to sample the frogs’ legs. He wasn’t going miss out this time.
Our very eager waiter was ready to get going. The menu was vast and needed intense studying. To make things somewhat manageable, we first concentrated on appetizers including the odd pairing of barbecue beef wrapped in grape leaves, something called grilled pork hash, and a Vietnamese crepe stuffed with shrimp and pork. I was suffering from a serious head cold and knowing how proficient the Vietnamese are with their soups, thought we should order one large soup to share. The waiter, for some reason, most likely a language barrier, seemed reluctant to admit that the $9 soup could be shared by all. A few minutes later, however, he returned happily with the huge bowl and five separate small bowls. The soup was hot and sour shrimp and it had enough fire to begin to open up my clamped sinuses. All the appetizers were exemplary, the barbecue beef wrapped in grape leaves nothing like what you would experience in a middle-eastern or Mediterranean restaurant.
We now had the time to concentrate on entrees and Zio wasted little time requesting the frogs’ legs with curry in a casserole. Rick ordered the whole fish that, when it arrived, had been fried to oblivion and covered in a lemon grass sauce, that I could not really taste that was no fault of the restaurant’s but due to my taste buds being severely compromised by my head cold. I could, however, surmise that Zio’s frog’s legs were so tough they were pretty much inedible, that Gerry’s pork with black pepper in a brown sauce was too similar to the generic “brown sauce” I’ve experienced in numerous Chinese restaurants, and that Eugene’s curry shrimp over rice vermicelli, simple though it appeared and inexpensive at only $5 had the most flavor and, in my head-clogged condition was the best of our selected entrees.
Though not on the spectacular level of our previous outing, Malaysian Rasa Sayang, Pho Viet Huong, as long as you can pare through the extensive menu, concentrate more on the soups and appetizers, and ignore the temptation for the overly-exotic like frogs’ legs—something we, and Zio especially, have a tough time doing, was an admirable selection by Eugene.
Pho Viet Huong lives on and from what I can tell, has prospered. They’ve even received an “A” from the New York City Department of Health, which they display proudly and prominently in the restaurant’s front window.
I see the sign.
It says 17 Mott
I should move on.
I should not stop.
But how can I,
when the sign also says,
Wo Hop?
I look around,
I keep my head down.
No one must see me.
No one must know.
There’s still time,
I don’t have to go.
Down into the dark.
The steep stairs are in front of me.
I know what lies below.
I hesitate, for just a moment
before starting down.
One step, two,
I move very slow.
Three and four
Just a few more,
and I’m through the door.
My heart races at what I’ve done,
but I no longer care,
because soon
I’ll be eating chow fun.
I’m inside now, where the neon is bright.
The walls covered with pictures of celebrities,
some real, some slight.
Like me, they all succumb
to 17 Mott’s guilty pleasures,
like wor shu duck,
and vegetables subgum.
Someday I hope to have my picture on the wall.
The man in the blue shirt is there with water and tea.
Two clear glasses, brought only for me.
“You ready?” he asks as soon as I sit.
I’m too nervous to answer.
I don’t know what to say.
Disgusted, he leaves in a fit.
The men in the blue shirts.
The menu is so vast, I need my specs.
Why did I do it?
Why did I make the trek?
The food is no good,
at least that’s what they say.
Much better for sure, just a few blocks up the way.
Maybe there’s something wrong with me?
Maybe I’m a little insane?
But how can I resist,
the 3D lo mein?
He brings the soup
with the wontons and egg drop.
I look at him.
He knows I have no control
“Fried noodles?”
My head lowers in shame.
He knows I can’t stop.
The noodles, moist with fat,
come with mustard,
and duck sauce too.
The grease coats my fingers.
I want to lick them.
Oh, Lord, what am I to do?
The soup is gone.
My eyes droop
and my jaw goes numb.
I know what it is.
I know what makes it that way.
It’s supposed to be bad for you.
Yet I come anyway.
Now there’s more on the table.
A mound of chicken kew,
sweet and pungent,
and roast pork fried rice too.
I dig through the cornstarch-thickened glaze.
Shoveling it down,
eating it all,
despite my MSG-induced daze.
Many dirty napkins later,
he brings the little paper
with writing I do not understand.
And on top,
one plastic-wrapped fortune cookie.
I tear and I claw.
I bite and I chew.
It should be easy,
but it’s no use.
My fortune goes unread,
my fingers too greasy.
I’ve paid now.
It’s time to leave.
I walk up the stairs,
keeping my hat low.
Quicker now,
I’m almost out.
No one must see me.
No one must know.
I walk quickly away
from 17 Mott.
Never to return,
I say every time.
But then I’m on Mott Street.
And I see the sign.
Back up into the light.
Happy Chinese New Year to all my friends. See you again on Tuesday for another installment of Adventures in Chow City.
I tried to stay away from politics and/or timely events while writing this recaps of our restaurant experiences, but this one, November 4, 2004, was just too close and fresh to just ignore. And in the case of Malaysian Rasa Sayang, our experience was affected by those events.
Malaysian Rasa Sayang
R.I.P
Bad
The rain was coming down hard—a sense of gloom had enveloped the city and was evident even in multi-ethnic Elmhurst, Queens. It was two days after the election of 2004. We had not planned this dinner to be a post-mortem, but the chance was always there and now it was up to Zio’s well-researched selection of Malaysian Rasa Sayang to boost our sagging spirits. Eugene was the first to arrive and it was evident that his spirits were far from sagged: he didn’t care that Bush recaptured the White House, all that mattered to him was that his Red Sox finally did in the Yankees and won a World Series. Eugene was in prime form to sample the cuisine of Malaysia. And, so were we all—anything to divert us from the sad political reality of the day.
Worse
The menu featured 183 items plus 16 house specials, but Gerry’s eyes zeroed immediately in on the crispy pork intestines appetizer which he demanded we order. No one was in a debating mood and maybe a big plate of crispy pork intestines would zap us out of our collective funk. I was intrigued by item number 9, simply called “rojak,” described as a “cool delicious crunchy medley of pineapple, cucumber, jicama, and mango cubes with squid & shrimp crackers and our intensely flavoured shrimp-paste & pulverized peanuts.” Intense flavor is what we always seek, so rojak seemed like a natural. The popiah roll, a steamed roll filled with shrimp, tofu and egg was Zio’s recommendation while I suggested the roti canai, a pancake-like bread served with a curry dipping sauce.
Intestinal relief.
The pork intestines, thankfully accompanied by two dipping sauces, was the first dish to arrive. They were followed by the popiah roll, the roti canai, and finally, a big plate of rojak, which certainly lived up to it’s intensely-flavored billing.
With help from our waiter, who had the look of an aging horse jockey, we began ordering more from the vast menu. He steered me confidently to the kang kung with belecan Sauce, kang kung, he explained as being the Malaysian equivalent of watercress. He also suggested number 66 on the menu, chow kueh teaw, which he claimed were noodles “very popular in Malaysia.” Zio, for some unknown reason was committed to the sarang burong, described as shaped fried taro with shrimp, chicken, and mixed vegetables topped with cashews while Eugene insisted on beef renang, cubes of beef shank slow cooked to “perfect tenderness” in a rich dry curry sauce. Gerry settled on number 78, the steamed fish with bean sauce.
Kang Kung
In no particular order, the dishes arrived on our round table. The kang kung, looking like something found growing wild on the shores of the Amazon, was sautéed with garlic had a crunchy, though not impenetrable consistency. The whole fish, a tilapia, taking up much of the space on the table, sat on a huge platter covered in a sweet and spicy bean sauce while the sarang burong appeared like hollowed out gourd stuffed with vegetables, shrimp, and chicken. Lastly came a big bowl of beef rendang, a fiery, Asian version of beef stew. I’m not sure of the exact moment, but it could have been when I was carefully excising a fish bone from the back of my throat when Eugene, as if we were interested, informed us that he once rode a bus to Radio City Music Hall driven by former New York Yankee, Joe Pepitone’s cousin. It was soon after that, maybe when soaking up the sauce from the beef rendang in the coconut rice, when we all learned, also by way of Eugene that this day also happened to be Ralph Macchio’s (The Karate Kid) 43rd birthday. It was tidbits like these that made Eugene such a fountain of knowledge.
Again, as is our custom, all the plates were picked clean, including the skeleton of the tilapia. Our taste buds had been intensely flavored and for a few hours at least we forgot about the uncertain future. But then we walked out into the rain. And speaking for myself, it would take a few more meals on the level of Malaysian Rasa Sayang to ultimately remove the bitter taste in my mouth.
Now more than a full election cycle and a half since our dinner at Malaysian Rasa Sayang and it’s almost as if nothing has changed in terms of our “uncertain future.” The future for Malaysian Rasa Sayang was even worse than uncertain. It is no more replaced instead by a Thai restaurant.
I’m cold. I don’t know about you, but I’m damn cold. This winter has been—well, let’s tell it like it is: it’s been hell and that ridiculous groundhog hasn’t even shown up yet. I’m desperate for some heat and you know what they say about desperate times. So in my desperation I’m resorting to warming up my mind, if nothing else, with a hot recipe. Something to get me thinking about sweat, sun, and cold beer. Anyway, where I’m going with this is lighting a cyberfire on a Weber, and cooking up a busted a** chicken. There are other, maybe more politically correct names for it such as “beer can chicken” or “beer up the butt chicken,” but I think my terminology best encompasses the overall experience, both in preparing and eating the bird.
This is my own, award-winning, recipe of busted a** chicken. Yes, I did win an award: third place in the chicken category of the 2002 Jamaican Jerk-Style/Southern Barbecue Cook-Off in Montego Bay, Jamaica. I’m surprised you never read about it. The prize was cash money and, for any doubters, a hand-carved wooden map of the island of Jamaica (see photo below). At the festival, the judge was a Southerner named Rocky and one of my fellow winners was the legendary (in the barbecue world) Big Bob Gibson himself. But enough self promotion and name dropping. Here is the recipe:
My 3rd place trophy
Ingredients:
1 good-sized chicken (around 4 pounds)
1- 12 ounce can of beer (cheap beer preferred: Schaefer, Miller High Life, or Pabst)
For the rub:
2 tablespoons salt
2 tablespoons sugar
2 tablespoons brown sugar
2 tablespoons ground cumin
2 tablespoons chili powder
2 tablespoons freshly cracked black pepper
1 tablespoon cayenne pepper
4 tablespoons paprika
Mix up the dry rub ingredients. Clean out the chicken, removing any spare giblets or body parts that might be in the cavity. Wash and pat dry with paper towels. Massage the rub into the bird’s flesh and inside the cavity, under the wings and legs making sure it’s properly coated. Let the chicken sit for a half hour or so while you prepare the grill.
Fill up a starter chimney with hardwood charcoal and light it up. If your charcoal is fresh and dry it should take no more than twenty minutes to be glowing hot. While the charcoal is firing up, go get the beer. Make that two beers: one for the chicken the other for you. For the beer you’re going to use for the chicken, open it up and take a few sips until you’ve drunk about an inch of it. If you’ve got an old school can opener make a few extra incisions into the top of the can. If you don’t, you can poke a few holes in the top with a screwdriver or a nail. Whatever it takes to create more openings.
The beer of choice.
When the charcoal is ready, pull off the grate to the grill and pour in the hot coals. Using a garden trowel or barbecue tongs, stack the coals to one side of the grill. Put the grate back on.
Now it’s time to do the deed. Holding the chicken upright, cavity facing down, slowly impale the chicken on the beer can about two-thirds down onto the can. Place the now busted a** chicken on the grill on the side opposite the hot coals; what they call the “indirect” method. Put the top on the grill keeping the air vents open slightly.
While the chicken cooks, open up the other beer, find a very comfortable seat, and put on some music. Right now, I’m thinking maybe Jack McDuff’s The Honeydripper or Soul Summit with McDuff and the two Boss tenors, Sonny Stitt and Gene Ammons. You’d think country would work too, but I’m a city boy. No country for me with the possible exception of the late Charlie Rich and a few others, also now deceased. After about an hour or maybe a beer or two, check on the chicken. Really there’s not much to do there unless the coals are dying down. If they are, you’ll need to add about ten or twelve hot coals to the grill. The whole process shouldn’t take more than two or two and a half hours.
Music to cook busted a** chicken by.
The bird should have a nice dark brown tan by now. Using sturdy tongs, carefully remove it from the grill. Much of the beer in the can should have evaporated; the vapors from those hops and barley seeping into the flesh of the chicken keeping it moist and adding a hint of malt flavor. Still there might be some hot beer left in the can and you don’t want to drop it and have that spill onto you. That would definitely dampen a very relaxing few hours. Let the chicken stand about 15 minutes before carving. If you’re industrious you might want to make up some cole slaw or a pot of greens to go with the chicken. Enjoy.
Red Stripe: Yes. Lite: Never. And you’re asking a lot of the chicken with a tall boy. Needless to say, this one was not a winner.
Alright now. I feel better already just getting that out. They’re saying we might get an inch or two of snow tomorrow. Enjoy the weekend and I’ll return on Tuesday with another Adventures in Chow City.
What made our journey to Bay Shish Kebab, the restaurant I’ve reported on below, so memorable was not so much the food, which I recall was very good, but the effort it took to get there. This was Gerry’s pick and his research did not figure in how difficult it would be to get to Sheepshead Bay, where Bay Shish Kebab was located, from our respective locations in Manhattan and Westchester. The first attempt to get to Bay Shish Kebab was thwarted because of bumper to bumper traffic on the West Side Highway. To get to Sheepshead Bay at anywhere near the appointed time was next to impossible. Communicating through cellphones, we diverted to a mediocre, thus, unmemorable restaurant in Chinatown. Gerry tried again a month later, but on the day we were to go there were several cancellations; enough to cancel the outing altogether. Maybe it wasn’t to be; maybe Gerry just had to pick another destination? But no, he was determined and a month later, we set out again for Sheepshead Bay.
Bay Shish Kebab
R.I.P
Gerry was insistent. He wouldn’t let the hour and a half drive to Sheepshead Bay be a deterrent in his pursuit of Bay Shish Kebab. Despite repeated protestations by his fellow food hounds and even after two failed tries, he would not give up his obsessive quest. This was becoming an Iraq-like fiasco with no end in sight. We had no choice but to gas up our vehicles and be prepared to sit in rush hour traffic in the middle of two of New York’s worst thoroughfares; the BQE for Gerry and Eugene and the West Side Highway for myself and Zio. But enduring the horrific drive would be the only way to free Gerry from the demons that were driving him to lead us all into the outer fringes of Brooklyn for what he had us believe would be the exotic cuisine of Uzbekistan.
There were no miracles; the trip did take an hour and a half with a foreboding sky-darkening downpour accompanying us throughout the journey. Even more foreboding was the fact that we were eating at a Muslim-run establishment on the beginning of the Jewish New Year. But, after numerous griping calls to Gerry as we sat in traffic, we finally made it to Sheepshead Bay and the elusive Bay Shish Kebab.
The restaurant, nestled prominently in the middle of a strip mall, was bright, and practically empty, yet the owners were waiting anxiously for “Gerry’s party.” Of course we were ravenous and thankfully pide, or freshly-baked Turkish bread, was brought to the table. The bread was Turkish, as were most of the items on the menu. There were a few Uzbek dishes, but the owner proclaimed that Bay Shish Kebab was a Turkish restaurant, not a Uzbek restaurant.
As soon a Rick arrived; his drive from Carroll Gardens, Brooklyn a mere 25 minutes, we began to order; cold mixed appetizers, mantu dumplings, and Turkish pies, similar to pizza, but minus the tomato sauce and heavy on the lamb. The mixed appetizers were mostly familiar; babagannus (as it was spelled on the menu), humus (also how it was spelled on the menu), stuffed grape leaves, tabuleh, but also a few surprises including a Turkish specialty called soslu patlican, eggplant with tomatoes, peppers, onions in a peppery red sauce. The pide was perfect to soak up the dips. Then the Turkish pies arrived along with the mantu dumplings, tiny ravioli-like dumplings stuffed with ground meat and swimming in Turkish yogurt.
Of course, the appetizers alone could have sustained us, but we were here for the famed kebabs. With the exception of chicken, the kebabs were all variations of lamb—hand-chopped, cubed, diced, and sliced. We ordered an assortment and one Uzbek specialty, palav, also known as pilaf, or rice with chunks of lamb, onions, carrots, and chick peas. The platters were gargantuan with the variations of lamb and chicken served either over rice or soaked in yogurt that was absorbed by cubes of bread and accompanied with hollowed-out, slightly hot peppers. The table suddenly became quiet as we began to work through the mounds of food, Zio, as usual, deft with his fork, leading the way. Gerry’s folly, and the long journey had been temporarily forgotten.
After all the meat, dessert was out of the question for me, but Gerry and Zio had much more in their reserves than I and ordered the Turkish rice pudding. They will have to elaborate on what made the rice pudding distinctly Turkish, as opposed to the familiar Greek variety. Others thought coffee might help digest the enormous quantity of lamb we had just ingested, but the look on Eugene’s face when he took his first sip of his Turkish coffee was not promising. It brought back memories of the famed Filipino dessert with kidney beans and the Russian soft drink, Kavas; two of Eugene’s less than favorite exotic global eating experiences.
We were all quite content with Bay Shish Kebab and proclaimed it a winner until we received the check and Eugene added up the damage. We were way above our $20 budget for this one, but knowing how bizarrely meaningful this pick was to Gerry, let him slide. Next time, however, he will be held accountable.
Like Staten Island, where there are potentially many places that would fit our criteria, getting to Sheepshead Bay during the week at the height of rush hour, makes it next to impossible to venture. Maybe someday soon we will rise to the challenge. As for Bay Shish Kebab, my research has shown that it closed in mid-2010 for “renovations.” In other words: R.I.P. Bay Shish Kebab.
You’ll find this 
here at
That’s right: Patsy’s Pizzeria in East Harlem (www.thepatsypizza.com), where, since 1933, that oven has been fired and turning out arguably the city’s best pizza. But I’ll save that argument for another day.
Many of you got this one without any trouble. I promise much more of a challenge the next time we play: Name That Place.
Let’s play, Name That Place again. If you can identify not only what it is in the picture that I’ve posted below and at what food establishment you will find it, you’ll win a free subscription to the blog Fried Neck Bones…and Some Home Fries. I’m confident that all savvy and well-traveled New York foodies will have no problem figuring this one out.
You want a hint? Okay, I’ll give one: What you see above is almost 80 years old and never takes a break.
That’s two hints. Now I’ve gone and made it too easy. Next time no hints!
Leave your answers in the comments section below. The answers will be revealed here on Monday.
Before our venture to the South Bronx and Uncle Sal’s, our group had a date at an African restaurant in Harlem called La Marmite. As I vaguely recall, only two or three of us showed up for whatever reason and I never summarized our experience there. We made up for it when we all were in attendance at Uncle Sal’s Ribs and Brew. It was early summer and our dinner there became memorable for many reasons, but probably most of all because it was the only one , in the over two years we had been doing this, where we got to dine “al fresco.”
Uncle Sal’s: circa 2004
Uncle Sal’s Ribs and Brew
R.I.P
After our previous debacle, when only the devoted few got to experience the delectable offerings served at the Senegalese restaurant, La Marmite, the group was now more than ready to reconvene en masse. Even Charlie, who will be relocating to the hinterlands of Emmaus, Pennsylvania with his wife, and soon to be born first child, was present as we made our way to East Tremont Avenue in the Bronx for a taste of Uncle Sal’s Ribs and Brew (formerly known as Uncle Sal’s Ribs and Bibs). We were enticed to this barren stretch of the Bronx just off the Cross Bronx Expressway with the promise of barbecue ribs created by a Sicilian immigrant and his Puerto Rican in-laws. Who could imagine what the end result of that amalgamation of ethnicities would result in? But the possibilities were very promising and incentive enough to make the journey.
Eugene and Gerry, the first to arrive, were a bit concerned when they entered the storefront and only noticed a few small tables. Their worries quickly dissipated when the boisterous Uncle Sal greeted them and directed them to a “backyard” where there were two large picnic tables surrounded by assorted junk; boxes, rusting industrial equipment, and a badly damaged fig tree. Still, on this warm June evening, what could be better than dining “al fresco” on East Tremont Avenue in the Bronx, the sounds of firecrackers in the air, and security cameras reassuringly eying the premises.
We were all present except Rick, who called Uncle Sal to say he was running very late. We did our best to accommodate our comrade by ordering an assortment of selected appetizers while we waited for him to arrive. Uncle Sal recommended the mozzarella sticks, fried ravioli, and chicken wings. None of these fast food offerings really excited us, but we couldn’t disappoint Uncle Sal.
We sat outside in the Bronx evening, sipping beers and listening to a boom box set up on a wobbly table outside waiting what seemed like an interminable time for the appetizers to arrive. When they finally did arrive, we quickly devoured the tasteless deep fried mozzarella, zucchini, and ravioli, and then estimating how long it took for the appetizers to arrive, decided we better get Sal going on main courses. The ribs, of course, were why we came here and we ordered a rack of both the “special cut” and the baby back ribs. The difference, explained Sal, was really just the size; the baby back being the smaller ribs. Besides the ribs, the menu here was vast including pizza, pasta, tacos, and Spanish food. Sal was pushing the shrimp scampi that was “not on the menu,” so we obliged him his Italian heritage and ordered it along with a philly cheesesteak sandwich, and, as a nod to his Latino in-laws, an order of fried pork chops with yellow rice and beans.
It was dark now and one bright bulb lit up the backyard. Sal had switched the radio station appropriately from hip hop to blues. Rick ambled in just in time to salvage a few remaining, now cold zucchini sticks. As the fried food sat heavily in our stomachs, the main courses arrived and despite the density of the appetizers, we had no problems picking apart Sal’s very good ribs, slathered in a not too sweet, subtly tangy sauce. The cheesesteak, cut into six pieces, was also a winner but the scampi, Sal’s praises notwithstanding, tasted like the kind of shrimp scampi you might get at a barbecue joint. Finally, we divvied up the pork chops, sampling some of the rice and beans and the “sides” like corn, cole slaw, and corn bread.
Once we finished, Sal came out, a cigar in his mouth, a rum and coke in his hand, and a satisfied smile on his face, to sit and regale us with stories about his life in Sicily—how he came to America when he was 16, and about his adventures in operating the restaurant. Eugene and Zio were a rapt audience, especially when it came to the stories concerning the health department and health code violations. Sal, unfortunately, does not deliver his ribs to Manhattan, but knowing they are attainable just off the Cross Bronx Expressway might make for a pleasant way to sit out a traffic jam on that cursed thoroughfare.
What’s left of Uncle Sal today.
I never did make it back to Uncle Sal’s before he closed. I recently drove to the still restaurant-remote area of East Tremont in the Bronx to see what had replaced Uncle Sal’s. In its place was a restaurant called Manny’s, specializing in Latin American “cuisine.” I went inside to see what else had changed. Instead of the deli-like interior, there was a full bar. I asked the bartender what happened to Uncle Sal’s. “He left a long time ago,” she said. “But he still own the building.” On the awning next to Manny’s, I noticed the Protective Security Service, Inc, and on the side of the awning “Uncle Sal’s Ribs and Brew, Inc.” I guess security services have much more appeal in the East Tremont section of the Bronx than do Uncle Sal’s ribs.
Recession Special II
I find it very reassuring that chicken is recession proof.
Have a great weekend. Adventures in Chow City will return on Tuesday.
Fried Neck Bones...and some home fries 