Nice of them to let us know what once was. Any hints or tips on what they might be serving now?
Archive | humor RSS feed for this section
A Royal Serving of Baba Ghanoush
10 AprQueen Sheeba
317 W. 141st Street.
Zio and I were hungry. The next scheduled meeting with our group of gluttons had been postponed, but we couldn’t wait. We needed our food fix now. I suggested Margie’s Red Rose Diner on 144th Street, but when Zio and I arrived the gate was pulled down and there was a handwritten sign on it saying Margie’s would be closed in January, reopening February 28th. The date was March 8th. The gate was still down.
Plan B was a few blocks away, just down the hill from City College. A place I noticed while looking for parking when bringing my son to piano lessons at the Harlem School of the Arts. Queen Sheeba seemed like an odd choice for the neighborhood, but maybe not. It was advertised as Middle Eastern; halal, of course, and the specific country, Yemen.
There was a Hispanic couple at one of the tables in the ornately decorated restaurant along with a few children running around…obviously related to the owners.
Queen Sheeba’s art
The couple was talking loud, commenting favorably on the food and trying to engage the host/waiter/owner and then us into their conversation.
“Are those your grandkids?” the man at the table, gesturing to the children, asked the owner, who’s English was either truly limited or just pretending that it was so he had an out when it came to talking to his clientele.
He nodded that they were.
“How old are you?” the man at the table asked.
“Fifteen,” he replied with practically a straight face; the curve of a mischievous grin barely apparent.
“Okay, you don’t have to tell me. But you look great,” the man said. “Me, I’m 52.”
I took a closer look at him from our table. He didn’t look so great for 52, but I kept my mouth shut.
The female half of the couple saw me peeking. “Try the rice, it’s really good,” she said to Zio and I.
“Yeah, everything is good here,” her companion said in a booming voice so the owner would hear. “The lamb. The chicken. We’re coming back again. Enjoy your meal.” And then the two of them waddled out.
The Queen’s Baba Ghanoush.
Zio and I started with the restaurant’s baba ghanoush, which, drizzled with olive oil and garnished with pimento-stuffed olives, ranked in the upper echelon in the unofficial baba ganoush ratings. The pita bread it came with was warm and was the perfect texture for scooping baba ganoush.
Spaghetti or stewed fish? Both looked delectable to Zio.
Though Zio was tempted by the picture of the spaghetti displayed on the restaurant’s window; spaghetti—Yemeni-style would be adventurous to say the least, he couldn’t get himself to order it. Zio tends to be a wee bit predictable at times and if there is fish on the menu, that’s where he invariably goes. At Queen Sheeba, he stuck to his pattern and tried the lightly stewed tilapia while I was intrigued by the “Yemen Dish” called Saltah.
A salad came out first. It looked undressed and there was a greenish sauce that came with it. Zio sprinkled it on the salad and so did I. As we took our first bite of the chopped iceberg lettuce, we winced; the sauce was no dressing but a spicy condiment for our meals. Even though it brought tears to our eyes, we were undeterred and ate all of the crispy hot sauce drenched salad.
Next we were brought bowls of muddy brown soup; a beef broth that was rich and thickened somewhat with mashed lentils…I think. I asked our waiter what type of soup it was. The answer was undecipherable. Whatever the soup was called, it was—and I’ll make an exception here and use the word I try to avoid when describing anything I eat—delicious.
Soup with no name.
Our entrees followed; Zio’s fish smothered in a onion, tomato, and pepper sauce accompanied by the highly praised rice.
The satah arrived in a bowl; a comforting stew of vegetables with bits of ground lamb. Though there were a few distinct middle eastern spices in the stew, it reminded me of was a dish my grandmother used to make for me she called “cucuzza longa;” stewed pieces of a long squash that my grandfather grew in his garden, peeled, chopped and served in a tomato-based broth with ground beef. Who knew Yemen had anything in common with Calabria?
Satah: The Yemen dish
Zio was having trouble finishing off his fish, but I made quick work of the satah, catching any remains of the stew with what was left of the pita bread.
The owner/waiter, whose name, we learned was Ali, smiled in pleasure when he saw how well we ate. He brought us Yemen tea, fragrant with cloves as a digestif which I drank along with a fresh, very moist slice of baklava (spelled on Queen Sheeba’s menu as baklawa).
Photos from the friends back home
Since I live in Harlem, though not within walking distance of Queen Sheeba; I asked if they delivered to where I live. I told him my address but he shook his head. “You don’t?” I asked, disappointed.
Ali went to the counter near the restaurant’s entrance, found a pen and business card and returned to us. He had me write my address and phone number on the card.
“We’ll deliver to you,” he said.
I looked at Zio. “See, you’re special,” he said to me.
“Yeah, how about that,” I said, making sure to slip a take out menu into my coat pocket before we both left.
The Happiest of All Hours: Tap A Keg Edition
6 Apr
Tap A Keg: A Hell of a Joint.
2731 Broadway
Like the Subway Inn, the first installment of The Happiest of All Hours Subway Inn, it had been several years since I visited the Tap A Keg. And I remember distinctly why I have stayed away for so long.
I, along with the softball team I played for, used to frequent the place after games uptown in Central Park. Beers were cheap; a prerequisite, the juke box eclectic—they had an impressive selection of blues, and you could bring in pizza or anything else you wanted to eat without complaint by the establishment.
One year, however, we began to notice that in addition to the assortment of scruffy regulars at Tap A Keg, there were now a number of four-legged patrons. The place had become a refuge for dogs and their beer-drinking owners. They walked free throughout the bar, some big, some small, some curiously sniffing around our post-game sweat and scavenging the pizza scraps on the floor.
Time for a cigarette and a squirt..
I had no problem with the dogs; their presence contributed to the dive’s diversity. That is until one day, a not very well trained, four-legged regular could not control its bowels and did it’s “bizness” in the middle of the bar.
There is no escape from the dogs of Tap a Keg…even in the men’s room.
Now I have had dogs. There’s one padding around our apartment as I write this. Sometimes they f**k up; they make mistakes. I can forgive them for that. But what I couldn’t forgive at this hell of a joint, was the negligence of its inebriated owner. The steaming mound sat there as I sipped my beer and munched on the house popcorn. And it sat there while I ordered another bottle. After the second beer, I knew the Tap A Keg romance was over. There were limits on what one could tolerate in a dive.
Tap A Keg’s “no leash” policy.
I returned to the Tap A Keg recently to see if anything had changed. The dogs still roamed free. The regulars were still scruffy. The bar prices had not been affected by inflation. The popcorn was still complimentary. The happy hour extended. The juke box as good as I remembered. And, thankfully, the floor was poop-free.
Tap A Keg’s table art.
After listening to Bobby “Blue” Bland’s “Member’s Only” on the juke box while sipping an ice cold Corona, I decided it was time to let bygones be bygones. I could now accept the concept of “pet friendly” in a dive bar.
Blues for man’s best friend.
After all, there were much worse things than pet friendly. The place could become “kid friendly.” Then it would truly be a hell of a joint.
A Bengali Buffet in the Bronx
3 AprNeerob
2109 Starling Ave
Bronx
Eugene’s already swarthy skin was a shade darker when he walked into Neerob, the Bengali place in the Parkchester section of the Bronx he choose for our group’s tasting prompting Zio to comment that he fit right in with the rest of the restaurant’s clientele. And it was true. Eugene could pass for a Bengali. He could pass for an Arab, Latino, mulatto, Greek, or Sicilian. He had that versatile, dusky look; our own Anthony Quinn.
His skin had darkened from a week in Punta Cana, at a resort where he happily exclaimed that you never had to leave the property. “They had 11 restaurants,” Eugene crowed. “Italian, Asian, Tex-Mex, a Brazilian where they come and slice the meat for you. The place was so big they take you around on mini buses.”
Apparently there was no Bengali food at the Punta Cana resort though and when Eugene looked around the small restaurant he nodded approvingly at his choice. “Now this is the kind of place for us,” he proudly proclaimed.
Eugene the Greek (or Arab, or Latino, or Sicilian, or Quasimodo) at the buffet.
He made no mention of the framed New York Times review on the wall. Or of the Daily News and Time Out New York blurbs that were also displayed. And when we first started convening, now over ten years ago, framed New York Times reviews would have been a problem. If the Times had written it up, the place had officially been “discovered” and we had very loose rules against that. We needed to make the discovery and let the Times unearth it after our experience, and many times that is exactly what happened. Now, however, the restaurant world, even the one we lived in, had changed. Nothing was undiscovered anymore whether by the Times or on the internet
Neerob’s specials of the day.
As it had at Singh’s Roti Shop, (A Double(s) Dose of Roti on Liberty Avenue) where we last met, that I was taking pictures of the restaurant and its food, caught the eye of Neerob’s owner. The camera being a giveaway that this group of non-Bengalis (Eugene aside) and non-Parkchester regulars, were either food critics or food bloggers. He immediately took an interest in our group, arranging tables so our party of six would have enough room and then bringing us a sampling of vegetable pakoras accompanied by squeeze bottles of a hot chili sauce and a cilantro based condiment.
Once everyone found parking, which wasn’t easy, and got to the restaurant, we crammed around the glass enclosed steam table looking at the offerings. Our very friendly host explained what we were gaping at; goat biryani, chicken curry, fried whole tilapia, bright red chicken tikka, saag with chicken, okra, lentils,and a smaller whole fish smothered in a red, tomato-based sauce.
Some of the steam table offerings at Neerob.
“It’s a fish like we have in our country,” our host said when I asked him about the smaller fish. “Like a sardine. One bone. Very good.”
He pointed to something that looked like semi-mashed vegetables and said that these accompany the fish.
I knew I wanted it and the others let him know what they were interested in.
“Leave it to me,” he said.
And we did.
A few moments later, the paper plates and bowls with our favorite utensils; plastic forks and spoons, began to arrive.
The mashed vegetables were placed in front of me. They were powerfully flavored and fiery in spice, obviously an accompaniment to the main dishes. I found out later that they were called “bhartas.”
Roi fish a.k.a. Bengali Sardines
The small fish was delectable, moist with oil, and separated easily from the small bone. We somehow ordered two plates of goat biryani but no one was disappointed; the tiny pieces of goat a gamey match to the bland basmati rice.
Goat biryani
We shared the bowls and plates as they made their way around the table, the fish cheeks of the tilapia, however, were gone before they got to Zio and I; Rick making quick work of them.
Grilled tilapia, cheeks still intact.
Whatever was left was easily finished with the accompanying warm nan bread. And though we ate like the gluttons we are, we wanted more. There were sweets and our host wanted us to sample some. Who were we to refuse?
He brought fried gulab jamun balls in syrup and two, pale sweet balls that had Zio scratching his thinning hair. “It’s a matzoh ball?” he said, staring at it curiously.
But it was more like a sweetened cottage cheese ball. And it and all the sweets helped take the fire out of our mouths.
Matzoh balls the Bengali way.
The almost indecipherable check was brought to us. Eugene squinted but was able to add it up, and when he told us what we owed for the feast we just devoured, I, and everyone else, couldn’t care less that the New York Times, among others, had scooped us. Neerob, in Eugene’s words, was most definitely, “our kind of place.”
Adventures in Chow City: The First Decade
27 MarThis past January, our group celebrated ten years of traveling New York City’s environs searching for mostly unheralded, inexpensive, usually ethnic eating establishments. To honor this very important anniversary, we hoped to gather at a place somewhat representative of the restaurants we had been visiting the past decade. We were looking for something maybe slightly more broadly appealing than a place where cow foot soup and goat belly were the signature dishes. And since this was supposed to be a special occasion, we also decided to invite spouses, partners, significant others; anyone our members wanted to bring along.
Gerry recommended an old time Italian place in Mount Vernon, just over the Bronx border, called the Lincoln Lounge. From his description; “good pizza—old school, family-style Italian in a run down neighborhood with a full bar,” the Lincoln Lounge sounded exactly what we were looking for.
It took numerous group emails to nail down a date when all could attend. And then things happened. A wife dropped out due to family obligations; a girlfriend couldn’t come because of a conflict until we got an email from Rick saying “Sounds like its turning stag. Should we just commit to no wimmin?”
We never did commit to it, but as it turned out, no “wimmin” were in attendance.
And on the appointed day, neither was Rick; a family emergency denying him our celebration.
To make up for the loss of Rick, we were graced with the presence of original member, Charlie, who left us in 2005 for the greener pastures of the Lehigh Valley in Pennsylvania.
It was a Friday night and the Lincoln Lounge was mobbed with large groups; the small bar two deep with “regulars,” including one uniformed policeman who ate at the bar with his bullet-proof vest on and gun holstered around his waist.
No room at the Lincoln Lounge bar.
After we were seated; cramped in a corner, we quickly ordered a sausage pizza and here the Lincoln Lounge did not disappoint. With its thin crust, sauce bursting with flavor, nicely charred crust topped with fresh sausage; the pie, as it turned out was the highlight of the meal.
Lincoln Lounge’s excellent pie.
The antipasto salad, a bowl of greens topped with provolone, sopressata, and olives and doused in a vinegary dressing was passable while the steamed clams in white wine and garlic, standard and more than acceptable.
The calamari pasta, however, along with the shrimp scampi were disappointments. Apparently, when the dishes at the Lincoln Lounge are advertised as family style, they don’t mean our gluttonous family.
The shrimp, of which here they most definitely count, were barely enough for each of us to get a taste. As it turned out, a taste was more than enough.
The modest amount of spaghetti adorned with a light tomato broth and tiny pieces of calamari was devoid of flavor.
Calamari compromised
Zio shook his head as he gazed at the miniature calamari. “I like big fat calamari rings,” he said. “Not these little ones.”
“Was it really worth slaughtering baby squid for this?” I questioned indicating the “family-sized” platter.
“Yeah, it’s inhumane,” Gerry said as he speared one with his fork.
Thankfully, the pork chops with peppers and onions were good enough to almost redeem the travesty that was the squid and shrimp.
Pork chops with vinegar peppers and onions
While we cleaned our plates, Eugene began to, once again, muse on a trip to a Caribbean all-inclusive he was soon to embark on. “You know what I like to do,” he swooned. “Eat a big breakfast, stay at the beach until two, take a nap, and then eat dinner. You never have to leave the hotel.”
Trying desperately to divert the conversation back to why we were at the Lincoln Lounge, I was curious about our group’s memories of the past ten years.
“Remember the bean dessert,” Eugene barked out. “At the Filipino place in Queens. The worst!”
“Yeah and the cheap Polish place in Greenpoint,” Zio added. “I went back once.”
“What about that one in Chinatown. The place with fish stomach and goose feet,” Mike from Yonkers reminisced.
“Sheesh, that was inedible,” Eugene spat. “Even Gerry had a hard time eating it.”
And from there they all came back. The highlights and a few lowlights of our ten years.
Chow City’s Top Ten Moments (Good and Bad)
Presented in chronological order:
- Eugene’s bean drink revulsion The Beans of Halo Halo
- Cherriolies and Kvass Kvass and Vodka
- Pan fried chicken and old school soul Across 125th Street
- Eating ribs in a South Bronx backyard junkyard Southern (Bronx) BBQ
- Traversing mountains of snow to get to the great Tandoori Hut. Dining With Sikhs
Tandoori Hut
- The rending padang at Upi Jaya Spice Tsunami
- An after dinner espresso served on my lap. The Un American African Place
- Broccoli rabe pizza, the choice meal of strippers. Bronx Broccoli Rabe From a Brother From Corona
Bronx broccoli rabe
- Fuzhou fish stomach and goose feet. F(e)asting on Fuzhou Style Fish Stomach
- Zio’s upper body massage apres fufu and four fingers. The Bistro that Serves Fufu and Four Fingers
And let us not forget those who are no longer with us.
R.I.P
La Fonda Boricua
LeWoro Dou Gou
La Pollada de Laura
Southbound Bar-B-Que
M&G Diner
Bay Shish Kebab
Uncle Sal’s Ribs and Brew
Malaysian Rasa Sayang
Zabb Queens
Florence’s Restaurant
Yamakaze
Spicy Mina
World of Taste Seafood and Deli
Treichville
M&G Diner circa 2010
A Double(s) Dose of Roti on Liberty Avenue
20 MarSingh’s Roti Shop
131-18 Liberty Ave
Richmond Hill
“Is it Jamaica, or Richmond Hill,” Zio asked frantically over the phone while cruising up and down Liberty Avenue looking for Gerry’s pick, Singh’s Roti Shop.
“Richmond Hill,” I said.
“Jamaica or Richmond Hill?” Zio asked again, his hearing aid obviously not functioning up to speed.
“Richmond Hill,” I repeated.
“Okay, I’ll be there soon,” he said.
I was in front of Singh’s when Zio called, after haven taken a brief walk around, peering in at the nearby Guyanese and Caribbean restaurants, the Brown Betty,” and Sybil’s Bakery, where there was a line waiting for Sybil’s offerings. Whatever it was they were waiting for smelled delicious.
There are rotis (Guyanese style) to be had at the Brown Betty.
There was a small line at the brightly lit Singh’s as well, and Gerry and Mike from Yonkers were already in the bar area to the left. Gerry with a plastic cup filled with vodka and Mike from Yonkers with a bottle of Carib beer. Eugene was once again a scratch; his expertise as a timekeeper for a high school basketball game the priority on this particular night.
While I sipped my own Carib, I wandered over to the steam table and tried to get a look at the many dishes that were available. I had my camera and began to take a few pictures. This brought the attention of a man behind the counter who seemed to be in charge of Singh’s intricate operations.
“Take a picture of him,” the man said, pointing to an Asian man who was carrying what looked like a stir fry lo mein-like dish. “He’s the chef.”
I obliged and snapped the chef’s picture who posed without affectation.
The “chef.”
Mr. Singh, the man in charge, then asked what we wanted. Despite the long line to order, he had one of the female servers “take care of us.” Maybe it was the camera. Maybe it was because we were obviously not from the neighborhood. Whatever the reason, Mr. Singh was giving us V.I.P treatment including a sampling of some of the offerings.
The sampling included pepper chicken; a fried, breaded chicken reminiscent of sweet and sour chicken, but with a spice kick that took that Chinese/American classic to a higher level. There was also stewed pork with vegetables, and something else, Chinese-like, with green peppers and onions, we could not identify.
Sweet, sour and spicy.
Singh’s served Caribbean Chinese food along with, what I thought was Guyanese, but after being chastised by Singh, told were Trinidadian specialties.
The Roti, an Indian bread stuffed with whatever you wanted; goat, beef, chicken, potato, was, of course, Singh’s specialty as was something called doubles; kind of a roti sandwich, a layer of roti bread lathered with chick peas and various condiments, and then topped with another flat roti, making a “double.”
Singh’s Doubles.
While we were devouring the sample platter, Rick called to say he was at Sandy’s Roti Shop, also on Liberty Avenue, but in South Richmond Hill.
“It’s Singh’s, Roti Shop,” I said to him.
“Not Sandy’s?”
“Not Sandy’s,” I replied.
“I’ll be right there,” he said. And then I realized I heard those same words from Zio quite awhile ago. And he still wasn’t here.
“Where are you?” I asked over the phone.
“I’m embarrassed to say I got lost,” he murmured sheepishly.
I gave him the address again and told him what Singh’s looked like.
“I’ll be right there,” he sighed.
And within minutes both Zio and Rick arrived. The line had grown while we were waiting for them, and Mike from Yonkers was anxious to get going—fearing Singh’s food supply might run out. Though from what I could see, that was a very slight possibility.
My new friend Singh again summoned one of his workers to put together our platters. I had no idea what was in most of the trays and when I asked, the female server impatiently blurted out what they were as if, in the bustle of the place, I could hear and register what she was telling me from the other side of the counter. So I ended up just pointing to things, more of that Chinese pepper chicken, a few orders of “doubles,” some of the mixed fried rice and the rice and peas, a container of dark green mashed callaloo, and stewed pork.
The “Chinese” side of the steam table.
We plowed through the food effortlessly. All of it, despite the cafeteria-style, seemed fresh and flavorful, in particular, the unique “doubles,” which, at $1 each, a hefty bargain and enough to fortify even our gluttonous appetites. This Trinidadian street snack was no light appetizer and one remained on our table throughout the rest of our dinner; untouched and tightly wrapped in wax paper.
Despite the mounds of food, Rick was not quite fully satisfied. “I think we should try a few more things,” he said.
No one disagreed.
I went with him to the West Indian/Indian side of the counter where there were curries displayed along with more exotic dishes like conch (spelled “counch” on the menu) goat, and, something we couldn’t identify our server said was “goat belly.”
If goat belly was anything like pork belly, we had to try it.
The “West Indian” side. Note the doubles being prepared in the background.
Rick brought the second round of platters to the table. The stewed goat curry was tender, the meat easily coming off the bone. The conch could have used a couple more hours boiling, but maybe “al dente” is the preferred Trinidadian way. The goat belly, however, upon closer inspection, was a challenge, even for us.
Zio got close to it and sniffed.
“It’s smells like an old bicycle seat,” he said, and then bravely took a forkful.
“It’s trippa!,” he exclaimed.
The goat belly was indeed, tripe. Gerry sampled some. He shook his head. Mike from Yonkers, tried to chew a piece. “Un uh,” he muttered as he forced it down.
Goat belly and “counch.”
Thankfully, Rick had ordered a few pieces of roti bread to help us quash the foul taste of the goat belly.
We were done…almost.
There were a few brightly-colored sweets I was interested in including one that was purple. “Sugar cake,” was what our server barked out when I asked her what it was.
Singh’s sweets’ sampler.
I brought a small sweets’ sampler back to our table; one of the sugar cakes and a bun. Gerry peered at the bun that was speckled with raisins and other candied fruits. “It looks dry,” he said.
He broke off a piece and chewed. He nodded. “It is dry.”
The desserts pretty much went untouched. We were done. The line at Singh’s was much shorter now. The damage to our wallets was light and our own belly’s full. We couldn’t ask for anything more than that. Except for Zio, who, before we walked out the door, grabbed the one untouched, still wrapped, “double,” and shoved it into his pocket.
I looked at him.
“What?” He said. “It’ll taste even better tomorrow.”
The End
Today’s Special: Corned Beef and College Hoops
16 Mar
The problem with the Blarney Stone is that there are too many specials.
At first glance, a double stack burger is a temptation, but then I go inside and I find myself staring wide-eyed at the treasures of the sacred steam table.
These days, the Blarney Stone has incorporated an international flair.
Jerk chicken at the Blarney Stone? Who knew?
The choices are dizzying, yet I always return to what I know is reliable.
Corned beef on rye.
And I have no regrets.
Let the madness begin.
The Cannoli Dream
13 Mar
I had that dream again. The one where I’m on a lumpy mattress and I smell tomato sauce cooking. It’s almost always the same. There’s this fat guy making the sauce and laughing; singing really, to who, I don’t know. “Why don’t you tell that nice girl you love her? I love you with all a my heart, if I don’t see a you again soon, I’m a gonna die.”
It’s murky, like dreams usually are, but the smell of the sauce is distinctive. There are men in the room with me. I’m young, though; a teenager and these men are serious.
“Come over here, kid. Learn something,” The fat man says, I think to me. “You never know, you might have to cook for 20 guys someday.”
And then he gives out the recipe. “You start out with a little oil. Then you fry some garlic. Then you throw in some tomatoes. Then some tomato paste. You fry it, make sure it doesn’t stick. You bring it to a boil and then you shove in your sausage and your meatballs. Add a little bit of wine. A little bit of sugar. And that’s my trick…”
Then one of the serious guys comes over and tells the fat guy to cut the crap; that he has more important things for him to do, which I can’t understand. What could be more important than cooking sauce for 20 guys?
In my dream I am now in different place. It’s quiet, dark, and seems deserted. A man is with me. He carries flowers and smiles nervously. I ask who he is. He says he is a baker and that his bread is the best on Pleasant Avenue. I see that his hands are shaking.
A baker bearing flowers.
The next thing I remember from the dream is that I’m driving around with another group of serious men. We end up in front of some Italian restaurant in the Bronx. I’ve been told it’s supposed to be a “family” place with good food and, for some reason, I should check out the bathroom. I’m eating with strangers and someone asks how the veal is? “It’s the best in the city,” is the muffled response I can barely hear because of the rumbling of the nearby elevated train.
A family place.
Finally, I’m in a sunny garden, but I’m now a little boy. There’s an old man with me. He’s got beautiful tomato plants but he’s spraying them with pesticide. He obviously isn’t organically informed. The old man likes oranges; there are always oranges around him. But he scares me when he puts the peel in his mouth and makes a face like a monster.
I run away and the fat guy who was teaching me how to make tomato sauce is telling me something. I hear him, but I’m not sure I understand.
And then I wake up sweaty and confused. Was I supposed to leave the cannolis and take the gun? Or was I supposed to take the cannolis and leave the gun? I can never get it straight.
March 15, 1972: Happy 40th Godfather.
A C for a Chili Place in Chinatown
6 MarOld Sichuan
65 Bayard St
Chinatown
The C grade was prominently displayed on Old Sichuan’s window. There were no apologies and no disclaimers that the C was only “temporary.” When Zio, who chose the restaurant for our group, noticed the grade, he shook his head. “Uh oh, they’re gonna have roaches,” he said with a resigned shrug.
But he really knew better. The C was, for our group, in some ways a badge of honor, rather than a scarlet letter. And the hostess, a very pleasant woman who’s gap-toothed smiled never wavered, showed no remorse, urging Zio and I inside despite our telling her we would wait a few moments for the others to arrive. She stuck with us—proudly pointing out the pictures of some of the dishes on the side of the window, totally oblivious that there was C grade next to them.
Some of Old Sichuan’s choices in pictures…and a C grade.
Zio’s eyes went directly to the picture of the ox tongue and tripe.
“You like spicy?” Our hostess inquired.
“That’s why we are here,” I replied.
“That a cold dish,” she said, referring to the ox tongue and tripe Zio was salivating over. “But spicy. Come in. We have table.”
There was no point in hanging around outside especially since the bags of garbage on the sidewalks of Bayard Street were piled high and more than a little ripe. We went in and were given a round table in the back room.
Before Zio could order his obligatory diet Coke (with lemon), the waiter brought us a plate of seaweed along with tea and ice water. Gerry and Rick arrived soon after. Gerry announced that Eugene would be a no-show due to a rare work commitment and that he just got a text from Mike from Yonkers that he would be a half hour late.
Seaweed, compliments of the chef.
While we waited, we put in two orders of Dan Dan Noodles and one of the picturesque, ox tongue and tripe.
The noodles came out first and if Dan Dan Noodles were a barometer for the quality of the food at a Szechuan restaurant, Old Sichuan was clearly a serious contender for top honors. The noodles were fresh; the chili and minced pork perfectly balanced along with the addition of sautéed greens. The dish was sublime.
Dan Dan noodles
We approached the ox tongue and tripe hesitatingly. Rick was even more apprehensive thinking there might be chopped nuts; cashews, almonds, or walnuts, in the dish. We didn’t want to have to insert Zio’s soda straw as a breathing tube if Rick’s throat constricted due to an allergic reaction to the nuts. Peanuts were apparently okay, and that’s what we believed was in the dish along with chilies and tender slices of ox tongue and tripe. So Rick threw caution to the wind and speared a few slices with his chopstick.
Ox tongue and tripe
Needless to say, he survived which was a good and bad thing. We were happy we didn’t have to resort to a tableside tracheotomy, but that also meant there would be less of the delicious ox tongue and tripe for the rest of us, especially since we thought it would be the right thing to save some for Mike from Yonkers if and when he ever showed up.
Some of Old Sichuan’s specials that day.
And he did, just as we were about to order double cooked pork for him. He had no issue with our choice for him, but I was a little concerned about the baby lamb with green pepper I was considering.
“Is it cruel to eat baby lamb?” I asked our table of self proclaimed food geniuses. No one had an answer either way, so I went ahead and ordered it.
Fish in a little “hot pot.”
Zio wanted fish; he just wasn’t sure which one; the options were plentiful. He finally decided on fish and sour cabbage in a “little hot pot.” Rick splurged and ordered the tea smoked duck, while Gerry deliberated between mushroom with “grandma’s” sauce which would have been worth it for the name alone and our waiter’s recommendation; something called “sautéed sponge gourd.”
“What is that?” Rick asked when the platter of pale green vegetables arrived.
“Sponge Gourd, Square Pants,” Gerry replied, straight faced.
And, I must confess, they were the best sponge gourd square pants I’ve ever had….and I’ve had them all over town.
Sponge gourd, square pants.
We made quick work of our food; there were no losers among any of our entrees proving that Old Sichuan might be an oldie, but it was certainly a goodie. The only misstep was when we asked for our check.
The final tally was not unexpectedly, considered we all had two beers and that tea smoked duck and Zio’s little hot pot were extravagances for our group, over budget. But what was more disconcerting was when our gap-toothed hostess took our bill before Gerry had contributed his share. He had to make a run to an ATM: cash only at Old Sichuan.
I wondered where she was taking our money and followed her to a table up front where she gave it to a man who had been eating at a table near us. “He pay for you,” she said.
I watched as she gave him our money.
Bewildered now, I stared at the stranger. “You’re paying for us?”
“No,” he said. “Not for you.”
Apparently he wanted to pay for one of his companions before said companion was given the check and insisted on paying. The hostess realized her mistake and laughed.
“But we haven’t got all the money there yet,” I tried to tell her. She just continued to laugh and smile and took our money into the kitchen.
I peered into the kitchen and saw that she, along with our waiter, were counting our money.
I shrugged and went back to our table.
A few moments later, she returned and began counting out our money for us, indicating that there was not enough there.
“Yes, we know,” we said.
Still not sure if she understood, she left the unfulfilled check on the table, smiled, laughed a little, and walked away.
Gerry returned and we finally totaled out the check. We were about to leave when our waiter said not to go just yet. He had something for us. A pancake filled with melted chocolate. They were tiny squares with toothpicks speared in them. I picked one up. The hot chocolate oozed out and blistered my finger. I put it back on its tray. I didn’t really want it. I was saving what room for dessert next door at the Chinatown Ice Cream Factory.
Black sesame ice cream for dessert next door.
Old Sichuan was very good, but its location right next to the Chinatown Ice Cream Factory made it a standout and Gerry, Mike from Yonkers and I took our cones and happily ate them on the sidewalk amongst the piles of garbage bags and the putrid stench wafting from them.
Neckbones’ Fried Chicken Diary: Charles’ Country Pan Fried Chicken edition
27 Feb
February 14, 2012, approximately 5:30pm. 2841 Frederick Douglass Boulevard, near 151st St.
Seven-year old son and I enter the cozy confines of Charles’ Country Pan Fried Chicken. A woman is eating said chicken at one of the few tables in the otherwise deserted restaurant.
“Be right with you, baby,”she says to me.
“Take your time,” I say, as my eyes gaze glassily over the pieces of fried chicken in the warming tray behind the counter. And then I wander to other visible offerings; the short ribs, baked barbecue chicken, oxtails, collard greens, macaroni and cheese, baked beans, corn bread, turkey wings, pork chops, and pig feet.
While I tell myself to control the watering that is beginning in my mouth, my son has his eyes riveted on the television that is playing a 1990’s “Law & Order” rerun.
The woman is now behind the counter. “Buffet or dinner?” she asks.
“Um dinner,” I respond and then immediately realize my mistake.
“To go or to stay?” She quickly inquires as she holds a styrofoam take out container ready.
“No, I just need 12 pieces of chicken to go.”
“You need 12 pieces?” Her expression suddenly changes; the stress on it evident. “Did you call?”
“No…” I stammer, realizing now that there might be a problem. “I…is Charles here?”
“Charles? No, Charles went to the bank,” she replies brusquely.
“You need to call in advance if you want 12 pieces,” she says, now glaring at me.
“I’ve never called before. Charles has always had the chicken for me,” I respond lamely.
I don’t see any rule there about having to order 12 pieces of chicken in advance.
I hear her huff. “Hey, Joe Buck,*” she calls to someone behind her. “Joe Buck!” she calls again when she doesn’t get a response.
“Can’t expect to get 12 pieces unless you call,” she scoffs and then calls the man’s name once more.
“I’m in the bathroom,” comes the muffled reply.
“Get on out here,” she hollers. “We need chicken.”
Finally a tall man in a white apron appears from the back. “Man wants 12 pieces,” she says to him. “I tell him he got to call in advance.”
Joe Buck looks at me disinterestedly. “Okay, I guess I’m about to make some chicken,” he says calmly.
I look at the pieces that are in the warming tray. Clearly, there are more than 12. Will she not sell them to me because they have been sitting for a long time and the quality is below their standards? Or is there another reason? I keep silent, not wanting to risk a permanent ban from Charles very fine establishment.
“It’s gonna take 25 minutes,” the woman barks to me.
Again I look at the pieces of cooked chicken. And then turn to my son.
“You want to wait?” I ask him.
His face darkens. I know the look. Tears will come next.
“Let me see what I can do,” I hear her say. I turn to the counter. She is playing with the cooked chicken with a pair of tongs. “What pieces you like?” She asks.
“Doesn’t matter. But an assortment would be nice,” I add, hoping I haven’t pushed it.
She then begins to take pieces out and assemble them in separate Styrofoam containers. When she has put together four sets of three pieces there are just a couple of pieces left in the tray, but Joe Buck has more cooking in the big pan.
Recognize this?
“I hope nobody comes in wanting fried chicken,” she says to herself.
I order sides of collard greens, macaroni and cheese, and corn bread.
She totals up what I owe, piece by piece. From what I can tell as she rapidly adds up the pieces on the old fashioned cash register, a breast cost more than a leg, and a thigh is cheaper than a wing, but she worked too fast for me to figure any of it out.
I pay her and thank her for her help. She takes my money. “Thank you, baby,” she says with the same smile she had when I walked in.
And then my son and I leave with our family’s Valentine Day’s dinner.
*I did not want to use the cook’s real name in fear of impinging on his privacy, thus here I called him Joe Buck.
Fried Neck Bones...and some home fries 