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The Bistro That Serves Fufu and Four Fingers

22 Feb

Maima’s Liberian Bistro & Bar
106-47 Guy R. Brewer Blvd,
Jamaica, Queens

After learning that we would be traveling to Jamaica, Queens for our next eating adventure, Zio commented that it was our group’s first outing to that section of Queens. He was excited about it, but he had no idea at the time that before our dinner was over, he would, quite literally, be smothered in affection by the ample and genial, to the extreme, hostess/waitress of Maima’s Liberian Bistro & Bar.

I’m not sure why Zio was looking forward so much to visiting Jamaica. From my initial perspective cruising down Liberty Avenue, there wasn’t much more to it than countless auto glass repair service centers.

And then after passing the York College campus and turning onto Guy R. Brewer Blvd, things got even dicier. The streets had a dangerous aura to them. It wasn’t dark yet, but the area reminded me somewhat of the burnt out street of Baltimore depicted in the television series “The Wire.” The only bright spot on the street was my destination: Maima’s.

Omar coming…for some fufu.

Later, Zio confessed to “late night drives” through the neighborhood; his artistic eye appreciative of the dank, post-apocalyptic look of the place. Of course Zio, observed the neighborhood from the safe confines of his used BMW and, wisely, never got out of the car during those nocturnal excursions.

I was the first to arrive and the first to meet, Janis, the aforementioned hostess. Stevie Wonder was playing on the stereo. There was a small wood paneled bar and African-themed paintings on the wall. We’ve been to many other African restaurants over the years, but this was our first taste of Liberian food. And compared to the other African restaurants, (the late Treichville, Salimata, B&B’s African American Restaurant, and African American Maraway) Maima’s was by far the most “elegant,” thus the inclusion of the word “bistro” in its official name.

The Bistro menu of the day

With the help of one of the few African patrons in the small restaurant, Janis put together three of the tables to make room for our group of six. As soon as I sat down at the extended table, a cold Corona in front of me, Eugene, Mike from Yonkers, and Zio arrived.

After Eugene and Mike from Yonkers also ordered Corona’s, Zio  in as deep and manly a voice as he could muster, said to Janis, “And I’ll take a man-sized Coke.”

His deviation from what the rest of us were ordering and the authoritative way he said it must have stirred something deep inside Janis’s generous soul. Almost instantly there was “chemistry” between the two.

After maneuvering through traffic on the Belt Parkway, Gerry entered followed soon after by Rick. The menus were of the take out variety, but as take out menus go, Maima’s was colorful and printed on thick, glossy paper. Each day there were daily dishes offered. We were there on a Tuesday and had the option of either Spinach or Palm Butter, but by the time we were ready to order, Palm Butter had been erased from the chalkboard.

Besides the daily offerings, fufu & soup was available along with fresh fish, “fried, toasted, or steamed.” In fact, fufu, the ball of doughy, beaten (literally) down version of cassava, was available with everything, as we soon found out. The soup was pepper soup, that, according to Janis, was a mélange of meats; chicken and beef, and seafood along with a big pale ball of fufu.

We started with appetizers of roast meat and chicken on skewers, and pepper shrimp. The shrimp was smothered in a thick, burnt red paste. “Be careful,“ Janis warned, “the shrimp is spicy.”

Pepper shrimp

Gluttons for heat, we scoffed at her warnings and dug in. I tried peeling the shrimp but gave up, eating the thing whole. Before I got more than two bites in, however, I was overcome by an uncontrollable attack of the hiccups; a sign that I’ve surpassed my body’s spice index. Sucking down ice water, the hiccups subsided and maybe that I’d already numbed my lips and the lining of my throat; I was able to continue to eat the fiery shrimp.

Janis brought Gerry and Rick their “spinach” entrees. The spinach was served chopped in a bowl with bits of meats and seafood throughout. From what I sampled, those bits were more tiny pieces of meat attached to small bones. The spinach also came, of course, with a ball of fufu as did the pepper soup that Eugene and I were having.

Maima’s spinach

I was about to try the fufu when Janis rushed to my side and added a dollop of the same peppery paste that was on the shrimp to the otherwise bland fufu. I used my hand to break apart the dense ball of fufu and added a small amount of the pepper sauce for flavor.

Fufu with a dollop of pepper sauce.

And then I turned my attention to the soup where a four-fingered hand or foot, I couldn’t tell, was jutting from. So life-like was this appendage that if I dared look closer I might have spotted fingernails or maybe knuckle hair. But for that reason, I kept my distance from it.

The broth was indeed peppery, but mild compared to the hiccup-inducing shrimp. Inside the broth, along with the appendage, were pieces of tripe, gelatinous beef tendon, small pieces of chicken on the bone and even smaller blue crab bits.

Waiter, there’s a hand in my soup.

With fork and knife, Mike from Yonkers delicately began the dissection of his “toasted” fish which, translated, meant that it was grilled while Zio’s approach to his fried fish was more primitive; pulling apart flesh from bone with his palm oil stained fingers. “What kind of fish is it?” I asked him.

“The fresh kind,” he muttered without looking up, his mouth partially stuffed with food.

Fish and fufu

It was about then when Zio noticed Janis bringing a bagged order to a customer waiting outside. Along with presenting him with his order, she gave the customer an overly friendly hug. When she returned, Zio, wiped the grease from his lips.  “I’m a little jealous now,” he said to her.

With that, she grinned, went behind him, wrapped her defensive lineman-like arms around him and began to smother him with affection. Thankfully, Zio had completely drunk the man-sized Coke to keep his now overworked heart stimulated otherwise we might have had to rush him to nearby Jamaica Hospital.

Rick was moaning as well, but not because of an outpouring of affection. The fufu had done him in. “I think it might be expanding in my stomach,” he said of the half ball of fufu he had already ingested.

Still we had to try the rice bread; a sweetened piece of cake that tasted like banana bread and was made, I presume from rice flour and bananas.

Rice bread

Our experience at Maima’s was certainly memorable even if the food did not quite make it to the top of our self-monitored charts. My only regret was that we never got to try the palm butter special.

“Next time you come, you can call ahead and they’ll hold it for you,” Janis said.

“Who do I call?”

“Just call Mama,” was her glowing response.

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The Happiest of all Hours: Subway Inn Edition

17 Feb

Now, interspersed within the Adventures of Chow City chronicles and other nonsensical restaurant paeans and food-related ravings that make up Fried Neck Bones…and Some Home Fries, comes the debut of a new semi-regular installment called The Happiest of all Hours.   Focusing on the saloon equivalent of Neckbones-like eating establisments, The Happiest of all Hours will attempt to capture what it is that makes that hour (or hours) so very happy.

To lead off the series comes the Subway Inn Edition.

No stranger to the Subway Inn, it seems whenever I go, it’s the happiest of all hours. But it had been a long time between visits. Upon entering, however, not much had changed with the exception of an abundance of flat panel, high definition televisions scattered throughout. And the presence of Modelo Especial in bottles.

“Bartender, a delicious Modelo Especial, por favor.”

Averting my eyes from one of the many aforementioned high definition television screens, I glanced upon the mantle above the bar.

Ah, yes, Godzilla wearing a tie. But I just can’t find the right words to describe the mate next to him. Could it be a signal that the happiest of all hours should come to a close?

Before leaving the Subway Inn to travel on the subway home, a visit to the facilities is almost always necessary.

I have a very painful memory about a happy hour past at Subway Inn when nature urgently called and the facilities were off limits;  blocked by a posse of plain-clothes detectives as they used said facilities to conduct a drug shakedown of some of the bar’s more devoted patrons.

I swear, the seat was already up.

On this happiest of hours, I am happy to report, there was no such dilemma.

I don’t get around as much as I used to, so if any of you have suggestions or recommendations of establishments that might make good additions to The Happiest of all Hours, please don’t hesitate to contact me at friedneckbones_andsomehomefries@yahoo.com.

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Freudian Burgers

27 Jan

Sometimes it’s hard to control our base urges. The craving for something wicked can be a powerful temptation.

How can I resist?

But before I plunge into deviance and depravity,  my ” super ego”  won’t let me. And then another alternative presents itself.

There is way out.

But I’m conflicted. The bad just seems so much more exciting than the good. I need guidance.  I need help to put my mind at ease. To settle this conflict. I need…

Tell me wise guru burger; will I still be a good person if I have the bad burger?

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Eating Like an Afghan Family in an Afghani Restaurant in Astoria

10 Jan

Just about one year ago, our “gang” met in Astoria on a cold January night. I was laid up with a post-holiday stomach thing and had to bow out. Instead,  Zio was assigned to report on the meal. What follows is his interpretation of the dining experience that night.

Balkh Shish Kebab House
2310 31st St
Astoria

There were still some leftover glaciers under the el on Thirty First Street, remnants of the holiday blizzard. For a very short time the snow was pristine and white . Now as it melted and refroze it resembled an ugly kind of frozen gravy, riddled with dog piss holes and fossilized cigarette butts. Above me, the N Train crashed by and I thought of young Michael waiting for the same noise before shooting the veal parmesan out of Sterling Hayden’s throat.

“How’s the Afghani food in this restaurant?”  “Try the ‘manto’ it’s the best in the city.”

I guess I felt a little nervous. my thoughts were on the grim side, after all, Balkh Shish Kabob House was my first restaurant selection without Neckbones’ help and to boot he was AWOL. How friendly could the Afghani staff be when our military was sniffing around their country? I began to pace up and down the street checking the time every thirty seconds. I was sure nobody was coming at 6:59.

One minute later, they all showed up,  snapping me out of my anxiety spiral. The waiter seated us in a comfortable, secluded corner at a big round table near a huge hand painted map of Afghanistan, outlining all the regions. Eugene was quick to comment on the pleasing temperature of the room, maybe sensing my hopefulness.

We decided to pick four appetizers. , all of them were served with minted yogurt sauce. We knew to skip the samosas and ordered two kinds of dumplings. One was “manto,”  beef meat dumplings with curry sauce and yogurt, the other was “aushack,”  this was boiled and filled with scallions and herbs. Mike from Yonkers made it clear he would steer clear of the “bandanjan borani,”  fried eggplant, and the “borani kadu,” fried pumpkin with homemade sauce. We ordered them anyway. These were fresh tasting and personally I would almost eat anything in dumpling form.

While we were deciding what to order from the Balkh Special entrees list, we got help from the cook (I think), who said he would feed us like “An Afghan Family”. This took the pressure off and also gave us hope that we would have an authentic eating experience.

While we waited for the slaughter of the lamb, we heard the praying begin with earnest devotion. We countered the discordant chants with ramblings of our own which ranged from our favorite “Honeymooners” episodes to the fact that Ann Coulter is dating Jimmy Walker, the mystery of Alfalfa’s cowlick, Lee Meriwether, Spanky’s amazing performances as an infant, and of course the incredibly nubile “Darla”. ..This is why the rest of the world hates us.

Our “gang” at dinner.

Finally our entrée arrived, As I remember, it was a combo of a combo, kabli palow, and the fish combo. What we didn’t expect was that it came in a wheelbarrow. A mountain of tender lamb shanks and fish buried in basmati rice, raisins ,and carrots was placed before us.

A “mountain” of kabli palow

Our “family” did what it could so as not to offend our hosts. The large portion did cost us $75, one entrée multiplied by five plus the appetizers. We went over budget by five dollars each. Not too bad, but no way to treat a family.

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Pig Prejudice Revisited

6 Jan

A couple of months ago I documented some of the abuse of “the other white meat” that I discovered around New York in a post titled A Little Love For the Pig (please).

Sadly, since that post, the hate has only increased. Recently, I found another hater.

Yeah, yeah, “no ham on my pan” sound cute, but it’s hurtful, Makkah brother.

If we didn’t get the anti-pork policy the first time, it’s repeated two more times in living color.

Would a few thin slices of prosciutto really be so bad?

And when I noticed that Mookie’s, a leader of the “No Pork on My Fork” crusade closed, I had hopes that a new establishment at the same location would display a more open mind on matters swine related.

Mookie’s before.

I was wrong.

The new “Mookie’s” but with the same negative message.

Once again, all I can ask,  is to give the pig a little love…please.

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The Noise of Noodles in the Night

4 Jan

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.

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Seven Fishes for Seven Dishes

22 Dec

The day before Christmas, it’s no meat for me,

Even though I’m a non-believer,

on Christmas Eve,

I only eat from the sea.

The feast should have seven dishes

of fishes that day.

No one really knows why,

it’s just what they say.

Here then are the fishes,

in no particular order.

For the feast,

I present to you.

On my own fingers I counted,

To make sure it’s true.

They call it squid, but it’s calamari we know.

Cook it fast or cook it slow.

Any other way,

and it’s a no go.

Stuff  with breadcrumbs, parsley and nuts.

Enjoy the stuffed squid,

but don’t eat too much.

There’s six more dishes to go,

before you bust.

scungilli

It comes from a snail, is what I’ve heard,

this thing called scungilli;

I know, it’s a funny word.

Italian Escargot?

The French shake their heads

and say, ‘oh no!”

Boil until it’s tender, and then chop it

real fine.

Add to a salad,

and maybe drizzle with lime.

Long and slithery,

it looks like a snake.

With dark beady eyes,

this fish is not for everyone’s taste.

We call it eel.

In Italian it’s  capitone.

Its flesh is oily,

its look surreal.

Be careful there are bones.

You don’t want to choke,

especially while giving the

Christmas Eve toast.

Chop into pieces,

then fry or grill.

With garlic and vinegar,

this eel will thrill.

When the faint of heart see it coming,

they shriek and wail,

‘cause it’s got a slimy body and a prickly tail.

It’s a small fish, the little anchovy,

but the flavor it packs,

makes up for any good looks it lacks.

Dissolve in hot olive oil with garlic, of course.

Add some peperoncini,

and a little broth.

Pour over spaghettini

and you’ll be one of the first,

to line up at the trough.

Four dishes done, three more to go.

The feast of seven fishes,

can become quite a show.

Along the way,

things could get bumpy,

causing anxiety and stress;

a chef could get jumpy.

Time to bring out the fish,

the one that no one complains.

The reliable flounder,

it causes no pain.

Bake it with butter or oil, some

lemon and herbs.

Its mild mellow flavor,

will take the edge off,

will ease the nerves.

It comes in all sizes, this mollusk of grey.

But I like the small ones;

what they call vongole.

Clean them and make sure the sand is all gone.

Add to a pot with oil, garlic and white wine.

When they open just a bit,

they will release their magical brine.

Eat them from the shell or over

linguini.

Either way, you can’t go wrong,

with a clam this teeny.

Oh it smells something fierce,

this fish called baccala,

Just wait till you see it;

it looks even worse.

In a pot or bathtub,

soak it for days.

Change the water

a few times or more.

Yes it’s hard work;

it can be a chore.

Do it until that fish;

the one that smells,

grows larger,

until it swells.

Steam or bake,

soon the tender flesh will flake.

With onions and garlic,

what a delicious dish

this hideous monster makes.

Its appeal is so huge,

There’s even a poem called,

baccala-blues.

The feast over;

all seven fishes you’ve tried.

But now your mercury level is high.

No fear, everything will be okay,

because Christmas comes the very next day.

There will be more food.

Another big feast.

And this one, I’m sure,

will include juicy red meat.

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The Jamaican Beef Patty Gospels

9 Dec

As seen in the People’s Choice Kitchen.

And the beef patties were good too.

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Biryani Joy

6 Dec

Rawal Ravail
641 Lydig Avenue
Bronx

A little bit of Pakistan in the Bronx

The din from the uptown/downtown 2 and 5 trains on the elevated tracks above White Plains Road was really nothing more than background noise to the constant cacophony that resonated in the frantic Morris Park section of the Bronx where Gerry had summoned us. It was our third straight session in that borough proving that the Bronx could hold its own with Queens and Brooklyn in ethnic food diversity. This time we were to sample Pakistani food; strictly Halal; meaning no pork and no alcohol.

Located next to the Islamabad Deli, an uplifting message on the Rawal’s window read: “Everyone brings joy to this restaurant. Some when they enter and others when they leave. Thank you. Management.”

Forced joy is not one of my strong points, but I told myself to at least make the effort. The lone person inside the restaurant—a young man wiping down a table—didn’t even notice me or my joy as I entered. Compared to the frenzy outside, even with the babble in Urdu coming from the gigantic flat screen television tuned to a Pakistani television station, inside it was calm.

The news from Pakistan was from what I could translate, not good.

No one else had yet arrived and due to a last minute work engagement where pork might be served and alcohol most definitely would be, Rick had already bowed out. Soon the others arrived including Eugene, who was daringly dressed in short pants.

Rawal’s only menus were of the take-out variety and we quickly discovered, pretty much useless. The dour owner begrudgingly had our group come with him to the steam table where he could explain what was available that day. There he pointed to each tray where there were various curries; chicken, goat, and kidney/liver, two vegetable dishes, three solitary small grilled fish, a tray of bright red chicken tikka, and another of chopped grilled chicken. He lifted up the rice containers; two biryanis and one with plain white basmati rice.

The process was more complicated than it should have been. To make things easier, we had him fix each of us a platter with a sampling of some of the dishes. And this he did with not a trace of joy.

Rawal Ravail’s steam blurred steam table.

Within a few minutes, a female server in traditional Pakistani dress, brought us a plate of lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, chilies, and a raita dressing. Soon, the man in charge returned, accompanied by his female helper with our individual plates and five, Frisbee-sized loaves of nan bread. Each curry, goat, chicken, and liver and kidney, were fiery. Even the channa (chick pea) and cabbage curry was hot. The only respite from the spice was the rice and bread. All the curries were delicious, but, with the exception of the unique texture of the kidney and liver, very much alike and, crowded on our platters, they bled together making them somewhat indistinguishable.

Channa and cabbage and…biryani

Despite the heat, we quickly devoured our plates with the exception of Mike from Yonkers who was deliberately picking at his liver and kidney, dabbing each forkful into the cooling raita. We tried to be patient and display some level of dining etiquette, but Eugene and I could wait no longer.

While Mike from Yonkers continued to maddeningly play with his liver, we headed toward the entrance of the restaurant where there was a display of sweets including a few that were alarmingly colorful. Among them was a tray of milk where blobs of dough bobbled, a pink rice pudding, an orange coconut pudding, and a carrot orange sweet along with a white, nut-filled sweet. Eugene took a bite of the latter and proclaimed it second only to the “lima bean dessert” we had years ago at a Filipino restaurant in Queens, as the worst dessert he ever tasted.

Dessert offerings.

Zio added that the carroty orange thing had a distinct cardboard taste. Everyone agreed that the orange coconut pudding was the best of the bunch, though Gerry had no complaints about any of them and what no one else would touch further, he piled in front of him to quickly finish off.

The tab; well below our group’s $20 per person allotment left plenty of leeway for a generous tip despite the lackadaisical service. And after handing over our cash to the owner, for the first time that evening a smile was apparent on his face. The message on the window, prophetic, for we indeed, upon our exit, brought joy to the restaurant.

Our tip left the staff of Rawal Ravail extremely joyous.

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The Place Where They Don’t Count the Shrimp

22 Nov

Sabrosura
1200 Castle Hill Ave
Bronx

Zio and I were waiting in front of Sabrosura for Gerry, Mike from Yonkers, and Eugene to arrive. The corner restaurant had a no reservations policy and also one where the full party had to arrive before being seated. The latter policy usually reeks of arrogance and over confidence; the restaurant thinking that holding tables with one or two people of a larger party will slow down the turnover.  But despite the policy, Sabrosura showed no signs of pretension or arrogance and when I first entered, the owner, a pleasant man of Chinese heritage, who, I later learned was born and raised in Santo Domingo, took my name and offered me a very small seat near the busy take-out section of the restaurant where I could wait for the others. The night was mild, however, so Zio and I chose to wait outside.

“The food’s the best around here,” said a man who had exited the restaurant behind me and observed my situation. “It’s worth the wait.”

After our last couple of outings; mediocre African in Harlem and tasteless Fujinese in Chinatown where we struggled through webbed duck feet, fish stomach, and a very spiny eel, I thought we needed to get back to basics. And Chino-Latino, the food offered by Sabrosura, was as basic as it got for me.

One of the first restaurants I dined in after moving into the city was a dingy place on West 72nd Street called La Dinastia. It served Latino specialties like rice and beans, huge plates of roast chicken with platanos or maduras (green or ripe plantains) ropa vieja (shredded beef), picadillo (spiced ground beef) and fried king fish along with Chinese-American staples; wonton soup, barbecued ribs, lo mein, fried rice, and sweet and sour pork. To me, at the time, it was a revelation. It was cheap. It was hearty. And the restaurant’s total lack of atmosphere perfect fodder to my then creatively downscale brain. Friends I brought to La Dinastia didn’t always agree and it was nicknamed by one as “Dinasty”. But that just spurred my loyalty to the place. Even the presence of a dead cockroach floating in the duck sauce one time I dined there did not sour me on the restaurant. That, in a way, was part of its appeal.

La Dinastia, now known as DInastia China

“They don’t count the shrimp or anything,” the man, who was in his early thirties, burly, wearing a tight sport jacket, neck tie loose and collar half turned up, who told us he was Dominican, added. “The other places around here…they only give you a few shrimps in your asopao. This is the place to come in Castle Hill.”

We didn’t have to prod him for information about Sabrosura or the state of dining on Castle Hill Avenue where Sabrosura was located; it flowed from him…until he got the signal that his take-out order was ready.

We spotted Eugene and Gerry in Eugene’s car looking for a parking spot. Zio and I went in the restaurant, but still they were hesitant to seat us. “Looking for a parking spot? Ha, that’s what they all say.”

Upon quickly glancing at the colorful menu filled with photographs of many of the various dishes, Eugene, obviously still stinging from our last inedible experience blurted; “Finally, there’s something we can eat here.”

And he was right, but the menu was vast and offered a number of combinations, some in triplicate, and even including Chino-Latino “Bento Boxes,” so the dilemma for us was to narrow the options down.

One thing La Dinastia, or most of the Chino-Latino restaurants I ever visited never had was that Puerto Rican/Dominican specialty, a mash of twice fried plantains, pork cracklings and garlic called mofongo. Sabrosura had a number of different types available and, as the menu stated “All mofongos normally include garlic and crispy pork skin; if you don’t want either, just let us know!” That was the kind of place Sabrosura was; anything for their customers. But we most definitely wanted garlic and pork skin with our mofongo and we wanted ours with shrimp. Gerry was concerned that one would not be enough until he saw that size of the bowl that was coming our way. The huge bowl was  a hollowed out mofongo filled with shrimp in a tomato-based gravy and topped with a few slices of avocado.

Chinese Chop Suey Soup

Along with the mofongo to start, I couldn’t resist trying the “Chinese chop suey soup.” My experience at Chino-Latino restaurants was that the soups were actually very good; whether they were wonton, or called “Chinese soup,” or “Special Chinese soup,” they were usually in a light chicken broth, brimming with bok choy, cabbage, bean sprouts, noodles and bits of roast pork, ham, and shrimp. At Sabrosura they didn’t care if they used the very old school word “chop suey” to describe their soup and neither did I. What I tasted was reassuringly familiar and after finishing it, left me, predictably, with a slight MSG buzz.

Bourbon boneless ribs and plantains

The feast proceeded from there. Mike from Yonkers slowly devouring a monstrous platter of broiled fish that looked exactly as it did on the menu. Eugene working his way through a combination called the “Mojito;” roast chicken and boneless bourbon barbecued ribs.  Zio experimenting with a Bento Box of fried fish, pork, and anything else that might immediately stop his heart. Gerry digging through a mound of fried rice topped with shrimp and squid called chofan, and I with my old standby, ropa vieja with yellow rice.  No one complained. No one moaned. Everything was eaten.

“old clothes” with yellow rice

After a sampling of the restaurant’s excellent flan, we staggered out onto Castle Hill Avenue all of us very happy that at Sabrosura, they do not count the shrimp.

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