Archive | New York City RSS feed for this section

The Uptown Burger Deluxe

21 Sep

There was a time when the type of beef used in making a basic diner/coffee shop burger was never disclosed. We didn’t know if the diner ground the meat or not. We didn’t know if they made the patties themselves or if they were pre-made. The beef patty—or should I say the slab of chopped beef—was tossed onto a hot griddle, or, in some cases, a grill, and cooked until done. “How do you want it cooked?” was never asked.

Once done, some cheese (for a few coins more) was melted onto the meat. The patty was then was put onto a bun with a leaf of iceberg lettuce, and a slice of tasteless, out-of-season tomato. In various instances, a pickle and grilled or raw onions were also added to the bun. The burger was assembled onto a plate surrounded by French fries. This was the prototypical “Burger Deluxe” found at countless diners, luncheonettes, and coffee shops when I first moved to New York. And I ate at a lot of them.

Many food folks these days, when given their weekly—or monthly—burger allowance, would rather spend it at a place where the beef is derived from animals that eat only grass, never consume hormones or supplements, and are treated with the utmost kindness before being slaughtered. And I can’t blame them. In most instances I would rather travel to a shack, bistro, or joint for a high quality, organic, grass fed, humane, rare or bare, juicy five napkin burger. But sometimes nostalgia gets the better of me and I just can’t help myself. That’s when I yearn for the “burger deluxe.” And, thankfully, they are still out there.

There’s a soul classic called Across 110th Street, by the great Bobby Womack. And north of that street, from river to river, is where you will have your pick of a mini-chain of diners called  Jimbo’s Hamburger Palace. At Jimbo’s, the “burger deluxe” is a mainstay on the menu.

Jimbo’s Hamburger Palace at 284 Lenox Avenue

Jumbo’s on 116th Street, not to be confused with Jimbo’s, and how could you?

To satisfy my nostalgia craving, I found myself at the Jimbo’s on Lenox Avenue across from Harlem Hospital. I sat at the pristine counter and, not bothering with  pondering the sandwich wraps, gyros, or delicious breakfast options, went directly to the cheeseburger deluxe. The waitress who took my order did not ask me how I wanted it cooked. She didn’t even ask what type of cheese I wanted. She only asked if I wanted everything on it which I assumed were the various vegetable condiments. I said I did.

From my seat I watched as a generous patty/slab of meat was tossed onto the hot griddle and then covered with a bowl to steam heat it through.

It wasn’t long before the cheese was added—a thin slice of bright orange American. The bun was assembled by another cook, a slather of mayo, iceberg lettuce, a few grilled onions and two slices of an under-ripe tomato.

It took enormous self control, but I was able to keep my mouth shut.

The fries were frozen, dumped into a deep fryer and then scattered around the burger. Ketchup came in a red squeeze bottle. I decorated the burger and the fries with it. Though if I had been asked, I would have said “medium rare,” in regards to how I wanted it cook, but really, it didn’t matter. The meat was cooked the way a burger deluxe should be cooked; juices running from it dampening the bun, the ketchup, tomato, and thin layer of mayonnaise all melding together to form a perfect hot mess.

The fries, however, were another story. Maybe my memory of past burger deluxe experiences have dimmed so much I forgot how tasteless the fries were. Or maybe it’s just that I doused them so thoroughly with ketchup it never really mattered how they tasted. How could fries like these make a burger deluxe? And then I realized that of course they did. That the starchy blandness of the frozen French fries bolstered the already intense flavor of the meat—they were the perfect accompaniment.

Deluxe!

 

 

Tags: , , , , ,

New Year’s Penicillin

18 Sep

I have found myself spending much of my time in the Kingsbridge section of the Bronx lately. Usually I’m sitting at a small ball field just next to the Major Deegan Expressway watching baseball with the incessant hum of traffic as background noise. But the other day I took a break between games and wandered around the bustling enclave around Broadway and 231st Street under the tracks of the number 1 train.

In a neighborhood where Spanish is the predominate language heard on the streets and rice and beans joints the typical cuisine, I was surprised to notice a Kosher deli named Loeser’s squeezed amongst the Latin-tinged outlets. I took a closer look at the deli and on its window  accolades such as the “best pastrami in NYC” were plastered along with the proclamation of a 50th Anniversary. So even though the aroma of rotisserie chicken from one of the said rice and beans joints was seriously tempting me, I felt I had to pay tribute to a place with such fierce survival skills.

The man behind the counter was the same man in many of the pictures on the wall posing with family and luminaries from the Bronx. His name was Fredy.

“How about some pastrami,” he said when I entered the barren, narrow time warp of a deli.

I looked around. Much of the signage was ancient. The evening was cool. The summer was turning to a crisp autumn.

I noticed the “Jewish penicillin” sign. “I’ll take the chicken soup,” I said.

“And pastrami?”

“No, just the soup.”

“Potato salad?”

I shook my head.

Maybe some potato pancakes or stuffed cabbage?

“No thanks.”

“What about a knish?”

I thought for a moment.

“Okay, a knish,” I said.

“You want mustard?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll slice it into the knish,” Fredy said. “Take a seat.”

The soup was brought to me in a plastic take out container with a few slices of rye bread. The knish came on a separate paper plate.

I sipped at the hot soup, moistening the rye bread in the broth before eating it. No one came into the deli while I was eating. Fredy was busy preparing a large turkey dinner, pouring brown gravy over it.

After finishing the soup, I wrapped up the knish, paid Fredy and then returned to the cacophony on 231st street and beyond. I caught a whiff of the intoxicating aroma of the rotisserie chicken from the rice and beans joint before it was overpowered by exhaust from a city bus. The hum of traffic on the Deegan had gone up a few decibels. It was getting dark and cooler. The game was about the start and the lights I noticed were on; the small field now illuminated. I sat and took out the knish.  It was still warm. I bit into it. The potato filling was moist and, just as Fredy promised, there was a smear of spicy deli mustard at its core.

Loeser’s Deli
214 W. 231st St
Bronx

Tags: , , , , ,

Big D’s Gift to the Big Apple

14 Sep

Here in New York we can get ribs that claim influences from cities  from Memphis to Kansas City. We can get chicken fried like they do in Kentucky and Maryland.   But there’s only one thing we can get from the Big D that we can’t from any other place. Something so unique; so tasty it will even let you forgive that city for hoisting “America’s Team” on the country.

We forgive you Jerry.

J J you can keep the Cowboys as Dallas’s team as long New York gets  to keep Dallas  BBQ .

And it’s not the bbq that makes Dallas BBQ the institution that it has become in New York.

Scan those starters. Bypass the “Crispy Shrimp, ” the “new” “Angry Shrimp,” the “Crabcakes, and stop right there on number4; at the dish that immortalized Dallas BBQ forever.  The magnificent mountain that is the “Onion Loaf.”

That right there is what I’m talking about.

Start picking the mound apart with your fingers. Get your hands greasy. Don’t worry, moist towelettes are thoughtfully provided by management. Ketchup? No need.

Go ahead, finish it all. Sure you’ll pay for your indulgence within moments after scooping up the last sweet greasy strip of deep fried onion, but the discomfort you might feel will be quickly forgotten. Give it a few days and you’ll be jonesing for your next Dallas BBQ onion loaf (best in NYC)  fix.

 

 

 

 

 

Tags: , , , , , ,

Fusion Files: The Not So Well Being Edition

7 Sep

It’s my somber duty to report that the well being of Dino’s Well Being Fusion Deli & Cafe is not very good.

But Dino’s unfortunate demise had nothing to do with its diverse menu where you could order a “chicken Seasor wrap” the “deluxe udon,” or the “bibimbab,” paired with a “fried shrimp po boy.”

Fusion options like those documented at Dino’s are irresistible and certainly well intentioned to boost one’s well being. There had to be another reason why Dino’s went kaput. And I discovered it when a man, who noticed me taking a picture of the Well Being Cafe, came up to me and, with a sad, but knowing smile on his face, shook his head and said: “That place is spooked.”

Sometimes if a place is spooked, no matter how much well being it has, it’s just got no chance.

Tags: , , , ,

Red Sauce Revisited

8 Aug

Dominick’s

2335 Arthur Avenue

The Bronx

There was a restaurant in the Bronx. It was a small, red sauce Italian joint that didn’t take reservations. You couldn’t pay with a credit card either. And there was no menu. When seats opened up, you squeezed into a table, oftentimes sharing with an extended family from Jersey who remembered the place from the “old days.” One of the two waiters would come over. Usually it was the one who was missing a thumb.  “Whaddya want?” He would brusquely ask before you were even settled.

“Whaddya got?” was the usual response.

“We got baked clams, stuffed artichoke, veal marsala, veal francese, chicken scarpariello. We got steak, linguini and calamari. We got mussels, ziti marinara, rigatoni with sausage and broccoli rabe. We got zuppa di pesce. We got steak…” And it went on and on. The menu recited.

“Do you have veal chops.”

“Veal chops?” The waiter who was missing a thumb stared dully. “Lemme check.”

He would disappear into the kitchen.

A few moments later he would reappear. “Yeah, we got ‘em. You start with a salad?”

Of course we would.

Wine was served in juice glasses poured from an over sized jug behind the small bar.

The salad came. Our group shared the large platter of iceberg lettuce redolent with red wine vinegar, speckled with onions, out of season tomatoes, and a smattering of provolone cheese.

The place was filling up. It was cold outside and no one wanted to wait in the cold. The bar area was packed. There were people overhanging our table. Our stuffed artichokes came. The eyes of those waiting were upon us…and the artichokes. We didn’t care. Let them wait.

“Hey, can we get a piece of your bread while we wait?” a wise guy snickered, his hand moving to our bread basket.

“Don’t be an idiot, Ralph,” the woman with him with the big hair and overpowering perfume spat back at him.

“Hey, this is a family place. We’re all family. What’s wrong with breaking bread with brothers?”

“Jerk off,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said sympathetically to us while her companion continued to grin like an idiot.

We polished off the artichokes easily, soaking up the olive oil dampened breadcrumbs with the crusty bread from the aforementioned bread basket. Butter never accompanied it—unless someone with no class or dignity stooped so low as to request it.

An enormous platter of linguini with calamari in a rich red sauce came next along with two dinosaur-sized veal chops with grilled onions and peppers. The calamari was fork tender; the sauce tangy with tomato and red wine. The veal chop was cooked to medium rare perfection; a slight char on the outside; the juices running from it with every forkful.

We finished everything.

The waiter minus one thumb returned. “Anything else? Some espresso?”

We needed the espresso to revive us after all that food. Clear glasses with stove-top espresso appeared along with a bottle of sambuca. The coffee and the liqueur combining to act as a jolting digestif.

“We’ll take the check,” we said to our waiter the next time he scurried past.

I would watch as he conferred with the bartender who wrote down something on a small scratch pad and handed it back to the waiter.

“$65,” the waiter said, not showing us what he held in his hand. There were no words on the piece of paper from what I could see; just check marks and cross outs, like a sloppy tic tac toe game.

We had no complaints. We paid and left a generous tip. Gathering our stuff we pushed through the overflowing crowd that was now ready to pounce on the seats we just deserted.

That was a long time ago. During the restaurant’s glory years. But nothing stays the same. The crowds got more unruly. One time a strange hand even reached into the bread basket. They soon opened up another room upstairs to handle the overflow. The platters got a little smaller, the calamari was not as tender, the red sauce not so special, and the number barked by a waiter—the one missing a thumb retired to the Jersey shore—kept going up. And up. It was time to say goodbye. Or at least take a leave of absence.

The divorce lasted almost twenty years. But I was ready to reunite. To make amends. To give Dominick’s, the red sauce joint in the Bronx, another chance. And what better way to experience nostalgia than with two old friends who I spent many an evening with at the same tables over twenty years ago.

But before entering, I noticed something unusual, at least for Dominick’s. It was a menu. A big one. And it was on prominent display right next to the entrance. I scanned it. There were even prices attached to the Italian-American classics I was very familiar with.

The Menu on the door.

I was a few minutes early. I ordered a drink at the bar and marveled at how deserted the small dining room was. Only a couple of the tables were occupied.

I sipped my drink and tried to recall if I was with Gerry or Paulie D, the two friends I was waiting for, the time Mayor Ed Koch and his entourage were hustled immediately to a large table. There was no waiting for hizzoner.

And, on this day, when my friends arrived there was no wait for the three of us either. Maybe change is good, I thought.

Paulie D, who I hadn’t seen for probably as long as it had been since I had been to Dominick’s, was the impetus for this reunion. He, also after a long hiatus, had returned to Dominick’s recently and relayed to Gerry that it was as good as ever. Gerry, a founding member of the Chow City group, whose adventures have been and continue to be chronicled on Fried Neck Bones…and Some Home Fries, passed the word to me and our dinner was arranged. Not only could I catch up with Paulie D, but I would also see if my youthful infatuation with Bronx red sauce stood the test of time.

A waiter approached us at the bar. Despite his complete lack of hair and that he was now wearing glasses, I recognized him from the “old days.” He had both thumbs and unlike his former colleague, did more than grunt when taking our orders. He shook my hand. “Good to see you again,” the waiter, whose name was Patsy, said as he looked into my eyes as if I were a still a regular.

We shared a long table and ordered more drinks. Wine, I was surprised to see, was served now in a stemmed glass. I handled it gingerly.

“So what are we gonna have?” Patsy asked, leaning over the table. There might have been a menu on display outside the restaurant, but we weren’t getting any table side. That was encouraging.

No one said anything.  But I, for one, had to hear it. So I opened my mouth. “Whaddya got?” I asked.

And then the recitation began: “We got mussels, baked clams, calamari. We got veal marsala, veal francese. We got chicken scarpariello. We got steak…”

“What about stuffed peppers?” Paulie D inquired.

Patsy nodded.

“Chicken francese?” Gerry asked.

“Sure, we can make it.”

“And ziti marinara,” Paulie D added.

“Anything else?”

I looked at Gerry and then at Paulie D.

“Let’s get the mussels,” Gerry said.

I thanked Gerry for not neglecting them.

“You gonna start with a salad?” Patsy asked, but he really didn’t have to.

“You gonna have salad?”

And then Patsy, who wrote none of our order down, departed.

Bread was brought to the table; crusty pane di casa, probably from Addeo’s bakery across the street. I noticed that along with the bread, there was a small plate with individual plastic packets of butter. And we didn’t even have to ask for it. I had to rethink my earlier belief about change.  Maybe it wasn’t as good as I originally thought.

The salad was as I remembered it: iceberg lettuce, onions, a few unripe tomatoes, and slices of provolone all in a vinegary dressing. The platter was just enough for the three of us.

Next to arrive were the peppers. On the plate were two extra large bell peppers stuffed with seasoned ground beef and smothered with a chunky tomato sauce.

Paulie D, who, before we ordered, reminded us that he was a “picky eater.”  In Paulie D’s case, that meant no seafood, no chicken on the bone, not even steak. But stuffed peppers were fair game and knowing Gerry and I would be eating the mussels, we left most of the peppers to him. Paulie D did himself proud; devouring one of the monsters effortlessly.

The remains of a stuffed pepper…smothered in a red sauce with a little penne.

The big platter of mussels took up most of the room at our table. Gerry and I worked methodically through the mound, plucking the sweet tiny bodies from their shells and swirling them in the garlicky, wine infused marinara sauce.

When the ziti arrived, penne on this night, I piled a few of the mussels on top of it, creating my own makeshift “ziti” and mussels.

Mussels…marinara of course.

Even the lemon-tinged chicken francese was soon swimming in red sauce, but I didn’t’ care.

There was bread left over. I broke off a piece and soaked it the soup of sauce that remained on my plate. And then I did it again—until all the sauce on my plate was gone.

Patsy returned. “You want espresso? Coffee?”

I thought for a moment. In the “old days” I could still fall asleep after a late night espresso. No more. And I wasn’t alone. None of us needed coffee.

Patsy conferred with the bartender and returned with the scratch pad scribbled with the unintelligible tic tac toe scrawl.

“$120,” he said to us.

I quickly tried to calculate what the rate of inflation of Italian red sauce joints in the Bronx might be since Ed Koch was the Mayor. The challenge being too much for my red sauce inebriated brain, I gave up that idea quickly and just decided to pay my share without thinking any more on it.

We rose and headed for the exit. The busboys quickly cleared our mess, but there was no urgent demand for our table.

Patsy waited by the door. “Hope to see you soon, gentlemen,” he said, seemingly looking me in the eye. There were no questions asked about my long absence. Even if I was totally wrong, and Patsy’s heartfelt greeting and hand shake were all just an act to suck me back to Dominick’s and its addictive red sauce, which I noticed was now sold in local grocery stores by the jar, I tried not to believe it. In my somewhat twisted, ego maniacal mind I sensed that maybe my presence was missed at this place.

Outside, Arthur Avenue was as quiet as Dominick’s was inside.

“It’s Monday,” Paulie D said. “That’s the secret. Come on a Monday and you’ll have the place to yourself.”

I’d have to remember that, I told myself.

Tags: , , , , , ,

Pig Prejudice Redux

3 Aug

It’s tough to be a pig in Harlem as evidenced by A Little Love for the Pig (Please) and Pig Prejudice Revisited, 

Despite the chill, the mighty swine abides.

Tags: , , , , ,

Stalking Corn on Dyckman Street

31 Jul

Cachapas y Mas
107 Dyckman Street
Inwood

There was a small booth on Dyckman street where corn along with other farm fresh goods were being sold. Across the street a vendor was selling roasted corn and batata (sweet potato) cooked on a gas grill. Further down the block another vendor had homemade empanadas hanging on hooks inside his makeshift cart. This was the scene I encountered on Dyckman Street on a humid summer evening on the way to Cachapas y Mas, the Veneuzuelan fast food place Zio had chosen for our group.

Roasted corn for sale on Dyckman Street.

Besides the abundance of corn, Dyckman Street, in the Inwood section of upper Manhattan was bustling; teeming with urban humanity—the street congested and loud with honking livery drivers. On the sidewalks, microscopic shorts for women hugged tightly over curvy female mannequins, while for men there were flamboyant, colorful dress shirts on racks. Wedged between the retail stores were an assortment of fast food fried chicken places, Dominican bakeries, and a number of Latin-style steakhouses; in other words, my kind of street.

Cachapas y Mas was clean, with a row of wooden picnic tables along with a few smaller, plastic-topped tables and chairs. A slick, flat screen television broadcast soccer from a Spanish language station. The menu was displayed on a digital screen above the cashier that electronically would shift from a picture of “cachapas,” to one of “patacones,” to one of “arepas,” and finally to “yoyos;”

Yoyos, patacones and empanadas.

I did scant research once Zio announced his pick, but enough to learn that the food was Venezuelan and that the specialty were meats sandwiched between either griddle toasted corn cakes (arepas and cachapas) or fried green plantains, also known as tostones (patacones) or yellow plantain, i.e. maduros (yoyos).

Our group of five, soon to be six once Rick arrived, grabbed one of the picnic tables and added two of the plastic chairs at either end to accommodate all of us. From where I sat, my eyes were just not up to the task of reading anything from the digital screen so I got up for a closer look.

The “man in charge,” either the owner or manager, noticed my curiosity—and my trusty camera—and offered advice. He suggested a drink called papelon to start. Over the din and through his accented English, he explained that the drink was made from lime with brown sugar—two of my favorite ingredients. How could I resist?

The papelon was a bit too sweet for me, but I found it refreshing. A little less sugar and maybe a shot or two of rum would have transformed the drink into a very exceptional cocktail.

Papelon: The Venezuelan cocktail, sans rum.

I brought the drink back to the table. A line to order was beginning to form. Though proper etiquette would have us wait until our party of six arrived; we were still waiting for Rick, but Mike from Yonkers and Zio, especially when noticing the line, would never let etiquette stand in the way of their gluttony, immediately got on the line.

Eugene, Gerry and I shook our heads at the rude behavior of our comrades.

“No class,” Gerry said, glancing at the time. “It’s not like Rick is more than a few minutes late.”

“I know. It’s pitiful. Sad, really.” I added while shaking my head at their disgraceful behavior.

Eugene said nothing; instead he rose and joined the line.

I sipped my papelon, squinted at the digital menu again, peered out onto Dyckman Street and not seeing Rick, took my place on the line behind Eugene.

As the line moved slowly forward, I turned around. Rick had arrived and was already on the line, a few spots behind me.

Yoyos or patacones? Those were the two finalists. But stuffed with what? They all pretty much had the same choices; cheese, ham and cheese, chicken, shredded beef, roast pork, steak, chorizo, grilled chicken or, if you had a thing against meat, and if you did, why were you here, then there was the avocado salad arepa offering.

I decided on a shredded beef patacone along with a pastelito; an empanada like snack the owner recommended that was stuffed with meat and cheese. What harm would a little more grease do?

All of us returned to the table to wait for our names to be called with our orders. Of course, Mike from Yonkers and Zio were first. Both ordering cachapas; Zio’s stuffed with chorizo, Mike from Yonkers with shredded beef.

Chorizo cachapas

Zio generously offered me a taste. The corn cake was slightly sweet and dense, but rich with the flavor of fresh corn. It complemented the salty chorizo perfectly. While they ate, I dug through the pastelito. It reminded me somewhat of a meat and cheese calzone, but with a Latin flair.

I heard the Spanish sing song of my name and shot up from my seat returning moments later with the patacone. Using the plastic fork and knife provided, I tried to saw through the fried green plantain. Both utensils were not up to the task, bending to the tough tostone exterior. Giving up, I ate it how it probably should have been eaten; like a sandwich. And though I was able to maneuver some of the juicy shredded beef into my mouth, much of it dropped onto my plastic tray.

Patacone with shredded beef

Zio easily finished the chorizo cachapas, but despite its gargantuan size, it just was  not enough for his prodigious appetite. “I need more,” he mumbled and got up and ordered a beef empanada. The ground beef, onions and spices stuffed into a cornmeal pastry.

After taking a few bites, Zio put the empanada down. “It has a distinctly Alpo-like flavor,” he commented.

Nothing Alpo-like about this empanada.

He offered the remains of meat pie to me. I took a bite. “Hmmm, maybe, but it’s the best Alpo-like empanada I’ve ever had,” I said approvingly. The cornmeal pastry was crunchy with bits of coarse ground cornmeal and the meat was pungent, even aromatic, I was guessing from the amalgam of spices.

We make quick work of the cachapas, patacones, and empanadas and soon the dirty paper plates and napkins were piled high on our trays. With the exception of not experiencing a yoyo, I was more than satisfied with Cachapas y Mas.

The mess left behind.

As I made my way to my car, I could feel the patacone and all the other bites I had at Cachapas y Mas laying heavily in my belly.  The buzz on Dyckman Street had subsided somewhat.  I noticed that though the men’s flowered dress shirts had been removed from the street, the microscopic shorts on the female mannequins were still on display.  Dyckman Street, I realized, was a place for those with better self control than I.  I would be back.  But it wouldn’t be soon.

Tags: , , , , ,

Recession Special

27 Jul

Is “recession”  a new Zagat  food category? Can anyone chime in on their number one recession eatery? Why do I feel like I’m missing out on something?

Tags: , , , , ,

The Chinatown Congee Wars: Part Two

24 Jul

Great N.Y. Noodletown vs. Congee Village

With my trusty congee taster, Luigi, away on a fresh air fund break, I needed an aide to help me finalize the war I started a couple of weeks ago. I knew no other worthy accomplice than Zio. And he was more than ready for the task.

Great N.Y. Noodletown
28 ½ Bowery

Noodletown

On an overcast morning, I found him loitering next to Great N.Y. Noodletown on the Bowery in Chinatown. One of the elderly women that Luigi had observed were so prevalent in Chinatown (The Chinatown Congee Wars: Part One) was sitting next to where Zio was standing, selling umbrellas, a handkerchief covering her mouth. Was she ahead of the whooping cough curve, or was the precaution a leftover from the bird flu epidemic? Zio didn’t seem to mind the close proximity and as soon as I arrived, we went into the restaurant.

Neither Zio nor I were strangers to Great N.Y. Noodletown though when I visited it was not usually for congee.  I do recall ordering the comforting porridge at least once, but my memory of it is dim. It must have made enough of an impression, however, for me to include it in this very serious challenge.

Using all our resolve, Zio and I tried not to peek at the salt baked shrimp, the roast pig on rice, the squid with flowering chives, the triple delight noodles and all the other Noodletown greatest hits found on the menu. Instead we focused on congee only.

Knowing how good the shrimp usually is at Noodletown, I ordered a bowl of shrimp congee. Zio, also sticking to seafood, went with the sliced fish.

Of course, I needed to also compare Noodletown’s “cruller” with Big Wong’s and Congee’s.

The Noodletown cruller

“What the…?” Zio gasped when the cruller appeared on our table.

“It goes with the congee,” I explained.

But he was skeptical. He broke off a piece and ate it. “It’s like a grease sponge,” he said, demonstrating by squeezing the cruller and showing me the oil slick on his finger.

“Yeah, that’s why it’s a perfect accompaniment to congee. The grease works as a foil to the starch of the congee,” was the justification I offered, though not with much conviction.

Our bowls arrived. The steam from them formed a cumulus-like cloud around Zio’s rotund face. “You can’t eat this for about ten minutes,” he said. “You’ll fry the inside of your mouth.”

“That’s what the cruller is for,” I said. “Dip it in, like a doughnut.”

Zio scoffed at the idea.

Less than ten minutes later we were sipping the brutally hot gruel. The thin, rice porridge was infused with the flavor of the shrimp. And the pieces of shrimp—I counted six in my bowl—were bigger than golf balls.

Golf ball-sized shrimp.

Zio soon had his head buried in his congee. Using his spoon like a skilled surgeon, he methodically brought the hot soup and pieces of sliced fish to his open mouth, taking it in masterfully.

I watched his performance for a moment and then said, “You might not want to finish it.”

He picked his head up. “Huh?”

“We’ve got another place to try after this,” I reminded him. “Save room. If you eat too much here, you won’t be able to give the other contestant a fair shake.”

He thought for a moment. “You’re right,” he said and put down his spoon.

Reluctantly, we had the bowls wrapped up; our waiter sliding on plastic gloves in front of us, and then pouring each bowl into a take out container.

Congee Village
207 Bowery

Though the congee at N.Y. Noodletown was light, I could feel the density of the two enormous shrimps I ate while walking up the Bowery to our next destination. I hoped the exercise would offer relief and lesson the load there. There was still more work to do.

For sticklers, Congee Village might not be considered a Chinatown restaurant. Located a few blocks north of Delancey Street, you could say the restaurant was technically in the Lower East Side. But Chinese-run restaurant supply and lighting stores populated the street northward, along with an abundance of signage in Chinese; enough to figure Congee Village within Chinatown’s expanding sprawl.

A full bar and a trickling waterfall greeted us as we entered the very ornate Congee Village. This was a complete departure from the grungy, yet refreshingly familiar confines just experienced at N.Y Noodletown.

Congee Village waterfall

A lovely waterfall greets you upon entrance to Congee Village.

We were given a table in the dark, burnished wood laden dining room complete with large, family-sized booths and a flat screen television tuned, at this hour, to NY1 news. There were tablecloths and wine glasses on the tables yet the napkins were of the thin, paper variety.

“What a tourist trap,” Zio muttered.

I looked around. The few tables that were occupied were with groups of Chinese couples and families, and unless they were out of town Chinese, I had to disagree.

“Looks like a local favorite to me,” I said.

The menu, tourist trap or not, was impressive. Despite the name of the restaurant, we had to flip through a number of colorful pages to find the congee. When we did, the prices, waterfall and full bar notwithstanding, were actually lower than N.Y. Noodletown’s.

Sticking to the seafood theme of the day, I ordered the “crab porridge,” while Zio this time choose squid. If there were crullers, I just didn’t have the courage to order them.

The bowls arrived and looked like what Luigi and I had at Congee; pots with long handles. Smaller bowls were given out making it easier to share.

Crab porridge

A whole, blue crab was in my bowl, chopped into a few pieces. Like the shrimp infused the congee at Noodletown, the crab definitely added flavor to the bowl here at Congee Village. The melding of the shellfish broth with the rice congee was a revelatory match. To eat the crab, however, I had to fish out the pieces and pick the shells apart with my fingers. It was messy work and the thin napkins weren’t helping. But the congee was so good, even Zio’s crude, distasteful remark about what my fingers looked like coated in crab shells and overcooked rice gruel didn’t deter from my enjoyment of it.

Zio fished a piece of squid out of his congee. It was scored with numerous criss cross patterns. He examined it. “Why do they get fancy with the squid,” he complained.

“Does it taste good?” I asked.

“Yeah, it’s fantastic,” Zio said.

“Then who cares.”

I sampled a piece and though it was tougher than I like, it too worked amazingly with the bland congee.

There would be no leftovers here. We could finish the congee and not worry about having to sample another. The crab remains were scattered across my small plate.

The remains of the crab.

“So what do you think?” I asked Zio.

“We really gotta pick a winner?” he whined.

I thought for a moment. I didn’t want to either. Each of the four congee joints had their merits. At Congee, I would stick with the pork and preserved egg while at Big Wong, how could I resist the roast pork congee? There was no denying that Noodletown’s shrimp congee was a one of a kind. And here, at Congee Village, I’ll forever swear by their crab porridge.

Yes, I know I’ve copped out. I couldn’t crown a champion. I’m just no good at these things—these numbered lists where you have to rank your favorites, whatever they may be. Congee preference is subjective. No matter how expert my opinion, I really can’t change someone else’s taste inclination. And in this case, one man’s congee just might be another man’s gruel.

Tags: , , , , ,

The Hero of Mott Street

17 Jul

Parisi Bakery
198 Mott Street
Little Italy (also known as NoLita)

They call it a bakery, but in reality the bakery is a few blocks away on Elizabeth Street. This Parisi’s outpost specializes in magnificently-crafted heroes.

Heroes on the walls.

Maybe the pictures of Babe Ruth and other New York Yankees provide heroic inspiration.

Parisi’s meatball hero.

But finding hero nirvana is never easy and at  Parisi’s there is the little problem of the line. The line begins to form just before noon and soon snakes out the door and onto Mott Street. I’ve many times preached my feelings about waiting on line for food. Unless times are very hard, don’t ever do it!

Even for this.

Parisi’s pepper and egg hero

There are ways to avoid the line quandary. It just takes a little planning. You’ll need to set your schedule around your visit to Parisi’s. Make that your priority for the day. Take a late breakfast or an early or very late lunch and you should be fine.

Tell me that’s not worth a schedule adjustment?

There is no seating at Parisi’s but who cares? You’ve got your hero.  Don’t ask for more.  Or maybe just a few loaves to take home.

Tags: , , , ,

← Older Entries
Newer Entries →