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The Chinatown Congee Wars: Part One

13 Jul

Congee vs. Big Wong

Some call it porridge. A more medieval term for it is gruel. In Chinatown it is known as congee; white rice boiled with water, lots of water, until it becomes a thick, hot cereal or soup, depending on what you do with it.

For many who live in Chinatown here in New York it is a breakfast staple. In the last few years, Congee’s popularity has burgeoned beyond Chinatown and now people like me travel to the congested, cramped, sometimes ripe streets of lower Manhattan to get their congee fix.

Congee lovers are often blindly loyal to their favorite places. Me, I keep an open mind. I have, however, narrowed down the crowded Chinatown field to four serious contenders to the congee crown and here, in two parts, using my vast background and experience in the art of overcooked rice, I will ultimately reveal the best congee in Chinatown.

This will not be like the murky college football system known as the BCS where the true champion is settled more by sports writers than by the deserving teams battling it out on the field. The results of the Chinatown Congee Wars will be unequivocal. There will be no talk radio controversy. No happy hour debates. That is unless you happen to disagree with my choice. In which case, you are entitled to your opinion, no matter how misguided it might be. And please, don’t hesitate to express yourself here. I welcome it.

For this first round, I was accompanied by one of my offspring;  the 12-year-old, Luigi. Though he is a mere novice when it comes to the glories of congee, despite his youth, Luigi is a very accomplished eater. What he lacks in experience, he more than makes up for in exuberance. I had complete confidence that he would remain unbiased and not be swayed by perks such as complimentary hot tea or a plastic-wrapped fortune cookie. I was sure he would take his task seriously.

Congee

98 Bowery
Chinatown

Our first destination was the appropriately-named Congee.

Located on the Bowery, Congee, I knew was worthy of its name. When we arrived, just before the lunch time bustle, there was only a Chinese family with very young children at one of the other tables. The baby was making a racket in the otherwise quiet restaurant and I noticed, doing its best to decorate its pink, fat cheeks with spoonfuls of gruel.

I told Luigi we had to have the congee. If he wanted something else to offset it, he could, but to be careful and pace himself; we had another congee place to judge.

There were a number of interesting congee offerings including snail and pig’s liver, abalone and frog, and dried scallop and gingko nut, but I wanted to keep it relatively simple. I needed to judge the congee on its own merits without too many exotic ingredients, so I went with the sliced pork and preserved egg variation.

Luigi scoffed at my suggestion of the “healthy vegetarian” congee, instead choosing the beef. Along with it, we had an order of “fried dough,” the usual, bland but deep fried, accompaniment to the porridge.

The congee came out steaming in pots with wooden handles. We stirred, trying to cool it down not wanting to scald our tongues and the roofs of our mouths thus immediately nullifying either of us as legitimate judges.

The inside of my mouth, however, after years of impatiently ingesting hot pizza, soup, and other blistering foods, has developed a tough, asbestos-like coating. That hard shell made it easier for me to begin the congee tasting sooner than Luigi. What I tasted I liked. The congee was not overly heavy; the balance of liquid to rice tipping slightly to the liquid. But the pork with preserved egg added a nice hearty supplement.

Sliced pork and preserved egg congee.

Luigi struggled at first with the big pieces of beef; trying to cut through them with spoon and chopstick but to no avail. Using his sharpened incisors, he was able to gnaw the beef apart and enjoy, so he said, the rest of his congee, dipping the somewhat stale pieces of fried dough into the porridge and scooping it into his mouth.

The beef congee at Congee.

I wouldn’t have had any difficulty finishing off the bowl of congee, but we had another place to visit. Using about all the self control I could muster, I signaled for the waiter to bag up our leftovers, and we made our way to our next destination.

Big Wong King

67 Mott Street
Chinatown

 

I admit to being partial to Big Wong. It’s been one of my “go to” spots in Chinatown for a very long time. And whenever I go, it’s hard to resist the congee.

I noticed immediately that Big Wong, located in the heart of the tourist mecca of Chinatown on Mott Street, had higher prices for their congee. At Congee, the standard bowls we ordered were $3.95. At Big Wong, most were a dollar, maybe two higher. I knew I couldn’t let price influence my evaluation. The congee had to stand alone regardless of what it cost.

I ordered the roast pork while Luigi went with the chopped beef. Like at Congee, we also ordered the “fried dough.”

Big Wong’s fried dough or “crullers” ready to be dipped into congee.

“I’m worried that Chinatown will change soon,” Luigi professed to me.

“Why is that?” I asked him.

“There are a lot of old people here,” he said.

I nodded. There were. In fact, we were sharing a round table with three seniors.

“But there are young people too,” I said, gesturing to many who were also dining at Big Wong.

“I hope it doesn’t die,” he said. “I like Chinatown.”

Our bowls arrived. The steam was flowing from them. These were even hotter than what we got at Congee. My asbestos mouth would be no match for the boiling cauldron in front of me.

Hot congee at Big Wong.

The fried dough, a long, fresh cruller, kept us busy until the congee cooled down somewhat. When I could brave it, I took a spoonful. Mine was rich with roast, barbecued pork, the barbecue tinting the white of the soup turning it  a bronze-like color. Luigi’s had crumbled ground beef. Both were sprinkled with cilantro adding a pleasant garnish to them.

I liked the congee at Big Wong better than what I experienced at Congee. It was heartier; more rice to water and stuffed with meat. Luigi disagreed. “Congee is better,” he said definitively.

“I don’t know, I like Big Wong’s even though it is a few more dollars.”

We were at a standstill. He favored one, while I the other. How would we resolve this?

“Well, the fried dough is better here, isn’t it?” I said.

He agreed, but we weren’t on this mission to judge fried dough.

Congees and a cruller

They say a tie is like kissing your sister? I never had a sister, so I wouldn’t know. Maybe Part Two of the Chinatown Congee Wars will help clear up the muddled picture I’ve created.

Until then, feel free to chime in with your own opinions though I will not be swayed in mine.

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How to Eat a Mango

10 Jul

I’ve often wondered,

how to eat this fruit.

It has an odd shape,

kind of like an egg with a loop.

It’s sweet and the flesh is juicy,

and  good for you too.

But how do you eat it

without getting quite messy?

If the fruit is soft and pliant to grope,

like what you might find in a ripe cantaloupe.

That means it is ripe and ready to eat.

The problem is, how to do it neat?

I hear there are over 1,000 varieties of mangoes around.

But where I live only a few types are to be found.

What I see in stores and on street carts,

come from places like Mexico, Salvador, Peru and Brazil.

Warm, tropical lands,

where there is no chill.

They  have names like “champagne,”

“Ataulfo,” “Tommy Atkins,” “Kent,” and more.

I’m sure there is a difference,

though this mango novice can’t tell for sure.

Ataulfo mangoes

On an island far away,

I once ate a Julie,

mango that is.

It was sweet and luscious.

I still can’t believe,

something so delicious,

could come from a tree.

Once peeled, the nectar quickly

flowed from within.

That Julie made such a mess,

a beach towel was needed,

to clean up my chin.

Three Julies

The mangoes from Haiti

are long and light green.

This fruit’s flavor is special,

the taste, a mango fan’s dream.

But there are drawbacks, I’m afraid.

It costs a little more,

and eating it most certainly can be a chore.

The Haitian

You can peel the tough skin with a knife.

Pull it down and try to slice.

Be careful before you start chewing,

The juices might spurt.

Don’t be slow.

Stay alert.

Oh my, how the bright orange flesh stains so.

No doubt, your nice white shirt, will soon be aglow.

Put away the knife,

and give up on the slice.

Just suck through the flesh,

right to the big stone.

This chore is one, you need to handle alone.

The temptations are many.

You might want to bite.

You’ll soon learn, that won’t be right.

Like a thatch of thorns that have you entangled,

your teeth will be riddled with tough fibers at every angle.

To dislodge requires little cost.

All you’ll need is plenty of time,

and two packs of dental floss.

Some say the best way to eat a mango

is one where you cut into the flesh;

a criss cross pattern.

that looks like a mesh.

Turn the skin upside down,

with gentle firmness, you’ll press.

The pieces will fall into a bowl or dish.

Eat with a toothpick, fork or chopstick.

No fuss.

No mess.

The criss cross method.

Like the many varieties of mango,

the choices of how to eat one are plenty.

And while I waste my time,

with these ridiculous rhymes,

I’m sure the list will grow.

Suck, nibble, bite or chew?

Who am I to tell you what to do?

How to eat a mango.

really, is up to you.

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A Good Friend is Hard to Find

29 Jun

A New Good Friend is even harder.

I’m very happy I’ve found one.

 

 

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The Sweetbread Tango

26 Jun

La Esquina Criolla

94-67 Corona Ave,
Elmhurst

 

“How do you want your steak cooked,” the waitress asked in her heavy Spanish accent.

We were in Elmhurst at the corner of Corona Avenue and Junction Boulevard in what was advertised as an Argentinean/Uruguayan restaurant called La Esquina Criolla.

“That’s a first for our group,” Rick said after hearing the question from our waitress.  And he was right. It was the first time in the ten plus years we had been convening that we were asked how we wanted anything cooked, much less a steak.

Did that mean our standards were changing? That now we were graduating to a different, higher quality of restaurant? I certainly hoped not and believed that the question before us was just a blip; an aberration in our continual journey to unearth diverse, ethnic eats within our frugal, even grubby, standards.

When I chose La Esquina Criolla, I knew I was treading on dangerous ground. That we would we probably be going over our $20 per person budget as well as dining at an established foodie destination where, what was confirmed later, wine was served in stemmed wine glasses. But that did not stop me. I went ahead with the choice anyway. Red meat was something our group rarely, if at all, dined on and I thought that for once we should have that experience despite the potential monetary risks. I believed this place, La Esquina Criolla would be our best bet to at least keep it close.

Red meat for sale.

“You’re in trouble with this one,” Gerry teased, glancing at the menu and the prices next to many of the “carnes a la parilla,” which ranged from $16 to $24.

“I have an allowance,” I said, trying to rationalize the stark reality spelled out in front of us. “Most of my other choices were so under our budget, that I’m entitled to go over here and still, really, come out no worse than even. It’s called a carryover balance.”

Eugene’s reading glasses were balanced on the tip of his nose. “Uh huh,” he nodded dubiously.

The raw meats we were soon to order were displayed behind the counter; La Esquina Criolla doubled as a butcher shop. There was flank steak, skirt steak, shell steak, blood sausage, known as morcilla, chorizo, kidney, sweetbreads, lamb, and short ribs.

Displayed behind the counter adjacent to the meats were a selection of empanadas; meat, chicken and spinach along with a few other appetizers; marinated eggplant, beef tongue, and hearts of palm to name a few.

Empanadas…and more empanadas.

While we decided what to order, we were brought toasted bread and slices of grilled sausage. We knew we had to be careful how we ordered, but the temptations were many. The empanadas, of course were a must. A “parrillada completa,” or combination of a variety of meats made sense, despite the $38 price (for two). With it we would get to sample skirt steak, short rib, sweetbread, tripe, kidney, black and Argentinean sausage. To that we added another skirt steak for two, a flank steak, and an appetizer of grilled provolone in oregano sauce.

The entrees all came with side orders; a dry potato salad, potato, beet and hard boiled egg, a bland mixed salad, and plantains.

While we ate the buttery-crusted empanadas served with the tableside tangy homemade chimichurri sauce, a procession of ancient tango ballads played.

An Argentinean condiment supreme.

“Why does this music make me think of monocle-wearing Nazis,” Zio pondered.

“You’re confused,” Gerry said to him. “Those were the Boys of Brazil you’re thinking of. Wrong country.”

“Didn’t they escape to Argentina also?”

“Sure, there are plenty of retired Nazis in Argentina,” Rick confirmed. “And they love that old school tango.”

“Yes, herr commandant, I have heard about the tango classes at the Russian front.”

Halting the conversation was the arrival of a sizable silver serving tray adorned with a selection of charred meats. This was the “parrillada completa” for two, but judging from the size of it, was more than enough for three or four, even if the three or four included the gluttons in our group.

The Parillada Completa for two, flanked by flank steak on the left and skirt steak on the right.

On separate smaller plates were the other meats; the flank steak and the skirt steak for two. Including what we got in the “parrillada completa,” if you did the math we had enough skirt steak for three, but who was counting?

The grilled provolone came as advertised, toasted on the outside, the cheese oozing from it when sliced and doused with oregano flavored olive oil. We sawed through the steaks, cooked as we ordered, medium rare; the juices flowing from them onto the platters.

Grilled Provolone

While we chewed, moving from one cut of meat to the other, some of us paused to cleanse our palates with gulps of the Argentinean beer, Quilmes; Zio instead choosing the toxic sludge that is diet Coke to accompany his meal.

A beer and a glass…with a stem.

It was about then when, to my astonishment I noticed Rick sipping red wine from the aforementioned stemmed glass. He shrugged when he saw that I had noticed. He didn’t have to qualify his choice in any way. It was the glass that was more of note than what was in it.

We were making very good progress; the meats on the platters were slowly vanishing.

“You want a beet?” Rick offered Zio from the platter of cold potato and beets.

Zio thought about it for a moment and then nodded. “Yeah, what the hell. Give me a beet.”

Soon all was gone with the exception of a shriveled piece of tripe and a “burnt end” of sweetbread that even Gerry would not touch.

A sweetbread burnt end.

Seeing that there really was nothing left in front of us, the waitress recited what was on the menu for dessert. Zio, who seemed to go silent after that last beet, perked up when he heard there was quince paste.

“I love quince paste,” he announced. “I had it the other day.”

“Bring us the check,” Eugene said, making the executive decision that there would be no dessert, as if we needed it after all that. No one, not even Zio and his penchant for quince paste, dared to stand up to Eugene’s resolve.

The check came. We waited silently as Eugene perused it. We knew we had done some major damage. I chewed on my knuckles in anticipation. My own self-imposed standards were on the line here.

“$30 each,” he said. I let out a sigh of moderate relief. We were over budget, but we had beer, some of us more than one, and even red wine—in a stemmed wine glass. That would account for at least $5. And of course our waitress deserved a generous tip for having to put up with us. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been.

The rough life on the pampas of Elmhurst.

We stumbled out of the restaurant. The tango music was still playing. I had a piece of parsley from the chimichurri sauce stuck between my teeth. There wasn’t much I could do;  I would have to wait until I got home before I could attend to it.

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A Lime Cut Three Ways: The Second Cut

20 Jun

The Mojito

I always thought of the mojito as an amateur’s drink. Part of my thinking was because of the rum used. I’m partial to the rums of either the West Indies; Jamaica, Barbados, Trinidad, etc., which are molasses-based, and robust, or the exquisite French island “agricole” rums of Martinique and Guadeloupe, made from distilled sugar cane juice. The rum traditionally used for the mojito is of the smoother, Spanish variety; Puerto Rican, Cuban, Dominican, etc. So smooth, in fact, that to me, the rum is indistinguishable; practically devoid of any flavor.

Further damaging the mojito appeal in my narrow mind was that the rum usually poured into the drink was the one with the enormous marketing budget making it, in my estimation, the Coca Cola of rums. And speaking of Coca Cola, the rum in question is usually best enjoyed in that abomination: rum and coke. But there I go again, displaying my rum snobbery by thrashing a drink enjoyed over the years by millions of people. It’s an unseemly trait of mine that, as I grow older, hope I am losing. Who am I, some sort of food and beverage critic or something? It’s not my place to belittle one’s rum preference?

Cuba Libre??

A big part of my conversion to the mojito was the forest of mint that, since we moved to our new apartment, has accumulated on our terrace. Mint, along with lime, are the dominating flavors of the mojito and excellent bedfellows they make.

A forest of mint.

You can take your mint tea, mint ice cream, mint and lamb and whatever else you might use fresh mint for. I use it exclusively for the mojito. And yes, I do use smooth—err—bland, Puerto Rican rum in the drink (though not the Coca Cola of rums whose name will not be mentioned here). I wouldn’t dare attempt a mojito with a rum from Martinique or Trinidad. The result would be a completely different drink. The neutral rum from Puerto Rico seems to meld the other two dominant flavors of lime and mint perfectly in the cocktail.

Mojito mix

What follows is my version of the  mojito.

Ingredients:

1 lime cut into tenths.

10 or more fresh mint leaves including sprigs.

4 teaspoons simple sugar syrup*

2 ounces of white Spanish rum (Puerto Rican or Domincan, if you can get Cuban, I’m sure that would work well too).

A splash or two of seltzer

*You can use superfine sugar, granulated sugar, or even confectioner’s sugar instead of simple syrup, but I prefer homemade syrup which eliminates having to dissolve the sugar into the drink. The recipe for simple sugar syrup can be found on my post, A Lime Cut Three Ways: The First Cut.

Add most of the lime and mint leaves, saving a few of each, to a highball glass. Mash and muddle the mint and lime together with a pestle or whatever type of apparatus you might have on hand.

Add the sugar syrup, the rum, and ice and stir.

Pour in a splash or two of seltzer to top off the cocktail and stir again.

A splash of seltzer.

Garnish with a couple of lime pieces and a sprig or two of mint.

Sit back, put your feet up, and enjoy.

The mojito

I no longer demean the mojito and want to admit here that I was very wrong about its many merits. It is a summer cocktail supreme and I now count it as one of my go to drinks. Could it be that this public admission is testament that I am finally maturing? One can only hope.

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A Night of Good Humor

13 Jun

The bells woke up me up.  I could hear them from my open window coming from the street below. I was trying to sleep away the hot day.  I forced myself out of bed. I had to get downstairs fast. I had to get to the bells.

I put on a dirty, ripped tee shirt and slid on my flip flops. I rushed out the door and started down the four flights to the street.

Mrs. Robbins was trudging up the steps. She was in a wrinkled  house dress, holding an ice cream bar in one hand that was melting rapidly.

“You better hurry,” she said. “He’s selling out fast.” As she spoke she tried to catch the red cookie crumbs that were falling from the ice cream bar.

“You got strawberry shortcake?” I said.

“Always,” she replied. “And lucky I got there when I did. Those kids behind me are gonna be disappointed if they want their strawberry shortcake. And I know that geezer Baskin will blame me for eating the last one. Too bad, I say. Let him eat a toasted almond for a change. Nothing wrong with toasted almond. Or chocolate éclair. Now that’s a very fine ice cream bar.”

Mrs. Robbins could go on, but I had no time to listen. I ran down the stairs and out into the dusk. It was still brutally hot. I heard the bells, but they were fading. I wasn’t sure which direction to run.

A truck was slowly moving down the street and then stopped right in front of where I was standing. A man poked his head out. “I got ice cream here,” he said.

I stared at the rainbow colored ice cream cone painted on the side of the truck. “You want a Salty Pimp?” the man asked me, “or how about a Bea Arthur?”

I didn’t know what to say. And there were no bells.

Where you can get a “salty pimp.”

“Okay, maybe next time,” the man said as he drove the truck away.

I listened for the bells again. I could hear them faintly, but soon they were drowned out by something else. That song. It was coming from that other ice cream truck. I covered my ears.  Stop it, I cried to myself. I can’t stand it!

The loud truck parked in front of me. The music blasted. The ice cream head smiled cruelly at me; the source of so many nightmares.

The stuff nightmares are made of.

I ran from it. Ran down the street as far away from the truck as I could get. The song faded. I turned down an alley. There it was. The old white truck. And I could hear the bells.

My flops flipped as I ran faster. I could see the man in the white suit and white hat by the side of the truck. There was a line of boys and girls waiting. I needed to get on that line. I shoved my hands into my pockets. And then I froze. “No,” I cried. “No! No! No!”

I forgot to take two bits for the ice cream. I sat down on a stoop and buried my head in my hands.

“What’s the matter, kid,” a gravely-voiced man asked me. “We all have bad days.”

I looked up. It was Carvel. The last guy I wanted to see.

“Forgot something, did ya?”

I didn’t want to hear it from him. Taunting me with his toasted coconut marshmallow sundae; his brown betty’s. Knowing how loyal I am to the other guy. That I would never betray him.”

Everybody likes ice cream

“Listen, kid, I remember that solid you did for me?”

“What?” I scowled. “What solid?”

“The time you helped me with the dry ice.”

I nodded. Yeah, I remembered. His truck broke down and I helped get his boxes of dry ice to his new store before all his ice cream melted.

“I never forget a solid,” he said.

He reached into his pocket, pulled out a fifty cent piece and flipped it to me. “Go on now. Go get yourself an ice cream.

I looked at the coin and quickly ran down the street. The line of children was gone. The man in the white suit and hat was getting into the passenger seat of his truck. He was leaving, but before he did, I could hear him clang the bells.

I ran right up to him. My face was red, dripping with sweat. He smiled at me. “Just in time, sonny,” he said and then slowly climbed out. “Can’t say there is much left back there though. Not on a hot one like this.”

I walked with him to the side of the truck. He opened the freezer. A wisp of fog drifted from the open door. He reached in. “Hmmm, I thought I had some left,” he said as his hand searched the freezer.

My face contorted. The tears were close. I tried to control them from coming.

“Oh…wait…” He smiled again. “One more. But you’ll have to take whatever it is.”

“I’ll take it,” I said, nodding eagerly. “I don’t care.”

He pulled out the last remaining ice cream bar. My eyes opened wide. So did my mouth. The ice cream was wrapped in blue paper. I knew what it was. The one with the chocolate candy in the center. God is good, I thought.

“Well, well, from that look on your face, I guess it’s your lucky day, sonny boy,” he said.

I gave him the fifty cent piece. He slid it into his changer and then clicked out two dimes for me. I waited a moment.

He looked at me and shrugged. “Sorry, sonny, you ever hear of inflation? The cost of ice cream is going up. Get used to it.”

I didn’t know what he was talking about and really didn’t care. I pocketed the twenty cents and moved away from the truck with my ice cream.

He got back in, started the truck up, and as he drove away, pulled the string to the bells a few times.

I returned to the stoop where I had run into Carvel and sat down. I unwrapped the ice cream and slowly, methodically, started to work on the chocolate icing.

A thing of beauty.

The vanilla ice cream was revealed. I wanted to make it last before I got to the candy, but in the heat, I had to work faster than I liked. The tip of chocolate candy emerged. And then more until the chocolate candy center was totally exposed, clinging fragilely to the stick.

Eureka!

I started to lick it. I knew I had to be careful here. That it was delicate. But I was weak. I couldn’t resist. I took a bite, savoring the cold, rich chocolate. I wanted more and took another, bigger bite. Just as I did, the candy crumbled, pulling away from the stick. I frantically tried to catch it with my hand but only was able to rescue a tiny portion. The rest splattered on the dirty pavement.

I looked down at the glob of chocolate. An army of ants were on it immediately. I still held the stick. I licked it, making sure I cleaned whatever chocolate remained. I stood up, tossed the stick into the garbage.

The sun had gone down but my room was still stifling when I returned. I got back into bed. Tomorrow, they said, was going to be even hotter. I closed my eyes.  I didn’t care. As long as I heard the bells.

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The Bizarre Eats of Chow City: Boneless Chicken Wings

6 Jun

In this, the second installment of The Bizarre Eats of Chow City, I seek out and sample the strange phenomena known as the boneless chicken wing.

I had heard about them. I knew that they existed, but never really gave them much thought.  Recently, however, I would pass a placard near my home advertising them.  I could no longer hide behind my prejudices and fears. I needed to walk the walk, before I could attempt to talk the talk. It was time I summoned the courage to actually try the boneless chicken wing.

Years ago,  McDonald’s was pushing a boneless spare rib sandwich they called the “McRib.” I wondered about it just as I wondered about the boneless chicken wing, but never dared try one. The McRib was resurrected briefly a couple of years ago on a limited basis and still, I would not try it. For me, it is hard enough to walk into a McDonald’s much less order something so bizarre, so exotic as a boneless spare rib sandwich.  I just couldn’t do it. I scoffed at the concept; repulsed that the mega corporation would stoop so low as to remove what makes the meat on the spare rib so delectable; the rib itself, just to convenience the already very lazy consumer. I was taking a very hard line and really, intolerant stance.

Bizarre Foods, Mickey D’s style.

I think I have mellowed somewhat over the years. And for the sake of journalistic integrity, I now will take culinary risks to root out the truth. Thus, though the McRib is no longer available, the boneless chicken wing is.

There were plenty of sports’ bars and chicken wing joints I knew of that now offered the “boneless” chicken wing along with the traditional, two or three jointed wing whose tiny bones I had so many times plucked clean; the sauce, be it Buffalo, barbecue, jerk, happily licked and sucked from my greasy fingers. That tactile thrill, I knew would be gone, but that did not deter me. That a nearby Applebee’s advertised them out front made my quest an easy one. And that I would not attempt this folly alone; I had three very willing volunteers who agreed to take a break from their elementary and middle school studies to assist me on this project.

The place where they serve the boneless chicken wing.

I called my local Applebee’s and after being placed on hold for what seemed like a very long time, I was able to put in an order of the boneless chicken wings. I had a choice of  bleu cheese or Ranch dressing to accompany the “wings.” I choose the bleu cheese. Along with my three volunteers,  we entered Applebee’s.  I made sure not to stare at the diners and their  multi-colored drinks, the overflowing baskets of fries, and frisbee-sized burgers.  My order was ready. We paid, and then quickly exited the bustling restaurant.

Once home. I opened up the styrofoam container revealing the reddish-brown, oddly shaped, “wings.”

1310-1490 calories

I gave myself and each of the volunteers including an added volunteer, my wife who showed none of the same fear or repulsion I had to the laboratory altered concoction that came in the styrofoam container, one “wing” each. We all sampled.

The younger of the student volunteers at first complained that they were too spicy. After a few sips of limeade and then another few bites, they no longer minded the spice and wanted another.

“It’s a composite chicken wing,” my wife said, referring to the composite Little League baseball bat we had heard so much about from the oldest of the student volunteers.

Composite baseball bat

And they were a composite. Unlike the traditional chicken wing, these “wings” you could eat with a fork if you wanted. They were chicken “tenders” shaped into something resembling a chicken wing, breaded, and fried in the manner of the Buffalo chicken wing.

Composite chicken “wing”

“Can we have another,” all of the volunteers asked.

They each got another. There were two left. The oldest student volunteer, even though he already ate a big sandwich, eyed them covetously.  The youngest did not want a third. The oldest grabbed it. The “wings” were quickly devoured.

“Let’s get them again,” one of the students said. “They’re really good.”

I didn’t agree. To me, they were dry and had a chemical taste. And the loss of being able to really handle the wing with your fingers, making sure the bones were plucked clean, detracted just too much from the chicken wing experience. But if nothing else, this experiment taught me to once again restrain myself from imposing my personal preferences on others. If  the people want a chicken wing without bones, who am I to deny them that right?

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A Lime Cut Three Ways: The First Cut

1 Jun

The Caipirinha

My first exposure to Brazilian food, if you can call it that, was at a three-level place in the theater district called Cabana Carioca. At lunch on all three levels, there was an “all you can eat” buffet were rice and beans, plantains, potatoes, hearts of palm salad, baby shrimp salad, chorizo, roast chicken and  macaroni were some of the offerings. Depending what level you ate, was what you paid. The higher you climbed, the cheaper the buffet.

On the main level was a flat out, standard restaurant. I don’t think I ever ate there, but maybe I did. I just don’t remember. The second level, where the kitchen was located, was a bit more casual than the main level and the most popular of the three.  It was on the second level where I ate most of my meals. The third level was bare bones; dark and usually empty—used probably only when the other two levels were packed or for private parties, but still serving the restaurants’ enormous portions of steaks, fish, shrimp, and the specialty: feijoada, also known as the “Brazilian National Dish.”

Cabana Carioca’s feijoada came in a cast iron pot stuffed with black beans and a variety of meats; pork shoulder, chorizo, kidney, beef, and other cuts that at the time, I could not identify. They were all coated in the black gravy of the beans and, really, since by then I was probably on my second or third caipirinha, no longer cared what I might be shoveling into my mouth.

The Brazilian National Dish

Along with the alcohol’s numbing effect, the caipirinha, as opposed to beer, helped cut through the density of the feijoada and made it much easier to navigate. The only problem was the next day’s hangover from too much cachaca, the Brazilian spirit made from pressed and then distilled sugar cane juice and used to make the caipirinha.

I think the last time I had a caipirinha at Cabana Carioca was in 1998 watching Brazil lose to France in the World Cup. The restaurant, all three levels, closed soon after and now, both its caipirinha and feijoada are just memories.

I’ve never had the fortitude to try to resurrect the feijoada in my kitchen, but the caipirinha is a frequent guest. The ingredients are simple; cachaca (available at most liquor stores), sugar, ice, and of course limes. Despite the easy ingredients, making a really good caipirinha requires a little sweat, or, as they used to say, “elbow grease.” The result, however, is well worth the effort.
What follows is the first cut of the lime: the caipirinha.

Some of the tools and ingredients in making a caipirinha.

Ingredients:

1 or 2 limes

2 to 3 ounces of cachaca*

2 to 3 teaspoons of sugar syrup **

3-5 ice cubes

*Spirit importers are beginning to market “premium” cachaca, which really just translates into a glitzy bottle design along with an upscale marketing campaign all in the hopes of selling a much higher priced product. I advise you not to go that route when purchasing cachaca for your caipirinhas. In Brazil there are two very popular brands that are used at most restaurants and clubs in making caipirinhas and they can be found here for well under $20 a liter. Seek them out. I guarantee you will not be disappointed.

**Most caipirinha recipes call for granulated sugar. I prefer pre-made sugar syrup thus skipping the “dissolving” process that is necessary in making the drink. To make simple sugar syrup, combine equal amounts of sugar and water, bring to a boil, lower the heat and let cook until the granules have dissolved. The syrup will last for weeks in your refrigerator. I like to use Demerara brown sugar for my syrup, but basic white sugar works just as well.

 

Sugar syrup and cut up limes.

 

To make the caipirinha you will need:

1 lime muddler. I have a parrot lime muddler that was given to me by my brother; a souvenir he picked up on a trip to Brazil.

The parrot

Cocktail shaker and strainer.

Cut the lime into eighths or even tenths.

Toss the lime pieces into the cocktail shaker and using your muddler, it can be a pestle, if you have a mortar and pestle, or anything that can mash and muddle lime pieces, muddle mash the lime, extracting the juice from both the rind and the pulp. Don’t be stingy with that aforementioned elbow grease.

Let the lime muddling begin.

Add the sugar syrup, cachaca and a some ice cubes.

Shake vigorously and then strain into an ice cube filled glass.

Almost cocktail time.

Do not be fooled by the drink’s petite size. It will be tempting to down it in a few gulps, but try to sip slowly.  Drinking the caipirinha too hastily will only mean a quicker return to the kitchen and more work for you to make another.

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The Noodle Cure

30 May

Terakawa Ramen

885 9th Avenue

It was disgustingly hot. The shirt I was wearing was sticking to my grimy, sweaty flesh.  I wanted relief. I could walk into a department store and subject myself to a mixture of refrigerated air and the toxins released from hundreds of sample perfumes, both male and female. A plunge in a pool was a better idea, but where was that going to happen? Maybe I just needed a cold shower, which would mean getting off the hot pavement and down into the sweltering subway station for the ride home. No, I wanted more immediate relief and I knew there were other options. I knew there was the noodle cure.

A wait for ramen noodles.

I walked to my first choice; a much celebrated ramen place that I knew had been awarded many stars from the usual subjects: Yelp, Urbanspoon, New York Magazine, etc. But many stars can often mean long waits and I’ve already deliberated on my feelings about waiting on line for food The Noodles on Prince Street. It was early; there was a chance I could get lucky. As I got closer, I saw the people; sweaty, grimy too—there were obviously others who knew of the noodle cure. Or maybe they just wanted to wait in line to see if all those stars were deserved.

I turned around and headed back uptown. I knew of another noodle place. From a distance, I could see that no one was lingering outside. My pace quickened as I crossed the street. I pushed the door open. The small semi-circular counter was barren; I had the noodle place to myself.

An empty ramen house.

Even before I ordered the “Tan Tan Noodles;” a big bowl of ramen noodles in a spicy sesame sauce with minced pork, bean sprouts and scallion, I could feel my body cool. I was ready for what was to come.

A loop of Michael Jackson hits played as I tore apart the pan fried pork dumplings I ordered as a side dish. Rich with minced pork and buckwheat, the dumplings were just an amusement before the main attraction.

Pork dumplings

And then the tan tan noodles arrived. The steam was rising thickly from the bowl. I let it wash over the pores of my face before stirring the soup. Using my chopsticks, I pulled out some of the noodles. More steam was released. I blew on them just a bit and then slurped them into my mouth.  I was assaulted by heat on two levels; first from the temperature of the broth and next from the spice within it; the combination bringing a quick sheen to my forehead.

I’m about to take the “noodle cure.”

Alternating between chopsticks and spoon, I slurped relentlessly, the sound almost in rhythm with Michael Jackson’s “Man in the Mirror.” My only breaks were to use the much too thin paper napkin to blow my nose and dab at the sweat on my face.

Finally I was done. The bowl empty. I paid, “cash only,” and cleared my nose once more before walking back out to the hot street. My shirt no longer stuck to my not as grimy or sweaty flesh.  The ramen was hot but now I was cool. And that’s the funny thing about the Noodle Cure.

How does one join the “Ramen of the Month” club?

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The Happiest of All Hours: Malachy’s Donegal Inn Edition

24 May

When I first moved to New York back in the good old dirty days, there was a neighborhood bar that became my local hangout called The Donegal. I frequented the place, on the corner of 72nd and Columbus, with my team after softball games on the Great Lawn, when the Great Lawn was a much used dust bowl, not the fenced-in grass museum it is now.

And since it was close to my apartment, I would also spend time by myself there watching numerous sporting events; the Yankees, boxing, and especially the New York football Giants. This was well before satellite television and when all we in New York got to see on Sunday was either the Giants or the Jets no matter how bad both teams were.

There was a white-haired, bespectacled Irish bartender named Timothy who knew me as a regular and treated me well, buying back frequent rounds for myself or whoever I was with.

The place was dark and dingy; the tables and chairs rickety. There were relics on the walls; photos of old baseball players, movie stars, and other dusty mementos. It was a gathering ground for a number of older gentlemen and a few ladies who still lived at the nearby SRO’s that, at the time, were a big part of the neighborhood. There was food; burgers, fries, eggs, chicken wings, and a few sandwiches. It was a dive, which was, of course, an attraction to me.

Malachy’s Donegal’s fine furnishing, just like I remembered it.

The Donegal also had what we used to call a “big screen” television. The picture, projected from the front, was usually blurry and had a bluish tinge to it. But we liked its unique “bigness.”

I remember watching a Monday Night game where the Giants were playing the Dallas Cowboys that resulted in a close loss for the Giants and then a shoving match with a loud Cowboys’ fan. With respect to the Donegal, we took the shoving outside.

I moved away from New York for awhile and when I returned, the Donegal was not quite the same. Timothy had disappeared. The neighborhood was changing. And I found other dives more appealing. After awhile, I noticed that the Donegal was renamed Malachy’s. I never returned to Malachy’s until recently, when I found myself in the neighborhood during the Happiest of Hours. I wondered if there would be anything I would remember about the place.

Though the name was changed to Malachy’s,  when I returned from my happy hour there , I did a search online for the Donegal and discovered that Malachy’s official name was actually Malachy’s Donegal Inn. So the bond had not  been totally severed.

Malachy’s Donegal Inn

103 W. 72nd St

As soon as I entered, I was pleased to notice that, despite the many years I had been away, not much had changed, with the exception, most prominently, of the numerous flat screen television as opposed to the one “big screen” I remembered. But that was to be expected.

The day’s specials.

There were plenty of seats at the bar and the tables were all empty. A few gentlemen were drinking beer from bottles and talking loudly in the otherwise quiet bar. They reminded me of the patrons I used to know at The Donegal and I wondered if any of the same SRO’s still existed around the now very lofty real estate of West 72nd Street.

From where I sat, I could look up and see The Babe.  It was nice to know he hadn’t moved from his spot in over 25 years.

The Babe surrounded by Christmas lights, circa 1983.

Roberto Clemente was in his same place as well, but the wings’ special was a new and welcome addition.

Gary Cooper and the Brooklyn Dodgers had always been part of the Donegal’s scenery.

As had The Duke.

I ordered the only “exotic” beer I remembered from when I used to visit: a Bass.

Getting $15.50 back from a $20 made me “happy.”

While I drank the cold beer, I overheard the gentlemen at the bar discussing old movies. “Wasn’t Cagney in a picture where he was in AA?” one of the gentlemen asked the others.

No one answered him.

He took a sip from his bottle. “Or was it Alan Hale in that picture?”

“Junior or Senior?” someone asked, but that pretty much ended the discussion.

A man with a cellphone to his ear took the seat next to me. The bartender came over.  The man ordered a beer and asked to look at a menu. After giving him a few moments, the bartender returned.

“What’s good?” the man asked.

“The specials, brisket or the pastrami,” the bartender replied.

“What do you suggest?”

“Apples or oranges,” the bartender said, a look of impatience on his face.

“Pastrami,” The man said. The bartender nodded and took the menu back.

Peanuts or pistachios are always a good go to option when hungry.

A few minutes later, the bartender returned with the man’s sandwich. I glanced at it. The pastrami looked lean, juicy; the sandwich surrounded by fries. I had to admit, it looked damn good.

I finished my beer and thanked the bartender. Just because Malachy’s was no longer The Donegal, was that really a good reason to desert what had been a comfortable refuge for me? Had I been a bit too hasty in my split with the place?

The regret I was feeling as I walked out was cut short by the realization that I could always return, preferably on a Sunday, where along with an unlimited dose of NFL action, I could take full advantage of the 20 cent wing special.

“I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.”

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