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Saltfish Season

18 Nov

I’m not sure why,  but the chill in the air  and the impending holiday season brings on a distinctive and maybe unnatural craving for the taste of saltfish. Also known to Italians as baccala,(a ditty to that Christmas Eve treat was published in these pages last year titled Baccala Blues )to those of Spanish background as bacalao, and to the Portuguese as bacalhau,  Saltfish is the West Indian name for what we know as salt cod.

Not the most appetizing to look at or, for some, to smell, but after the dry, salted fish is soaked to rehydrate it to a moist tenderness and then simmered,  a man can get very used to the taste.

“Very well I like the  taste
Though the smell, sometimes out of place
It hard to take, but make no mistake
I want you to know, it’s because it extra sweet it smelling so boy it’s

Saltfish”

The words above are from the great Calypsonian, Sparrow’s love song dedicated to saltfish’s wonderfulness named, appropriately, “Saltfish.” He does a much better job articulating the appeal of saltfish than I ever can, so I’ll let him do it for me.

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F(e)asting on Fuzhou Style Fish Stomach

15 Nov

Best Fuzhou Restaurant
71A Eldridge Street
Chinatown

I got the call from Zio a few hours before we were all to meet at Rick’s chosen destination, Best Fuzhou Restaurant. “How you doing,” I asked.

There was a pause, and then Zio replied, “Not good.”

It was his knee, he explained. He did something to it and had to see a doctor in Connecticut the next morning. “I’m not gonna make it tonight,” he said.  I didn’t ask how it happened; I assumed it was in the line of duty. In Zio’s case, that meant possibly squatting in a crawlspace in search of termites or carpenter ants.

It wasn’t until later, after our Best Fuzhou experience that I suspected Zio might have just used the knee as an excuse not to be subjected to what we just were. That maybe he read the Robert Sietsema review of the place from the Village Voice that Rick attached to his email. I didn’t. I never read reviews of restaurants until after I’ve dined there. I didn’t even open up the link. Maybe if I did I would have seen the review’s headline and sub heading “Enjoy the Fish Stomach at Best Fuzhou: A Lower East Side Fujianese also Kindly Peels Your Goose Feet.” That might have at least tipped me off as to what to expect. As it was, I went in pretty much clueless except that I knew we were meeting in Chinatown for a regional variation on Chinese.

Our goose feet were peeled and cooked…I think.

Did Zio know that the aforementioned goose feet were, yes, kindly peeled, but also as inedible as the cow foot he tried to eat at Salimata, our previous restaurant? Did he know that the colorfully named “do do frog’s leg” that caught Rick’s attention on the menu required surgical precision to remove what meat there was on the frog’s skinny legs? Or that the conch that accompanied the goose feet (or web as it was listed on the menu) was as equally tough to eat? I wasn’t sure.  But one had to wonder.

When I arrived at the harsh fluorescently-lit restaurant on the Lower East Side fringe of Chinatown, the Westchester boys, Gerry, Eugene, and Mike from Yonkers had already arrived. I told them the news about Zio and hesitated before sitting while one of the waitresses grabbed a mop and began clearing the table next to ours and the floor around it from spilled, smeared brown sauce, and stray, smashed noodles. Rick showed up soon after and even with just five, the table seemed crammed; Zio’s girth would have severely limited any elbow space between us.

With the many exotic dishes on the menu and Sietsema’s apparently glowing review—the waitress, who spoke almost no English, proudly showed us a copy of it—Best Fuzhou seemed a natural for our group. For his part though, Eugene was immediately skeptical. Maybe the menu was a little too exotic. Studying it carefully and bypassing fish head with bean curd, crispy jelly fish skin, duck kidney with cauliflower, goose intestine with tender leek, stir fried pig stomach and other intriguing options, he finally settled on the safe, hot and spicy fish fillet.

On the other end of the spectrum, for Gerry, the more exotic the better and he gambled on eel with black bean sauce which carried no price, only the dubious “S.P” (Seasonal Price) next to it meaning it would be more expensive than anything else on the menu. To her credit, our waitress, in her struggling English, was able to make clear that the price for the eel in black bean sauce that was evidently in season was $28. Gerry hesitated, but only for a moment, before nodding that it was okay despite overshooting the $20 food limit stated in our very loose food group bylaws.

I tried to find a happy medium; something a bit out of the ordinary, but not a stretch like, do do Frogs legs, Rick’s choice. So I settled on the clams with pan fried noodles. As it turned out, the rice noodles lightly fried and speckled with strips of clam was the only dish we all enthusiastically approved of.

water melon with fish stomach and unidentifiable red stuff

The same couldn’t be said for the Sietsema recommendation, water melon soup with fish stomach, which arrived in a big bowl and was gingerly distributed into little bowls by our waitress who also added dollops of a blood red liquid I assumed was chili oil. After sampling the soup with the mysterious red condiment, there was no spice kick—no discernible taste at all.  Red dye? Fish blood? As I write this I’m still not sure what it was. The clear soup had chunks of water melon, a white, bland vegetable nothing like the watermelon we know surrounded by bits of fish stomach reminiscent to the egg whites floating in the opaque broth. Eugene could only manage a few sips. Only Gerry dared attempt a second bowl. And from there it got worse.

Mike from Yonkers, speaking loudly so he could be heard above the constant parade of big black garbage bags dragged on a noisy dolly through the small restaurant and out to the street, proclaimed to all who might think to listen that he never ordered the goose web. But the proof was on the menu and, unfortunately on our table. Again, it was Gerry who was the only one who could make any headway of the truly impenetrable peeled goose foot. Eugene would not even attempt a nibble and when the do do frogs legs arrived in a thick brown sauce, he picked up the serving spoon, noticed a few mushrooms surrounding the skimpy frogs’ legs and then put the spoon back down with a disgusted grunt. For a man who portends to have a worldly appetite, Eugene has an unusual aversion to mushrooms.

Eel with black bean sauce: (s.p) Good luck.

The final dish to crowd our not very appetizing table was the “seasonal” eel. After clearing a few dishes, the waitress found a space for the platter in the middle of table positioned so the eel’s head and cold, dark beady eyes were staring menacingly at Eugene. A few bites of the tough, bone-riddled eel in black bean sauce were more than enough for me…and everyone else including Gerry. This particular “S.P” delicacy was definitely wasted on us. Thankfully, we filled up on what on the menu were described as oyster pancakes, but more like a slightly salty Chinese version of the deep fried Mexican churro.

“We’re not having dessert are we?” Eugene muttered once the plates were cleared from our table. Maybe Zio, if he was in attendance, would have insisted on trying the Fuzhou style eight treasure rice offered for dessert. For those of us who did attend, however, even eight treasures were not enough to entice us to try anything else Fuzhou style.

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The Many Pizzas of Sal’s

11 Nov

Here in New York there was an overblown controversy about who retained the rights to be known as Ray’s Pizza. The original Ray’s, at least I think it was original, was in Greenwich Village on 11th Street and wildly popular for the excessive amounts of cheese piled onto each slice rather than for its overall quality. So says I, the pizza snob.

Ray’s popularity spurred a flurry of Ray’s imitators, or so “Original Ray” claimed. Lawsuits were threatened and to avoid them, the numerous Ray’s throughout the city slightly tweaked their names.  “Famous Ray’s,” “World Famous Ray’s,” “Original Ray’s” “Ray Bari” were some of them. There was even one called “Not Ray’s Pizza.” Soon the controversy fizzled and recently the Original Ray’s closed ending “Ray’s” pizza(name) dominance in the city.

You know it’s over for Ray’s when the name is blocked out and no longer “of Greenwich Village.”

On a smaller scale, but higher in the pizza royalty chain, was the battle over the use of Patsy’s in connection to pizza. There was the original Patsy’s on First Avenue in East Harlem that still remains. And then there was Patsy Grimaldi’s in Brooklyn, just over the Brooklyn Bridge who was legally forced to drop the “Patsy’s” part of his actual name and became known as Grimaldi’s.  Patsy’s revival and the ensuing controversy led to a chain of Patsy’s designed to emulate the original, but none had that pizzeria’s magical ancient coal oven and, as a result, the pizza just wasn’t of the same quality.

The original Patsy’s.

It is now my pleasure to report that probably the most prolific pizza name of all has not sparked any controversy or legal action that I know of. That name is Sal’s.

Still, though, many Sal’s have found it necessary to inject something else to their name to differentiate themselves from the other Sal’s out there instead of just relying on their location and the distinction of their pizza.

There are many Sal’s in New York, but obviously only one New York Sal’s.

If Sal were to have a pizza making partner, Carmine is a natural.

Sal’s of Little Italy is no ordinary pizzeria, it’s a cafe.

Now why did they have to go and make Sal fat?

I’ve often wondered why a man named Sal would allow himself to be known as Sally.

Sal’s even made it into the movies.

But why no BROTHERS ON THE WALL??

I make no judgement on any of the other Sal’s pizzerias, but for me, there is only one Sal’s Pizzeria.

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Neckbones’ Rum Diary: The J.M Incident

4 Nov

After boarding the ferry in Dominica, I downed an extra-strength Dramamine. The weather was clear, the waters calm, yet I didn’t want to risk a bout of seasickness before arriving at my destination: the J.M Rum distillery in Martinique.

Keeping my eyes straight ahead and sitting upright, I ignored the young man next to me and the others around me who were retching into plastic bags given out by the ferry’s crew as the boat was pummeled mercilessly in the channel between the two islands, also known, as I found out later as the “Blue Vomit.”

The ferry on the seemingly tranquil “blue vomit.”

With Martinique in sight, I was a bit groggy and wobbly, but my stomach remained intact and, once I exited the ferry onto the streets of Fort-de-France, Martinique’s capital city, a taxi whisked me to the northeast tip of the island to a place known as Macouba. I knew we were close and as the taxi descended down a steep incline, the red copper-tin roofs came into view and I could see the steam from the stills rising from the distillery through the dense greenery of palm fronds.

The distillery in Macouba

As we pulled in front of the old distillery, I smelled the alcohol-tinged cane juice as it was being “cooked” in the stills. Taking a healthy whiff, the vapors immediately restored my equilibrium, still somewhat shaky from the Blue Vomit nightmare.

Passing barrels of rum and ignoring a tour of the facilities, I headed straight to the tasting room/gift shop. A sample of J.M’s velvety white rum improved my situation even further but it wasn’t until I sipped the brand’s  VSOP “rhum vieux”  that I knew I had finally found what I was seeking. The taste was something so pure; so delicately smooth that the horrors of the Blue Vomit were worth the ordeal just to sip this amber nectar.

Stills and barrels of rum

My mission complete, I bought a bottle and returned to Fort-de-France where the next day I was to board a plane to San Juan and then another back to New York.

Keeping my precious cargo close by in my carry on bag, I was instructed by security at the Martinique airport to put the rum in a clear plastic bag. I did as told and was granted access to the plane.

Rushing through San Juan’s Luis Munoz Marin International Airport to make my connection to JFK, I waited on line at security. When it was my turn to pass through the gates, an overzealous customs officer, and most likely a rum aficionado, spied my bottle of J.M.

“You can’t take that on,” he said gruffly.

“But it’s in a clear plastic bag,” I pleaded.

“You could go back and check it in,” he offered, obviously knowing I had no time to do so. “or…I’ll have to take it from you.”

I stared at him. He stared at me and then held out his hand. I had no choice. He took the bottle, hiding a satisfied grin behind his bogus official demeanor.

The shock hit me as I settled into my seat. I was trembling. Once we were in the air and I knew my prized possession was gone, tears came to my eyes.

“Why are you so sad,” the abuela  who was sitting next to me and on her way to visit her daughter and grandchildren in the Bronx,  asked. “Have you left a loved one behind?”

I turned to her, dabbed at my eyes and nodded.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Time will cure your sorrow. Watch the movie. It’s funny.”

I looked up at the small screen. It was something with Adam Sandler. I didn’t laugh.

Even the comedy of Adam Sandler could not penetrate my sorrow.

The wise abuela was right. Time did heal the deep wound of loss. When I first returned to New York, I frantically searched the many liquor stores looking for the J.M VSOP Rhum Vieux, but with no luck. I abandoned my search and resigned myself to settle for other “old” rums.

But then, one evening when dining at a cacophonous, yet delicious high end eatery downtown, my eyes were drawn to the offering of Rhum J.M VSOP on the restaurant’s cocktail menu. My heart pounded. I looked for my waiter and saw him at another table. I waved. I snapped my fingers. I rudely whistled. People were staring. I didn’t care.  I needed him now.

Seeing my frantic state, he rushed over. “I want that!” I pointed to the listing of the J.M VSOP on the menu.

I tried to control my excitement as I waited at my table. I tapped my foot. I chewed on my lower lip. I stroked my cell phone and then it arrived. The beautiful amber fluid, served with just a twist of lime. I sipped. It was exactly how I remembered it. “Where,” I asked my waiter, “can I buy this?”

Liquid gold

He said he would check with the beverage manager. He returned with the name of the liquor store on a business card. I knew the place. I checked my watch. It wouldn’t be open now. I would have to wait until the next day.

I slept little that night, got up early and headed to the store to wait until they opened. As soon as the gates were pulled and the doors unlocked, I rushed in and found the rum section. There it was. The price was astronomical, at least twice what I paid for in Martinique, but I didn’t care. I bought a bottle that came in decorative box.

The rum now sits in a glass cabinet. I have yet to open it. I tried one evening, but I couldn’t do it. If I opened it, I would begin to drink it and eventually, maybe in a month, maybe more, the bottle would be empty. The thought chilled me to the core.

I’ve come now to accept that I will never open it, yet I do not care. It is mine. I possess it. And no one can take it away again…

Mine. All mine.

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Colombian Air in White Plains

25 Oct

Aires de Colombia
64 West Post Rd
White Plains, NY

Zio was behind the wheel, stuck in bumper to bumper traffic on First Avenue. He was muttering and cursing, though clearly not under his breath. We were on our way to White Plains in the middle of rush hour to a destination chosen by none other than the innocent seeming, though truly sadistic Gerry who has tormented us with restaurants in hard to reach and traffic congested locales such as Sheepshead Bay, Valhalla, Jersey City, and Fort Lee, to name just a few. Was his motive in choosing these hard to reach destinations to exact revenge on those of us who live in the New York City environs and take for granted how easy it is, via public transportation, to experience worldly culinary pleasures in the city as opposed to the suburbanite who, with a few exceptions, is a prisoner to his vehicle and must commute to find food nirvana. We weren’t sure, but as we inched along on First Avenue, the conspiracy theories were percolating rapidly.

Rick had already bowed out of this adventure;  a trip from the city to White Plains during rush hour and then back to his money pit in Atlantic Highlands New Jersey, much too stressful on his already commuting-frazzled nerves.

“This better not be like that mother f*****g mariachi place in Yonkers. I couldn’t even eat that s**t,” Zio spat, referring to Gerry’s ill fated Yonkers’ Mexican choice, Plaza Garibaldi.

The venom was flowing from Zio’s rotund frame. It got so bad we seriously considered pulling over and eating at nearby Patsy’s Pizzeria in East Harlem, or, if the traffic continued beyond the entrance to the Bruckner, driving to Hunt’s Point for one of Fratelli’s broccoli rabe “Grandma” pies.

With our intentions now clear, Zio seemed to calm down and once we were able to get onto the Bruckner, the traffic dissipated and we quickly decided to go back to our first option and head on to White Plains. Gerry and Eugene were waiting outside Aires de Colombia on a strip populated by a variety of Latin restaurants.

Trump infested downtown White Plains

Looking at the restaurant, I recalled that when I was living in White Plains, the location of Aires de Colombia was near a bar I frequented back when the drinking age was 18 and I was a bit younger called DePalo’s Dugout. At DePalo’s each night there was a half hour where beer was free. My high school friends and I took full advantage of the offer, taking turns going up to the bar until our table was overflowing with pitchers and almost enough beer to get us through the night.

Back when I was filling up on beer instead of rice, beans, and chicharrones, which I was planning to do at Aires de Colombia, there were no Latin restaurants on this stretch of Post Road. And driving into White Plains with its many gleaming glass towers, I noted that there were no Ritz Carlton’s or Trump Towers either in the disco days of my youth.

Gerry had already visited Aires de Colombia and was disappointed to say that the television near our table and above the bar had been removed. When he visited he was entertained by Colombian dancing girls on the screen which, according to Gerry, only enhanced the dining experience. The bartender who also served as our hostess and waitress spoke little English but enough to say that she had two English language menus while the rest were in Spanish. Neither did me any good because it was much too dark where we sat for me to read any language. The bar crowd was amused at our pathetic attempts to converse with our waitress, which, to me, was a good sign. Our group being a silly spectacle for the establishment’s regulars meant that we had hit upon a truly authentic destination, though the inebriated grin directed toward Gerry from one the bar’s patrons had him slightly unnerved.

Colombian deep fried pork belly

We began with the aforementioned chicharron, a long, deep fried until practically charred, piece of pork belly, the intense saltiness paired beautifully with the cold Aguila beer I was drinking. The chicharron was accompanied by an arepa, Colombian corn bread topped with a heavy sprinkling of cheese. While waiting for our beef empanadas, I excused myself to visit the restrooms. On the way, I passed the half door opening that led to the kitchen and noticed a woman with a head scarf scurrying between the stove and a table where she was rolling out dough for the empanadas. The sight was more than reassuring and I was confident that Aires de Colombia would not be like “that mother f*****g mariachi place in Yonkers.”

Colombian condiments

The empanadas that soon arrived at our table were as good as I’ve had anywhere and remarkably, tasted as if they were hand rolled by a Colombian woman in a head scarf. But the “starters” were not light fare and when they were followed by enormous platters of meat; beef with French fried potatoes and onions known as “lomo saltado,”  rolled, stuffed pork, steak, more chicharrones, and lengua (tongue) described as our waitress in her struggling English as “sweet tongue” and all of the meats accompanied by rice, beans, tostones, maduras, yucca, aquacate (avocado) and a hard, dry round “arepa” that was the only disappointment of the night, it soon became a struggle to eat. There was, apparently, a bottom to our collective bottomless pits. The one exception to all the meat was a platter of shrimp in a creamy garlic sauce that, though tasty, not quite worthy enough to veer from the meat side of the menu.

An empanada, an arepa and more chicharrones.

The dishes soon were cleared except those in front of Mike from Yonkers who was still picking at the “sweet” tongue. The rest of us were glassy-eyed and dazed by the cholesterol onslaught.

“100 crunches every morning,” Eugene droned, patting his ridiculously flat stomach. “And no more junk for breakfast. Fruit. Granola. Oatmeal. .. ” The arrival of our check spared us from having to listen to Eugene anymore and after tallying it up, the result put us a bit above our $20 food budget.  No one complained that we had gone over budget. The hardship of getting to Aires de Colombia was temporarily forgotten in our food-induced stupor.  We gathered our things and went outside to listen a bit to the very noticeable silence on the deserted White Plains’ street before getting in our respective vehicles and driving home.

Unfortunately, we missed the great Oscar D’Leon’s performance at Prophecy.

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Today’s Special: Wish Sandwich or Cool Water Sandwich?

21 Oct

“Did you ever hear of a Wish Sandwich?
Well, it’s the kind of a sandwich where you’re supposed to take two pieces of bread, and wish you had some meat.”

“The other day, I ate a ricochet biscuit. Well it’s the kind of biscuit where it’s supposed to bounce off the wall and back into your mouth. If it don’t bounce back, you go hungry.”

“The other day, I ate a cool water sandwich and a Sunday-go-to-meeting bun.”

 “What you want for nothing? A rubber biscuit?”

A rubber biscuit

These guys do a much better job explaining the Wish Sandwich than I can. Click the link below and listen.

01 – Rubber Biscuit

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Neck Bones Anniversary Tomato Sauce

14 Oct

Not that I need a reason to make a big batch of Neck Bone Tomato Sauce, but I figured the one year anniversary of this site, Fried Neck Bones…and Some Home Fries, would be as good a time as any to share my recipe.

The sauce, called by many of the misinformed as “Sunday Gravy” (more on that in a future post), is thick and rich, almost like a tomato stew, but don’t be fooled, it is most definitely a sauce. And the combination of the sauce and the meat from the slow cooked, fatty pork neck bones and the sauce poured over a sizable pasta cut (rigatoni preferably) produces what to me is the ultimate comfort food.

Instead of neck bones, you could use any variety of spare ribs; country, baby back, or St. Louis cut, but that’s usually more expensive. Pork neck bones are not only cheaper, they also produce the heartiest sauce and the meat from the bones, no matter how long you cook them, is always moist and tender.

Though not a difficult recipe, it is time consuming. My grandmother didn’t mind making a version of this (minus the neck bones) every Sunday. While she was working in the kitchen from 6 am until Sunday dinner around 3 pm,  I was wasting all Sunday watching Abbott and Costello movies on television. Occasionally she would mutter from the kitchen, “piu pigro” or “your lazy” to me. And yes, I still can be lazy, certainly  lazy enough not to spend every Sunday, or Saturday (the sauce is even better made a day or two in advance giving the ingredients more time to get to know each other) making sauce. So I make enough for leftovers (the sauce freezes very well) and spare me a few weekends of work until I run out of whatever I have in the freezer.

The neck bones alone will flavor the sauce, but I like to throw in some other meats along with the neck bones, usually chunks of pork shoulder I’ve trimmed and browned, or Italian sausage and/or braciole and whatever else I can fit into the pot. If I also want meatballs to be part of the meal, I’ll make them separately (see Goomba Joe’s Polpetti https://friedneckbones.wordpress.com/2011/02/18/goomba-joes-polpette/ for the meatball recipe) and add them to the bowl of cooked meats, just before serving.

Goomba Joe’s Polpetti

Here then, is my Neck Bone Tomato Sauce recipe starting with the basic ingredients.

2 lbs of neck bones

4 28 ounce cans of Italian whole peeled tomatoes, not San Marzano.*

6 ounce can of tomato paste**

1/2cup of olive oil

8 cloves of garlic (chopped)***

2 cups of water

¼ teaspoon of dried red pepper

Salt and pepper to taste

Rigatoni (How much depends on how many you are feeding. Always err on too much rather than too little)

Pork shoulder, braciole, sausage, and meatballs (optional)

Rigatoni

*Spending the extra money for genuine San Marzano tomatoes for this sauce is a waste. The flavor will be overwhelmed by the meat. Stick with your favorite brand of  Italian whole peeled tomatoes, preferably imported from Italy and with a basil leaf or two included in the can.

Canned Italian tomatoes

**I like to use tomato paste, but you can substitute a 28 ounce can of crushed tomatoes instead; both add density to the sauce. And this should be a dense sauce.

***My general rule is two cloves of garlic per one 28 ounce can of tomatoes. I can be swayed to alter my rule depending on the size of the garlic cloves.

Run the tomatoes through a food mill, separating the seeds and whatever skin might be on the tomatoes. If you are lucky enough to have an electric “passata” machine that basically does the same thing as a food mill minus the physical labor, the muscles of your forearms will be grateful.

Elbow grease required.

Salt and pepper the neck bones.

Add ¼ cup of olive oil to a skillet.

Brown the neck bones, about 3 to 5 minutes per side.

Browning the neck bones.

Drain on a paper towel and put aside

Add ¼ cup of olive oil to a very large soup kettle or pasta pot with a heavy bottom.  Turn the heat on to medium and add the garlic. Cook just until the garlic begins to lightly brown and quickly lower the heat so it does not burn.

Add the can of tomato paste or a can of crushed tomatoes. If using tomato paste, sauté with the garlic and then add two cup of water, stirring until the tomato paste is looser and all chunks are gone. Cook until it bubbles and then add the strained tomatoes and bring to a boil.

The sauce

Once the tomatoes begin to boil, add the neck bones and any other meats, but make sure there is enough room in the pot to stir it. If you can’t stir, you’ve put too much meat in.

Turn the heat to medium low and leave, uncovered.  If your burners are hot and medium low brings on too rapid a boil, lower it to a slow bubbling simmer. Cook uncovered, stirring occasionally for two to three hours and then turn off the heat.

Let the sauce sit, covered, on the stove for another three hours and then, if the sauce is for the next day, put the pot in the refrigerator. The next day, skim some of the fat off the top of the sauce—or don’t. I’ll leave that up to you.

Neck bones ready to be shredded.

With tongs, take the neck bones out of the sauce making sure you fish around the pot for any loose small bones that might have fallen apart in the cooking process. You really don’t want your guests or family to take a tooth-loosening bite out of a neck bone instead of the meat that was once connected to it. Cut away the meat from the bones and the fat and then put the chopped bits of meat back in the sauce. You could skip this process and just leave the bones in the sauce, but that would depend on who you are serving and if they don’t mind gnawing on neck bones. Some people enjoy gnawing on bones and you don’t want to deny them that pleasure.

Boil water in a big pasta pot(s). Add the pasta and cook until al dente.

Just before the pasta is done, remove the other meats from the sauce and put them in a bowl.

Rigatoni and Neck Bone Sauce

Drain the pasta, pour into a big bowl and coat with a generous portion of the sauce, but please don’t drown it. Serve into individual bowls and let guests add freshly grated cheese;  parmesean Reggiano or pecorino Romano work, but never use a grated cheese that comes in a green cardboard container. I’m not mentioning names here, but you know the kind I mean. If more sauce is desired, have a bowl of extra sauce on the table along with the bowl of the other cooked meats; the meatballs, sausage, braciole and whatever.

Enjoy and if you are lucky, there might be leftovers for next Sunday.

You call those leftovers?

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Bronx Broccoli Rabe From a Brother From Corona

11 Oct

Fratelli Pizza Café
404 Hunts Point Ave
Bronx

It was a clear Tuesday evening as I, accompanied by Zio, headed toward the Hunts Point Market where the Fratelli Pizza Café, our destination for the night, was located.  Traffic was backed up on the Willets Avenue Bridge, most heading north towards the Major Deegan and Yankee Stadium where the Yankees were about to begin their game. We were heading east and once we found ourselves under Bruckner Boulevard, the traffic completely vanished leaving us, literally, the lone vehicle on the road. The spooky feeling became almost post-apocalyptic as we turned onto Leggett Avenue, passing chop shops and auto glass and tire repair shops, the road still practically barren.

Turning onto Hunts Point Avenue, there was a bit of activity around an adult entertainment establishment called Mr. Wedge and soon after Hunts Point Avenue became a one way street, we located our destination. We could hear a pounding bass beat coming from the Hunts Point Triangle, another adult entertainment establishment located right next to the Fratelli Pizza Café.*  A few of the “entertainers” and their clients were sitting in a make-shift café outside of the club sipping beers from a bottle and eying Zio and I curiously.

Pre or post pizza entertainment at Mr. Wedge.

The pizzeria was small, just a few tables and, since it was part of the “triangle” at the end of Hunts Point Ave, narrow with an entrance on the other side of the building. There were a variety of pizzas on display behind the counter that looked old and tired, including one, to my horror, with pineapple. Despite my best efforts to disguise it, there was no doubt that my disappointment was obvious. The proprietor, noting the look on my face asked if he could help us. I told him we were waiting for others.

The pineapple and bacon slice

I chose Fratelli’s because I had heard that they were famous for their broccoli rabe pizza as well as their sautéed version, made fresh and supplied by the nearby Hunts Point Market. Scanning the drab offerings behind the counter, there was no sign of what I and many Italian-Americans consider absolutely essential comfort food. Broccoli rabe’s appeal, with its bittersweet flavor, especially combined with garlic, olive oil, and crushed red pepper, goes directly to my nerve center immediately stirring a rare combination of feelings including but not limited to pure pleasure, child-like happiness and a primal sense of contentment.

I asked the proprietor, who introduced himself as “Joe,” if broccoli rabe was available. He assured me that it was. I inquired how he prepared it on the pizza. He showed me a square pie, adorned only with tomato sauce where cheese and broccoli rabe would be added he called a “Grandma.”

While we were conversing, one of the tightly-clothed “entertainers” entered from next door, and ordered a hero. I noticed a picture of Sinatra and the rest of the Rat Pack taped onto the plastic counter along with a small photograph of  writer,  television personality, and former chef, Anthony Bourdain.

“Bourdain says we have the best garlic knots he’s ever had,” Joe proclaimed proudly adding that a segment on Fratelli’s broccoli rabe was filmed by Bourdain and his crew for his Travel Channel program, No Reservations.

Tony and two of the “brothers.” Joe on his far left.

Rick arrived soon after, and giving the high-heeled entertainer wide berth, also examined the pies on display, taking time, I noticed, to dwell on the unfortunate pineapple slice.

Our group, collectively, could be considered pizza snobs. We had been to many of the Tri-State area’s greats; Patsy’s in Harlem, Totonno’s in Coney Island, Grimaldi’s near the Brooklyn Bridge, Sal’s in Mamaroneck, and, of course, the remarkable DiFara, so our standards were high. Maybe we were expecting too much from a 24-hour pizzeria situated next to a strip joint.

Joe took me around to the other entrance to show me the accolades Fratelli’s received from the Village Voice including “Best Broccoli Rabe.” Eugene and Gerry, Mike from Yonkers being conspicuously absent, arrived and we told Joe to go ahead with making a Grandma pie with broccoli rabe.

“Are you connected with the Fratelli’s on Eastchester Road,” Eugene asked Joe.

Joe shook his head.

“The Fratelli’s in New Rochelle?”

Again, Joe responded in the negative. “There are a lot of Fratelli’s around. I’m from Corona.”

We told Joe from Corona to go ahead and make us a Grandma pie with broccoli rabe, a plate of sautéed broccoli rabe, and some of those Bourdain-praised garlic knots. While we waited, Joe brought us out the Fratelli’s version of an amuse bouche of what he called a “Christina” pie.

“This is also one of my most popular,” he said. The “Christina” was a square pie with tomato sauce, fresh tomatoes and topped with fresh mozzarella. The display version he showed me was not impressive, but after reheating was, remarkably, brought back to delicious life; the crust nicely charred, the tomatoes flavorful and the cheese still fresh. Maybe our first visual impressions were wrong.

The Grandma pie minus the broccoli rabe.

The Grandma pie came out, steam flowing from the huge square pie overflowing with broccoli rabe. A few moments later, Joe brought out a aluminum take-out dish with the sautéed broccoli rabe and a plate of garlic knots.

“What you do,” Joe from Corona explained. “is slit open the garlic knots and slather some of that broccoli rabe inside making a kinda garlic knots broccoli rabe sandwich.”

We took his advice and the tender, perfectly sautéed broccoli rabe worked magnificently with the “best garlic knots ever.” Our enthusiasm was evident in the way we were devouring mounds of the greens with absolutely no worries about potential next day consequences from all that roughage.

“When the woman from Channel 7 was here,” Joe said, casually dropping another television plug for his establishment, “she asked how I made the broccoli rabe. I said that’ if I told her, I would have to kill her.’ I can’t believe she actually used that.”

After a few forced chuckles, we resumed eating, Two slices of the Grandma pie remained along with a few of the dregs of the sautéed broccoli rabe and a couple of garlic knots. “I’m done,” Zio groaned.

Bronx broccoli rabe

I couldn’t eat anymore nor could Rick. Gerry and Eugene, sitting at another table shrugged, their eyes on the remains.

“Well if they’re not gonna eat it. . . .”  Eugene said as he and Gerry scooped up the last two Grandma slices without any hesitation.

From behind the counter, Joe lifted up a tray that held a  Sicilian pie and showed it to us. “I make my Sicilian differently than other places. I put the cheese under the sauce. People come from all over for it.”

We nodded. He no longer had to work us. We were convinced.

*The “Hunt’s Point Triangle” has since our last visit, closed and Fratelli’s has expanded, taking over the entertainers dance space.

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Men on Fire

4 Oct

Sigiri
91 First Avenue
New York, NY

After missing our last two meetings, Rick was called upon to locate our next destination and after much deliberation, steered us to the gentrified East Village for a cuisine we had yet to experience: Sri Lankan.

Sigiri was around the corner from the stretch of Indian restaurants on East 6th Street between First and Second Avenues known as “Little India” where I often brought dates because the prices were the best in the city—even cheaper than Chinatown and always byob. I got a little nostalgic walking past the few remaining dingy dives on the block. My longings for the past, however, quickly dissipated after I was accosted by a row of servers standing outside the restaurants pathetically imploring passersby to sample what I now know is substandard Indian fare.

The narrow restaurant would be a challenge for our party of six, but accommodations were made and tables were joined and we were able to sit together. From my pre-dinner, online research, Sigiri, I believed was the only Sri Lankan restaurant in Manhattan and this was quickly confirmed by our hostess/server who spoke not with an Indian accent, but with a melodious British one.

And it was in that accent where she quickly charmed Mike from Yonkers by inquiring if he was Sri Lankan. I’m sure Mike from Yonkers has been called many things, but I doubt being a Sri Lankan has been one of them. For some reason it took him longer than it should have to respond in the negative and when she returned, she flattered him further by saying, “You know, you look a little like Denzel when you smile.” The Denzel in question being Washington and any similarity between Mike from Yonkers and Denzel from nearby Mount Vernon was lost on me.  And with Mike from Yonkers’ ego now meteorically boosted, he, of course, did nothing to discourage her continuous compliments.

A Man on Fire…not Mike from Yonkers (though upon closer inspection, there is a slight resemblance).

The somewhat strained flirt fest between the two was beginning to dull my appetite, but when our hostess warned us that serving Sri Lankan without any spice modification was extreme even for her, I perked up. We emphatically told her to prepare our dinner as it would be prepared in Sri Lanka as opposed to what might satisfy the gentrified East Village of New York. We didn’t need to be pampered with cloth napkins or with flickering table candles, both of which Sigiri provided much to Gerry’s disdain. We didn’t want dulled down food even at the expense of our intestinal tracks, both upper and lower.  And since we were Sri Lankan food novices, we also had her prepare what might be a good representative of that country’s cuisine with a request by Zio for a dish he insisted, for some inexplicable reason to be included, called “string hopper kotthu.”

While we were waiting for our food, Eugene, conversationalist that he is, filled us in on a doo wop show at White Plains High School he attended recently where the Harptones were the lead attraction.

Life is But a Dream

“Do you know Willie Winfield is 79,” Eugene informed us, referring to the great lead singer of that magnificent group.

I appreciated the update,  but Rick and Mike from Yonkers, clueless to what Eugene was talking about could only stare dully at their beers while Zio believed that Eugene’s news was an opportunity to mention something about an obscure doo wop tune called “Knee Socks” which both Eugene and I had never heard of.  Zio remained insistent of the song’s authenticity and even went so far as to send me a You Tube link a few days later of a video of assorted female “knee socks” flashing along with the very brief song of the same name by a group called the Ideals who were known probably only to only Zio and a few other lunatics.

Yes, Zio, we believe you.

The arrival of an assorted appetizer platter that included a selection of breaded and fried “nibblers;” fish spring roll, fish cutlet, lentil patty, and a vegetable spring roll, stifled the doo wop chatter.  Anticipating heat, we were disappointed that what was on the platter was not only mildly spicy, but dry as well.  Things quickly changed when the “devilled grill” arrived on our table; grilled chicken that was the Sri Lankan equivalent to genuine Jamaican jerk chicken—only hotter. After a few bites, Zio’s world weary eyes were beginning to tear up and his nose was running as was everyone else’s.

“black” curry

The heat onslaught continued unabated with a pork “black” curry, a fish curry in coconut milk sauce, and kotthu roti, a pancake chopped into shreds and fried with assorted vegetables. The only respite from the intense spice was Zio’s choice of string hopper kotthu, a version of Sri Lankan spaghetti accompanied with a chicken curry.

A platter of white rice and coconut roti (an Indian-style flat bread) also helped ease the pain and when Eugene was able to speak again, he proclaimed Sigiri as serving the hottest food we had yet to encounter, even spicier than the Sichuan Little Pepper of Flushing.

And if Eugene proclaims it, then it must be true.

String hoppers helped douse the fire.

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The Un American African Place

27 Sep

African American Marayway
218 E. 170th St
Bronx

As Adam Clayton Powell Blvd merged onto the Macombs Dam Bridge, I could see the glow from the blue lights of the joint Yankee Stadiums on the other side of the Harlem River. While I was stuck in the stop and go traffic on the bridge, I noticed that the lettering on the new stadium was slightly different—more 21st Century, than the old one and wondered how much longer I would actually see the two stadiums side by side.* Once over the river and into the Bronx, I turned onto 161st Street, past Rupert Way, up toward Lou Gehrig Plaza and then north on the Grand Concourse. I was heading to a restaurant chosen by Mike from Yonkers called African American Marayway; the name being a mystery since the cuisine was supposedly Senegalese with no nods to African-American staples.

I doubt the Iron Horse ever had the pleasure of dining on Senegalese cuisine.

Just off the Concourse on 170th Street, down a hill where cars were parked at angles, I saw the small, corner restaurant. I parked on a very dark, barren street that in its desolation reminded me of the Bronx is Burning days of the 1970’s and was adjacent to a sloping park which, in the dark, looked more like a pit bull dog run than a park.

The Champs-Elysees of the Bronx: The Grand Concourse.

Everyone, with the exception again of Rick who was dutifully doing his best to play the game and survive in the crumbling publishing industry environment, were in attendance and seated at one of the restaurant’s three tables. Though it was not an abnormally cold night, the restaurant had no heat and winter jackets were required for dining.

There were no menus and our hostess who was also one of the two female cooks situated safely behind a plexiglass counter, mentioned that she had tilapia. We told her to bring that. . .and anything else she had. Though this was as bare bones an establishment as we had been to, there was a television and it was inexplicably tuned to the NASA network where an operative in Houston droned on about satellite readings. Thankfully a gargantuan whole fish quickly appeared on our table smothered in onions and adorned with lettuce followed by another fish, this one chopped into pieces, accompanied by a variety of roasted root vegetables, and resting on a bed of brown couscous. The two platters sat there—we weren’t sure what to do and then our hostess returned with another platter; this one overflowing with white rice along with a plate of meat, (lamb we soon discovered) onions, and fried plantains.

Grilled tilapia

We were given a glass with utensils in it and expected to eat from the platters communal-style. When it comes to our group, though we are good at sharing; communal just doesn’t work and we requested additional plates. It took a little prodding, but we were soon given two more plates and a stack of aluminum take out containers.

Now that we were free to shovel the food onto our respective “plates” we did so with rapid fire gusto. The tilapia, on the bone, proved somewhat tricky, but, collectively our expert bone filleting fingers made clean work of the fish. Our hostess wasn’t quite finished; she returned with a bowl of what she called “gravy,’ chicken with onions and rich with palm oil that she suggested should accompany the rice and another bowl of “peanut butter;” a stew of goat meat, in a thick peanut and onion sauce.

With the sounds of the Houston NASA technician as background white noise, we worked fast, trying to finish before the food got as cold as we were. Though describing it now, the meal seems like a lot, but at the time, after finishing, it was if we were missing a course or two. And when our hostess told us that for all we ate, we owed a total of $30, almost as cheap as the  Old Poland Bakery, the record-setting Polish restaurant we visited in Greenpoint several years ago, the urge to spend and eat more increased.  Much of our discussion around the table was about ours and others current economic struggles and as we exited the restaurant, Gerry commented, fittingly, that with places around like African American Marayway, we would never starve.

Gerry’s sentiments, however, didn’t deter us from stopping while we were ahead. We got in our cars and snaked north through the Bronx streets to the Italian-American neighborhood of Arthur Avenue in search of more food. Our destination was to be the famous Egidio Pastry Shop, but it was closed and we settled on one of the neighborhood’s newer establishments, the brightly-lit, garish, Palombo Pastry on the corner of 187th Street and Arthur Avenue.

The scene of the “crime.”

Having had my daily intake of caffeine I was the only one to defer from an espresso or cappuccino. Instead, I settled on a baba rhum.  While waiting for our order, I was anxious to call Rick and tell him of our African American Maraway adventure. Our drinks and pastries arrived and maneuvering around me, the waitress placed the tray at the edge of our table. While in mid-sentence with Rick—trying to describe Maraway’s unique attractions__Eugene was given his cappuccino which, apparently, upset the balance of the tray and three hot espressos tumbled onto my lap, the cups shattering on the floor as my voice turned into a gurgled semi-muffled scream. The café went silent as all eyes were on me. I clicked the phone closed and looked down at the disaster that was now my pants. When I looked up again, Eugene had a sarcastic smile on his face and said. “You should know by now that it’s quite rude to talk on the phone in a restaurant?”

*We visited African American Marayway a few months before the new Yankee Stadium opened and a year before the demolition of the old.

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