I hear they serve decent food at the place shown above. But I don’t go to this place to eat. As you can see in the picture, there is something else here that I’m more interested in than food. That, however, won’t help you name the place.
Here then is another photo of the place. Look closely, the answer is right there in front of you.
As usual, send your answers in the comment section of my post. The place shown above will be revealed on Monday.
Jang Tur Noodle
35-38 Union St
Flushing
After walking up the steps to Jang Tur Noodle and entering the very brightly-lit restaurant, the smell of cooking cabbage almost overwhelmed me. I was the first to arrive at the Korean noodle shop I chose in the Korean enclave of the Asian community of Flushing, just off Northern Boulevard. And after a few whiffs inside the restaurant, even with the door open on an early winter evening, I was tempted to send out an all-points bulletin via my cell phone that we should find another venue—there certainly were plenty within the vicinity. But it was too late—I could see Gerry, Eugene, and Mike from Yonkers through the glass windows as they climbed the steps that led to the Jang Tur’s entrance.
I didn’t say anything about the smell; I was waiting to see if any of the others would comment. No one did and maybe it was because the door was open for a bit. Or maybe because I was becoming acclimated to it that I no longer found the smell offensive and instead of my stomach wrenching, it was now clamoring for sustenance.
The restaurant’s lone waitress brought us plastic glasses of what looked like beer but was actually warm, barley tea. There were pictures of the noodle dishes offered on the wall with descriptions of them underneath. The descriptions were in Korean only and the waitress spoke no English. There were, however, a few laminated one page menus that did give English translations of the noodle dishes offered.
I’ll take the one with the noodles.
While we waited for Rick, Eugene chatted about the five Christmas parties he was soon to attend including one that featured a “Viennese” table. Rick’s arrival saved us from hearing more about the Viennese table and, with the exception of Zio, all were present.
A few days earlier we received an email from Zio with his apologies for not being able to make the dinner. “I have a chance to make a good chunk of money if I go to ct (Connecticut) on Tuesday,” was Zio’s brief email message. The murkiness of it led to wild speculation about what he would actually be doing in Connecticut to make a “good chunk of money.”
The noodles at Jang Tur were, according to the English-language menu, “hand cut or hand torn and made on the premises daily.” There were also two variations of dumplings, chive and beef and when the waitress came to our table we pointed to them. And then doing more pointing, we picked out our noodle bowls.
When I arrived, there were two diners in the tiny restaurant, a man and a woman. The man was slurping magnificently. I peered to see what it was he was so proficiently devouring. It was a bowl of something dark red, almost clay-like in color. It could only be the noodles in red bean porridge. If he was having it, I wanted it too.
Red Bean noodles and dumplings
“Red bean?” our waitress said in her very limited English. She wanted to make sure that it was really what I wanted. I confirmed with an enthusiastic nod. Mike from Yonkers pointed to the noodles in spicy anchovy soup on the menu, Gerry the rice cake and dumpling soup, and Rick, the stir fried squid with rice.
Instead of pointing, Eugene insisted on speaking in loud, clear English and asked for the noodles in a spicy red pepper sauce with vegetables. Our waitress looked at him blankly. He then pointed. She nodded.
“No, mushrooms, right?” he bellowed as if she had any idea what he was asking. We’ve learned over the years that Eugene has an unusual aversion to mushrooms that’s so drastic it’s as if he has a life compromising allergy to the fungi.
Seeing she wasn’t responding, he tried again. “I can’t have mushrooms,” he said shaking his head. “No mushrooms?”
“Mushrooms,” she mouthed like an alien learning the language of the foreign intruder.
Eugene shook his head again. “No mushrooms,” he repeated.
Mimicking Eugene, she shook her head too and said, “No mushrooms.” Apparently that was enough to satisfy Eugene and we were spared anymore mushroom discussion.
Jang Tur’s kimchi
The dumplings arrived along with big bowls of kimchi and a spicy, pickled squash. The dumplings were light as tissue and perfect with the salty dipping sauce that accompanied them. The steaming, dark red porridge came next. I took a few bites. At first it was bland, like porridge can be, and negotiating the thick noodles with the silver chopsticks at the table proved troublesome. In the bowl also were small dumplings similar to those found in traditional chicken and dumpling soup. I added a bit of the hot pepper condiment to give it a little bite, but it wasn’t needed. What started as bland evolved into a comforting, unique taste.
Spicy anchovy noodle soup
Mike from Yonkers was struggling with his soup; taking tiny sips because of the intense spice of it. Soon his nose was flowing freely and he was honking loudly into a handkerchief. Eugene incorporated the Sicilian method to eating noodles, using a spoon with his chopsticks. He had no complaints about the heat. “It’s like a noodle salad,” he said of his bowl.
Eugene’s “noodle salad” sans mushrooms.
While Rick was picking out the larger, tough pieces of squid from the smaller, more tender ones on his plate, Gerry was deliberately sipping his soup; savoring it. “The best soup I’ve ever had,” was the supreme compliment he uttered after finishing it.
“The Best Soup Ever;” so said Gerry.
With all the bowls just $7.99 each, we were way under budget. We had some extra time so we crossed Northern Boulevard and entered the Cool Hope Beer Hall. The “Hall” was practically empty and the five of us spread out at the bar. The television above the bar was broadcasting a Korean version of “Dancing With the Stars.” We watched silently while we enjoyed a round of soju, Korean sake, chased by Budweiser before heading back out into the winter night.
Zlata Praha
28-48 31st Street
Astoria, Queens
“Polish cuisine,” Mike from Yonkers wrote in his email to our group alerting us of his Astoria-located choice called Zlata Praha, and what he thought they served there. “Unlike most of you, I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure with that part of the world.”
He was obviously absent when, years ago, we traveled to Greenpoint to the Old Poland Bakery and endured silent glares from the waitstaff and local clientele as we devoured enormous platters of kielbasa, pierogies, and boiled beef for next to nothing. But after a quick visit to Zlata Praha’s website http://www.zlatapraha.cc/main.htm, I noticed the proclamation that the restaurant was the city’s number one destination for Czech and Slovak cuisine. Mike from Yonkers was going to have the pleasure of dining on food from that part of the world, though in this case, just a little bit west and south of Poland.
Walking past the bar area where pictures of Czech and Slovak celebrities; hockey players, tennis stars, unknown singers and actors adorned the walls, Zio and I entered the empty dining room where only the rumbling from the N and R trains on the elevated track above 31st Street intruded on the silence. We were shown to a table with table cloths and cloth napkins tucked ornately into stemmed wine glasses. A stuffed deer head smoking a pipe peered over the room.
Some of Zlata Praha’s rustic decor.
Zio noticed that there was an outdoor garden. It was a pleasant evening; we hadn’t dined “al fresco” in many years, possibly since we ate in the back garden of Uncle Sal’s Ribs and Bibs in the Bronx where we were surrounded by a junkyard and serenaded by a nearby boom box. So despite what Zio, showing off his expertise in such things, pointed out was a decorative rock that really was camouflaging rat poison, and with the distinct smell of fresh bug spray in the air, we decided to eat outside.
I was thirsty and the Pilsner Urquell displays were enticing, but our smiling waitress, instead, recommended her favorite Czech beer called Staropramen. I figured she knew her stuff and went with her choice. She returned with a thick, cold mug of what was a full bodied, rich colored brew that was better even than the very good Pilsner Urquell.
We sipped the beer and pondered the typically hearty Eastern European items on the menu; schnitzels, sauerbraten, goulash, pierogies, potato pancakes, and assorted dumplings.
Of the cold appetizers, a selection of head cheese was debated roundly between us. “I’d get it,” Mike from Yonkers said boldly, but he was the only one that would dare attempt to penetrate the gelatinous mix of animal body parts that was an acquired taste none of us had the desire to acquire.
A no to the head cheese.
The head cheese was nixed, instead replaced by an order of the comparatively tame herring in cream sauce. We rounded out the appetizers with a sampling of potato pancakes, dense and bland, the accompanying apple sauce very much needed and a kielbasa, Czech-style, which tasted just like the Polish counterpart with mustard, ketchup, and fresh horseradish that was minus the accustomed zing.
While we waited for our entrees, we listened to Zio complain about his current residence on a rustic Connecticut lake. “I gotta get outta there. There are canoes,” he moaned and shook his head.
Before we could make sense of his objection to canoes, the entrees arrived. The ever smiling waitress placed a plate in front of me with a Frisbee-sized, flattened piece of pork fried in potato pancake batter while Rick, sitting next to me, was the recipient of half a duck that looked like it had been cooked with a blow torch. He offered samples for all. I declined, but Gerry took a bite. “Very good,” he proclaimed. “Good and gamey.”
“Definitely gamey,” Rick sighed.
I sawed through the wiener schnitzel cutting off portions for all who wanted a taste. I was more than happy to share the pork that could have used a generous portion of Tabasco to spice it up. I was more protective, however, of the very good potato salad that accompanied the meat.
Wiener Schnitzel: serrated steak knife mandatory.
Trying not to be negative and suppress the unusually good spirits he was in; the prospect of a trip to Italy within days will do that, Eugene mentioned that the sauerbraten he ordered “didn’t have much meat,” under the brown, soup like gravy it was immersed in. Mike from Yonkers had the same gripe about his goulash and agreed to help Zio with his order of chicken paprikash that was supposed to be red with paprika but had a goulash/sauerbraten-like dull brown tinge. Gerry, however, is generally easy to satisfy and he plowed through his order of spaetzle with feta cheese without objection.
Sauebraten or goulash?
Zio and Mike from Yonkers were the only ones who could manage the large portion of apple strudel topped by whipped cream and ice cream after that leaden meal. And the more I sat there after all that food, the nearby rat poison and the smell of bug spray still evident, the more I wanted out of Zlata Praha no matter how enjoyable the company and food was.
I signaled to the waitress and asked her for the check. I didn’t know it at the time, but this was the moment she was waiting for. Her ever present smile was now glowing “Here I am,” she said and stood there, waiting for my response.
The food and beer had obviously dulled my thought process. Gerry nudged me with a grin. “Get it,” he said. She was still standing there smiling and I still didn’t get it.
And then the Czech went to get the check and I finally got it.
After boarding the ferry in Dominica, I downed an extra-strength Dramamine. The weather was clear, the waters calm, yet I didn’t want to risk a bout of seasickness before arriving at my destination: the J.M Rum distillery in Martinique.
Keeping my eyes straight ahead and sitting upright, I ignored the young man next to me and the others around me who were retching into plastic bags given out by the ferry’s crew as the boat was pummeled mercilessly in the channel between the two islands, also known, as I found out later as the “Blue Vomit.”
The ferry on the seemingly tranquil “blue vomit.”
With Martinique in sight, I was a bit groggy and wobbly, but my stomach remained intact and, once I exited the ferry onto the streets of Fort-de-France, Martinique’s capital city, a taxi whisked me to the northeast tip of the island to a place known as Macouba. I knew we were close and as the taxi descended down a steep incline, the red copper-tin roofs came into view and I could see the steam from the stills rising from the distillery through the dense greenery of palm fronds.
The distillery in Macouba
As we pulled in front of the old distillery, I smelled the alcohol-tinged cane juice as it was being “cooked” in the stills. Taking a healthy whiff, the vapors immediately restored my equilibrium, still somewhat shaky from the Blue Vomit nightmare.
Passing barrels of rum and ignoring a tour of the facilities, I headed straight to the tasting room/gift shop. A sample of J.M’s velvety white rum improved my situation even further but it wasn’t until I sipped the brand’s VSOP “rhum vieux” that I knew I had finally found what I was seeking. The taste was something so pure; so delicately smooth that the horrors of the Blue Vomit were worth the ordeal just to sip this amber nectar.
Stills and barrels of rum
My mission complete, I bought a bottle and returned to Fort-de-France where the next day I was to board a plane to San Juan and then another back to New York.
Keeping my precious cargo close by in my carry on bag, I was instructed by security at the Martinique airport to put the rum in a clear plastic bag. I did as told and was granted access to the plane.
Rushing through San Juan’s Luis Munoz Marin International Airport to make my connection to JFK, I waited on line at security. When it was my turn to pass through the gates, an overzealous customs officer, and most likely a rum aficionado, spied my bottle of J.M.
“You can’t take that on,” he said gruffly.
“But it’s in a clear plastic bag,” I pleaded.
“You could go back and check it in,” he offered, obviously knowing I had no time to do so. “or…I’ll have to take it from you.”
I stared at him. He stared at me and then held out his hand. I had no choice. He took the bottle, hiding a satisfied grin behind his bogus official demeanor.
The shock hit me as I settled into my seat. I was trembling. Once we were in the air and I knew my prized possession was gone, tears came to my eyes.
“Why are you so sad,” the abuela who was sitting next to me and on her way to visit her daughter and grandchildren in the Bronx, asked. “Have you left a loved one behind?”
I turned to her, dabbed at my eyes and nodded.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Time will cure your sorrow. Watch the movie. It’s funny.”
I looked up at the small screen. It was something with Adam Sandler. I didn’t laugh.
Even the comedy of Adam Sandler could not penetrate my sorrow.
The wise abuela was right. Time did heal the deep wound of loss. When I first returned to New York, I frantically searched the many liquor stores looking for the J.M VSOP Rhum Vieux, but with no luck. I abandoned my search and resigned myself to settle for other “old” rums.
But then, one evening when dining at a cacophonous, yet delicious high end eatery downtown, my eyes were drawn to the offering of Rhum J.M VSOP on the restaurant’s cocktail menu. My heart pounded. I looked for my waiter and saw him at another table. I waved. I snapped my fingers. I rudely whistled. People were staring. I didn’t care. I needed him now.
Seeing my frantic state, he rushed over. “I want that!” I pointed to the listing of the J.M VSOP on the menu.
I tried to control my excitement as I waited at my table. I tapped my foot. I chewed on my lower lip. I stroked my cell phone and then it arrived. The beautiful amber fluid, served with just a twist of lime. I sipped. It was exactly how I remembered it. “Where,” I asked my waiter, “can I buy this?”
Liquid gold
He said he would check with the beverage manager. He returned with the name of the liquor store on a business card. I knew the place. I checked my watch. It wouldn’t be open now. I would have to wait until the next day.
I slept little that night, got up early and headed to the store to wait until they opened. As soon as the gates were pulled and the doors unlocked, I rushed in and found the rum section. There it was. The price was astronomical, at least twice what I paid for in Martinique, but I didn’t care. I bought a bottle that came in decorative box.
The rum now sits in a glass cabinet. I have yet to open it. I tried one evening, but I couldn’t do it. If I opened it, I would begin to drink it and eventually, maybe in a month, maybe more, the bottle would be empty. The thought chilled me to the core.
I’ve come now to accept that I will never open it, yet I do not care. It is mine. I possess it. And no one can take it away again…
Mine. All mine.
Even if he is sent to the bullpen, things could be a lot worse for Yankee pitcher, Phil Hughes.
Time for relief.
After all, how many relievers have their own neighborhood watering hole named after them?
The door is always open at Phil Hughes for Phil Hughes.
Plaza Garibaldi
134 Nepperhan Ave
Yonkers
The Mariachis of Plaza Garibaldi: Mexico City
Named after what is supposed to be a picturesque square in Mexico City where mariachis gather to perform, the Plaza Garibaldi where we were directed to by Gerry was far from picturesque. Located at the bottom of a dark hill lit only by the very bright neon of the next door Kentucky Fried Chicken, Plaza Garibaldi was Gerry’s choice, so we, of course, were in unfamiliar terrain. The destination was alien to most of us with the possible exception of Mike from Yonkers whose home turf we were now on. And despite the unfamiliarity, none of us got Lost in Yonkers except Mike from Yonkers, who, without any worthwhile excuse, arrived almost a half hour later than our designated meeting time. His tardiness did not stop him from devouring the slightly rancid, though highly addictive bowl of chips along with an accompanying lifeless salsa. Even Zio’s proclamation that he “killed a lot of cockroaches” on the street where Plaza Garibaldi was located did not stop us from stuffing our faces with the slowly sickening complimentary chips and salsa.
The Mariachis of Plaza Garibaldi: Yonkers
The large, garish restaurant was already decorated in anticipation of Valentine’s Day with cupids and hearts everywhere. Even the front cover of the colorful menu with a mariachi on horseback serenading a swooning senorita implied romance. But the mariachi stage was bare on this day and, along with the constant presence of the Yonkers’ police force, radios on alert while waiting for take out, put a damper on romance. So much so that the lone seller of roses was having a difficult time making a sale to the few customers in the restaurant. And all it took was one glance at our group and he moved on, taking his roses with him to try his luck at KFC.
Plaza Garibaldi
Plaza Garibaldi was a tip from Gerry’s client and contractor and I think we’ve learned that it can be dangerous to rely on tips from outsiders—the track record has not been good. But the bad chips and salsa aside, the selection of tacos we started with was encouraging. We had pork meat tacos, goat meat tacos, Mexican sausage tacos, beef steak tacos and aged beef tacos—though what made aged beef different from the traditional beef steak was lost on us.
And the KFC next door.
Despite the promising beginning, problems soon began to arise. Rick’s shrimp cocktail came in a tall sundae glass and was almost as sweet as that dessert, while the chicken in mole poblano Gerry ordered, coated thickly in a chocolate brown mole sauce, was like Rick’s shrimp sundae, just too sweet. Eugene did his best with the beef enchilada in green sauce but much of the concoction smothered in cheese and tomatillo salsa remained on his plate as did the “quezidilla” I ordered from the list of specials; this one stuffed with cheese and a mysterious pickled green vegetable. But the absolute proof that Gerry’s client had led us astray was the shock of seeing half of Zio’s chicken burrito untouched. Only Mike from Yonkers, maybe out of loyalty to the town of his moniker, seemed satisfied, deliberately but completely finishing off the enormous plate of “spicy seafood” he ordered. The final insult to injury was the tab—we exceeded our $20 limit though the beers we ordered and Zio’s regular over consumption of diet Cokes could have accounted somewhat for the overflow.
A Selection of Plaza Garibaldi’s offerings.
After our leaden meal, only Rick, possibly because of the ice cream sundae promise that was his shrimp cocktail, entertained the idea of ordering an ice cream or Popsicle advertised from the bright illustrations displayed above one of the restaurant’s counters. But in the end, even he declined.
Skyway Malaysian
11 Allen St
Chinatown
After what seemed like much too long, all were in attendance for our appointment at Skyway Malaysian. Tucked in the shadow of the Manhattan Bridge in Chinatown, my reservation garnered us a seat perched above the other diners under a pagoda canopy. Whether it was a choice seat or one where the wait staff could conveniently ignore our pleas for beverages and food was open to debate. We had plenty of room and our sometimes booming near-hysterical rants would not impose on the other diners. But from our table we also could not view the obligatory television tuned to Asian dramas with Chinese subtitles. Instead, while perusing the dense, six page menu, we could catch up with Eugene and his new-found love affair with Vegas, especially the bargains at the dining tables. Or listen to Zio bemoan the sudden rise in crime in Astoria where a murder had recently occurred just a few steps from his love nest.
While I tuned out both Eugene and Zio, I couldn’t help but read Village Voice food critic, Robert Sietsema’s review of Skyway that was blown up and hanging on the wall near our table, as well as many other very prominent locations throughout the restaurant. In retrospect, I should have paid more attention to Eugene’s typically dour playoff predictions for his beloved Boston Red Sox* instead of reading Sietsema.
Sietsema received maximum coverage at Skyway.
Robert Sietsema is a true explorer, unearthing obscure restaurants in all boroughs and a primary source for our own adventures. But instead of going with my own instincts on the menu, I let Sietsema sway me. Not that his 2005 review recommendations were off course or bad, but this was 2007 and the menu offered other wonders that might have led to our own personal discoveries. Thankfully, I welcomed menu feedback from Rick, Gerry and our persuasive waitress instead of completely following Sietsema’s lead. But when I was originally enticed by the prospect of java mee, egg noodles in sweet and spicy squid gravy (could it be anything like squid ink used in paella?) and shrimp pancake, Sietsema’s rave of banmee hakka noodle led me astray. The noodles, it turned out, were so bland that even the handful of dried anchovies tossed into the soup couldn’t save them. But Sietsema’s suggestion of the house special pork with dried vegetables, a thick, tender slab of pork belly on top of a dense, salty bed of now soggy greens was indisputable.
Before we even began to put together our own menu for the night, we made several attempts to hail a waitress for our “beer” order. Gerry rose to the occasion to summon one of the wait staff hovering below us and we ordered a round of Macau Chinese beer. Instead, we were brought Blue Moon, Belgium-style beer which we drank without complaint.
Since Skyway was my pick, it was my job to attempt to recite our order, badly mangling the Malaysian pronunciations of them, to our waitress. Thankfully she pointed out that there were numbers attached to each item sparing me further humiliation and especially helpful when I had to pronounce the appetizer, Skyway poh piah, a spring roll steamed and stuffed with jicama and served with a hard boiled egg, in this instance the egg just happened to be purple. Mike from Yonkers snared the purple egg and shrugging, pronounced nonchalantly that it tasted like an ordinary egg.
Gerry recognized beef rendang on the menu; a familiar item from our experience at the Indonesian, Upi Jaya; Skyway’s version was a bit less fiery, but no less palatable. To expand on our menu, the waitress suggested the hot and spicy crabs, but not the ordinary crabs—she insisted that we would like the “big crabs” much better. We knew that “big crabs” meantmore expensive crabs but she was so sincere, we couldn’t resist. It would be worth the extra money not to have to use micro-surgery to remove the meat from the smaller crabs. Along with the big crabs, she pushed a fish to round out our meal; our choice from the restaurant’s tanks was tilapia or striped bass. We went with the former and had it prepared steamed in a hot bean sauce. To make sure we had our daily consumption of green vegetables, we ordered a plate of kang kung belacan, watercress-like greens sautéed with a sauce made from shrimp paste.
The Skyway in Malaysia
By the time the monstrous plate of crabs and the whole tilapia crowded our table, we were ready for another round of beer, this time we did get the Macau, though after a few sips I was immediately nostalgic for the Blue Moon. Eugene was suddenly silent and Zio oblivious to any conversation as both worked diligently, picking through the spicy crab, while we made quick work of the tilapia, and is our custom, saving the tender cheeks for Rick. As if we hadn’t eaten in months, the feast was greedily devoured and though the dessert options, ginkgo nuts with barley and buboh chacha, sweet potato and yam with coconut, were intriguing, we were done. After sucking out the last bit of crab from shell, Eugene proclaimed that Skyway was “our type of place.” But only Eugene could really explain what that meant.
The Skyway near Skyway Malaysian in Manhattan
*Despite Eugene’s pessimistic prognostication, his Red Sox won the World Series a month after our dinner at Skyway.
Han Bat
53 W. 35th St
New York
Rick, believing that soon those who enter Manhattan below 86th Street in a car will face Mayor Bloomberg’s traffic control toll, wanted to grant the commuters among us, Gerry, Mike from Yonkers, and Eugene, one last toll-free foray into midtown. But trying to find a midtown destination that fulfills our stringent criteria is a serious challenge. After much deliberation, he finally narrowed his choice between two Korean restaurants in Koreatown, the area between 5th and 6th Avenues between 30th and 36th St, with 32nd Street being the most densely Korean block in the city; the enticingly-named Kom Tang Soot Bull House or Han Bat. Though dining at a place called the Soot Bull House would be memorable for the name alone, Rick, for no particular reason, choose Han Bat.
When I was executing and reviewing contracts for a publishing company many years ago, there was a Chinese restaurant I frequented for their lunch special at the same location where Han Bat is now. It was Chinese a restaurant run by Koreans but with a Chinese menu, though kim chee, spicy Korean cabbage, was always available. At this most recent incarnation, if the owners are the same, any nods to Chinese food have been eliminated. At Han Bat it’s just straight ahead Korean minus the sometimes suffocating smoke from table grills.
OB Beer
There were five of us; Mike from Yonkers on a Southern road trip was absent. Once we all arrived we were hustled to our reserved table. Reservations are usually never needed on our unique expeditions, but it was a good thing Rick secured one; Han Bat, on this particular Tuesday evening, was mobbed. Menus adorned with color photographs of a variety of the dishes offered were distributed and before we had a chance to even glance at them, a waiter appeared and asked if we were ready to order. We were ready to order beer, but nothing else and before the bottles of OB Korean beer were delivered to the table, another waiter appeared again asking if we were ready to order. It was clear that there would be no chance of consultation of the menu with the wait staff at Han Bat.
If you are familiar with Korean food, Han Bat offered the standards, but Korean standards can be exotic. On Han Bat’s menu were items like “ox-knee” meat, “jello extracted from ox-leg,” broiled meat, tongue and spleen, beef intestines, and something called yook hoe, shredded raw beef marinated in seasoned sesame oil. After the impenetrable cow foot at Florence’s in Harlem at our last dinner, the yook hoe was as exotic as we were going to get at Han Bat. Since this was Rick’s choice, we let him pick out the dishes for us and he did not disappoint.
First out were the numerous small plates of side dishes like the aforementioned kim chee, salty fish, pickled bean sprouts, hot peppers, raw garlic and others which our group made quick work of. Without much hesitation the bibimbab followed. A do it yourself concoction of rice, marinated meat, egg, and vegetables in a sizzling hot stone bowl with Zio, in this case, doing it himself, pouring in the barbecue sauce, mixing up the rice with the egg and meat turning it into a sloppy mess. The mesh of flavors of the dish, however, belied its appearance and even made Eugene forget for a moment his disappointment with the Soprano’s finale. “How you going to end it like that?” he complained. “They didn’t explain anything! It was a like a ball game without a final score.”
What, no bibimbab?
The French, of course, celebrate uncooked hamburger with their famous tartare. Much more modest are the Koreans and their underrated yook hoe, featuring raw sliced beef marinated in sesame oil and hot peppers and served in a green salad. There were no complaints at our table that the meat was raw; in fact, the rich blood red appearance of the meat seemed to awaken Zio’s usually dormant primal cravings as he devoured his portion.
Yook hoe: Korean tartare
Though the yook hoe was in no way reminiscent to the French beef tartare, I detected cultural similarities in the ojinguh bokum, squid in a spicy sauce that came with a few strands of spaghetti making it somewhat like Italian linguini calamari while the jaeyuk bokum, pork shredded and tender in a tangy, tomato-based “special” sauce, reminded me of Southern pulled pork. Our final entrée was pajun, a choice based on one of the pictures on the menu and described as a “shell fish pan cake.” What we got was an accurate reproduction of the photograph with the shellfish in this case, being shrimp.
Pajun
Our group is notorious for the speed in which we can shove food into our mouths, but at Han Bat our eating pace was, compared to others in the restaurant, sluggish. We were still leisurely picking tiny pieces of raw beef from the lettuce on the yook hoe plate and scraping bits of crusty rice off the bottom of the now cool stone dish that held the bibimbab long after the check and orange slices were deposited on our table while most of the crowd of predominately Koreans, both men and women, who arrived at the restaurant when we did or after had long since sucked down their meals. The eating gusto displayed at Han Bat was on a level our group could only dream of attaining.
Han Bat remains on 35th Street; the menu virtually unchanged from when visited. And Mayor Bloomberg was not able to shove through his traffic control law.
I had $21 cash money in my pocket, but already spent $8 on a small (under 750 ml) bottle of sake. Do you think they will be so kind as to count the $8 I spent on the sake toward the $18 minimum? I would really like an eel and cucumber roll to complement my sake.
Stay tuned for another Adventure in Chow City on Tuesday.
Sunday is the big parade. You know the one I mean: the National Puerto Rican Day Parade. And to show respect to all my friends who claim roots from Las Isla Del Encanto, Fried Neck Bones hereby proclaims this Cuchifrito Weekend. So go out there and eat all the deep fried pig parts you can find, particularly the delectable ears. Don’t be shy about devouring chicharron (fried pork skin), papas rellenas (fried potato balls stuffed with meats), bacalaitos (fried stuffed codfish balls), morcilla (blood sausage), and pasteles (pork-filled deep fried pastry) to your, by now, overworked heart’s content.
Cuchifritos and frituras
To add to the spirit of the weekend, here’s a treat from that honorary coqui, the late, great vibraphonist, Cal Tjader who had the very good sense to compose a piece about the goodies above he titled Cuchy Frito Man. Click below to listen.
Fried Neck Bones...and some home fries 