While Hallmark, FTD, Kay Jewelers, and others try to sell you on Valentine’s Day. When restaurants push overpriced and mediocre prix fixe Valentine’s dinners on you, I am reminded of the simple yet profound words of blues great, and alto saxophonist, Eddie “Clean Head” Vinson.
That there’s no need for caviar.
When “old kidney stew is fine. ”
“You can save your money, and keep your peace of mind.”
But the man himself can tell it much better than I.
And the catch of the day, straight from the waters of a Bronx fish tank is:
Is it inhumane to make a fish endure the equivalent of the number 6 train during rush hour?
Anyone seen Nemo?
I looked for the wild tilapia section, I swear I did.
Dinner
So it wasn’t wild, it tasted pretty good. I just wonder what they feed them. Scratch that. I don’t want to know.
Honey’s Thai Pavilion
3036 Westchester Avenue
Bronx
When asked why he chose Honey’s Thai Pavilion, Eugene’s response was: “Someone told me it’s the best Thai food in the Bronx.” And on the restaurant’s website, www.honeysthaipavilion.com, they repeat what Eugene heard and state it clearly on the site’s home page. I’m not sure how many Thai restaurants there are in the Bronx. And as far as I know, the Bronx is not known for its Thai food. Still the honor, however it was bestowed, was enough for Eugene to justify our gathering in the Pelham Park section of the Bronx, just under the number 6 elevated train, to see if we would concur with the restaurant’s lofty claim.
I arrived early and had a beer at Vivienne’s Bar next door to Honey’s. As I sat in the bar with a few regulars in this predominately Italian-American neighborhood, I wondered if Vivienne, who served a cold Corona to me personally, had ever met Honey next door. And then I wondered if there really was a Honey of Honey’s Thai Pavilion.
Vivienne, meet Honey. Honey, meet Vivienne.
Eugene and Rick were waiting as I entered the sparsely populated, sparkling, diner-like restaurant. Zio was risking the long train ride from Astoria and I noticed there was a message from him on my cell phone. Train troubles apparently.
Mike from Yonkers came in soon after I did, and we all perused the plastic-coated menu searching for something that might distinguish Honey’s as the best Thai restaurant in the Bronx. From a quick inspection, the evidence was not obvious. There was the jerky appetizer; pork or beef, and mussels on the half shells. We could try them and hope for the best.
We waited a bit longer for Zio and just a few minutes before he slowly made his way to our table, we ordered the fried fish cakes, the beef jerky, and a bowl of steamed mussels on a half shell in a spicy broth with galangal and lime. Galangal, to those unfamiliar with Thai ingredients, is the more robust sister to ginger.
Fish cakes: cooked to a perfect rubber-like consistency.
The silvery growth under Zio’s nose, also known to some as a moustache, was the source of our early conversation as we waited for the appetizers. We wanted his reasons for attempting such folly, but he had no explanation for it. Maybe he needed a few of the rubbery fish cakes to help jog his memory. Or maybe one of the over-cooked, and evidently frozen, mussels that were in what was a very good, spicy broth accented by the presence of the aforementioned galangal would do it. But neither helped Zio come up with a coherent answer to the moustache question. And by the time we devoured the addictive sweet and spicy beef jerky that was fried to oblivion and accompanied by a chili sauce (chilly on the menu) we realized Zio needed no justification for his facial hair choices.
Mussels (frozen) accented in a galangal broth.
The entrees were relatively pedestrian. I was hoping to find something unusual when I ordered the pad key mao, flat noodles with basil leaves, onions and peppers in a spicy chili sauce. Our waitress inquired if I wanted it spicy. I tried to tell her that I wanted it as it should be prepared. Not quite understanding what I meant, she retorted that there were four grades of spicy: mild, medium, hot, and very spicy. I was considering one of the latter two when she suggested the medium as if she knew my tolerance for heat. “I can bring you extra chili sauce if it’s not hot enough,” she reassured me. What arrived needed no extra spice—medium had my mouth nicely charred.
Pad Key Mao
Nothing else that I tasted would have me exclaiming that Honey’s was the best Thai food in the Bronx. And I think the others were in agreement. Mike from Yonkers complained that the chicken in his spicy phik king was over-fried while Zio’s curry noodles with beef brought out a twitch in his new moustache: “There’s no excuse for beef that tough,” he grumbled, though ate it all anyway.
The curry noodles with beef had Zio’s sorry excuse for a moustache twitching.
I know Rick and Eugene ordered entrees, but I have no idea what they were and I think that tells you all you need to know about Honey’s Thai Pavilion.
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.
The day before Christmas, it’s no meat for me,
Even though I’m a non-believer,
on Christmas Eve,
I only eat from the sea.
The feast should have seven dishes
of fishes that day.
No one really knows why,
it’s just what they say.
Here then are the fishes,
in no particular order.
For the feast,
I present to you.
On my own fingers I counted,
To make sure it’s true.
They call it squid, but it’s calamari we know.
Cook it fast or cook it slow.
Any other way,
and it’s a no go.
Stuff with breadcrumbs, parsley and nuts.
Enjoy the stuffed squid,
but don’t eat too much.
There’s six more dishes to go,
before you bust.
It comes from a snail, is what I’ve heard,
this thing called scungilli;
I know, it’s a funny word.
Italian Escargot?
The French shake their heads
and say, ‘oh no!”
Boil until it’s tender, and then chop it
real fine.
Add to a salad,
and maybe drizzle with lime.
Long and slithery,
it looks like a snake.
With dark beady eyes,
this fish is not for everyone’s taste.
We call it eel.
In Italian it’s capitone.
Its flesh is oily,
its look surreal.
Be careful there are bones.
You don’t want to choke,
especially while giving the
Christmas Eve toast.
Chop into pieces,
then fry or grill.
With garlic and vinegar,
this eel will thrill.
When the faint of heart see it coming,
they shriek and wail,
‘cause it’s got a slimy body and a prickly tail.
It’s a small fish, the little anchovy,
but the flavor it packs,
makes up for any good looks it lacks.
Dissolve in hot olive oil with garlic, of course.
Add some peperoncini,
and a little broth.
Pour over spaghettini
and you’ll be one of the first,
to line up at the trough.
Four dishes done, three more to go.
The feast of seven fishes,
can become quite a show.
Along the way,
things could get bumpy,
causing anxiety and stress;
a chef could get jumpy.
Time to bring out the fish,
the one that no one complains.
The reliable flounder,
it causes no pain.
Bake it with butter or oil, some
lemon and herbs.
Its mild mellow flavor,
will take the edge off,
will ease the nerves.
It comes in all sizes, this mollusk of grey.
But I like the small ones;
what they call vongole.
Clean them and make sure the sand is all gone.
Add to a pot with oil, garlic and white wine.
When they open just a bit,
they will release their magical brine.
Eat them from the shell or over
linguini.
Either way, you can’t go wrong,
with a clam this teeny.
Oh it smells something fierce,
this fish called baccala,
Just wait till you see it;
it looks even worse.
In a pot or bathtub,
soak it for days.
Change the water
a few times or more.
Yes it’s hard work;
it can be a chore.
Do it until that fish;
the one that smells,
grows larger,
until it swells.
Steam or bake,
soon the tender flesh will flake.
With onions and garlic,
what a delicious dish
this hideous monster makes.
Its appeal is so huge,
There’s even a poem called,
The feast over;
all seven fishes you’ve tried.
But now your mercury level is high.
No fear, everything will be okay,
because Christmas comes the very next day.
There will be more food.
Another big feast.
And this one, I’m sure,
will include juicy red meat.
Where you will find this model replica of Al Capone along with a shrine to gangsterism.
And where they sell rabbits and calf brains.
You will also find this.
Broccoli rabe
And this.
Dried peppers, fruits and vegetables.
Here inside this place.
Known as the Arthur Avenue Retail Market, in the Bronx.
Thank you all for playing and showing off your New York foodie creds. Keep your eyes open for a new edition of Name that Place in 2012.
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…
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.
Aires de Colombia
64 West Post Rd
White Plains, NY
Zio was behind the wheel, stuck in bumper to bumper traffic on First Avenue. He was muttering and cursing, though clearly not under his breath. We were on our way to White Plains in the middle of rush hour to a destination chosen by none other than the innocent seeming, though truly sadistic Gerry who has tormented us with restaurants in hard to reach and traffic congested locales such as Sheepshead Bay, Valhalla, Jersey City, and Fort Lee, to name just a few. Was his motive in choosing these hard to reach destinations to exact revenge on those of us who live in the New York City environs and take for granted how easy it is, via public transportation, to experience worldly culinary pleasures in the city as opposed to the suburbanite who, with a few exceptions, is a prisoner to his vehicle and must commute to find food nirvana. We weren’t sure, but as we inched along on First Avenue, the conspiracy theories were percolating rapidly.
Rick had already bowed out of this adventure; a trip from the city to White Plains during rush hour and then back to his money pit in Atlantic Highlands New Jersey, much too stressful on his already commuting-frazzled nerves.
“This better not be like that mother f*****g mariachi place in Yonkers. I couldn’t even eat that s**t,” Zio spat, referring to Gerry’s ill fated Yonkers’ Mexican choice, Plaza Garibaldi.
The venom was flowing from Zio’s rotund frame. It got so bad we seriously considered pulling over and eating at nearby Patsy’s Pizzeria in East Harlem, or, if the traffic continued beyond the entrance to the Bruckner, driving to Hunt’s Point for one of Fratelli’s broccoli rabe “Grandma” pies.
With our intentions now clear, Zio seemed to calm down and once we were able to get onto the Bruckner, the traffic dissipated and we quickly decided to go back to our first option and head on to White Plains. Gerry and Eugene were waiting outside Aires de Colombia on a strip populated by a variety of Latin restaurants.
Trump infested downtown White Plains
Looking at the restaurant, I recalled that when I was living in White Plains, the location of Aires de Colombia was near a bar I frequented back when the drinking age was 18 and I was a bit younger called DePalo’s Dugout. At DePalo’s each night there was a half hour where beer was free. My high school friends and I took full advantage of the offer, taking turns going up to the bar until our table was overflowing with pitchers and almost enough beer to get us through the night.
Back when I was filling up on beer instead of rice, beans, and chicharrones, which I was planning to do at Aires de Colombia, there were no Latin restaurants on this stretch of Post Road. And driving into White Plains with its many gleaming glass towers, I noted that there were no Ritz Carlton’s or Trump Towers either in the disco days of my youth.
Gerry had already visited Aires de Colombia and was disappointed to say that the television near our table and above the bar had been removed. When he visited he was entertained by Colombian dancing girls on the screen which, according to Gerry, only enhanced the dining experience. The bartender who also served as our hostess and waitress spoke little English but enough to say that she had two English language menus while the rest were in Spanish. Neither did me any good because it was much too dark where we sat for me to read any language. The bar crowd was amused at our pathetic attempts to converse with our waitress, which, to me, was a good sign. Our group being a silly spectacle for the establishment’s regulars meant that we had hit upon a truly authentic destination, though the inebriated grin directed toward Gerry from one the bar’s patrons had him slightly unnerved.
Colombian deep fried pork belly
We began with the aforementioned chicharron, a long, deep fried until practically charred, piece of pork belly, the intense saltiness paired beautifully with the cold Aguila beer I was drinking. The chicharron was accompanied by an arepa, Colombian corn bread topped with a heavy sprinkling of cheese. While waiting for our beef empanadas, I excused myself to visit the restrooms. On the way, I passed the half door opening that led to the kitchen and noticed a woman with a head scarf scurrying between the stove and a table where she was rolling out dough for the empanadas. The sight was more than reassuring and I was confident that Aires de Colombia would not be like “that mother f*****g mariachi place in Yonkers.”
Colombian condiments
The empanadas that soon arrived at our table were as good as I’ve had anywhere and remarkably, tasted as if they were hand rolled by a Colombian woman in a head scarf. But the “starters” were not light fare and when they were followed by enormous platters of meat; beef with French fried potatoes and onions known as “lomo saltado,” rolled, stuffed pork, steak, more chicharrones, and lengua (tongue) described as our waitress in her struggling English as “sweet tongue” and all of the meats accompanied by rice, beans, tostones, maduras, yucca, aquacate (avocado) and a hard, dry round “arepa” that was the only disappointment of the night, it soon became a struggle to eat. There was, apparently, a bottom to our collective bottomless pits. The one exception to all the meat was a platter of shrimp in a creamy garlic sauce that, though tasty, not quite worthy enough to veer from the meat side of the menu.
An empanada, an arepa and more chicharrones.
The dishes soon were cleared except those in front of Mike from Yonkers who was still picking at the “sweet” tongue. The rest of us were glassy-eyed and dazed by the cholesterol onslaught.
“100 crunches every morning,” Eugene droned, patting his ridiculously flat stomach. “And no more junk for breakfast. Fruit. Granola. Oatmeal. .. ” The arrival of our check spared us from having to listen to Eugene anymore and after tallying it up, the result put us a bit above our $20 food budget. No one complained that we had gone over budget. The hardship of getting to Aires de Colombia was temporarily forgotten in our food-induced stupor. We gathered our things and went outside to listen a bit to the very noticeable silence on the deserted White Plains’ street before getting in our respective vehicles and driving home.
Unfortunately, we missed the great Oscar D’Leon’s performance at Prophecy.
“Did you ever hear of a Wish Sandwich?
Well, it’s the kind of a sandwich where you’re supposed to take two pieces of bread, and wish you had some meat.”
“The other day, I ate a ricochet biscuit. Well it’s the kind of biscuit where it’s supposed to bounce off the wall and back into your mouth. If it don’t bounce back, you go hungry.”
“The other day, I ate a cool water sandwich and a Sunday-go-to-meeting bun.”
“What you want for nothing? A rubber biscuit?”
A rubber biscuit
These guys do a much better job explaining the Wish Sandwich than I can. Click the link below and listen.
Fried Neck Bones...and some home fries 