Why is it that I’m a sucker for anything old school? All right, don’t answer that. My feelings on fusion, when it comes to food are well chronicled. But I make an exception with comidas china y criollas. A large wonton soup and a heaping plate of yellow rice and black beans is my kind of comfort food, fusion be damned.
Enjoy the weekend. Another installment of Adventures in Chow City will return on Tuesday.
I consider myself a pizza aficionado (or should I say snob) and have sampled many of the legends. For old school, brick oven, coal fired style I’ve been to original John’s on Bleecker Street, Grimaldi’s just over the Brooklyn Bridge, Patsy’s in East Harlem, Lombardi’s in SoHo, and the original Totonno’s in Coney Island. I’ve experienced the pleasures of the perfect New York “regular” slice at Joe’s on Bleecker. For Sicilian slices, there wasn’t much better than Sal’s in Mamaroneck. Back in my college days, I often ditched dorm dinner to drive over an hour for the clam pie at Frank Pepe’s in New Haven or a meatball “apizza” from Zuppardi’s in nearby West Haven. But I had never been to the much celebrated Di Fara’s Pizzeria in Midwood, Brooklyn.
The crowds waiting to eat at Di Fara’s were as legendary as the pizza. Di Fara’s definitely took planning; open for lunch from 12 until 4:30 and then closed until 6 made the timing tough. Do you get there before 6 and hang out outside waiting for it to open? Do you time it so you arrive after the first wave has ordered? Or do you make Di Fara’s an afternoon- long lunch break? It all seemed too complicated until, finally, Gerry and I ventured to Midwood 2007; leaving in the late afternoon hoping to arrive just as Di Fara’s opened for dinner. It just so happened that our group was scheduled to convene the following night at a traditional, not so celebrated place. What follows below is part one of what turned out to be an eating doubleheader.
Di Fara Pizza
1424 Avenue J
Midwood, Brooklyn
Gerry and I knew it would be a challenge. Zio couldn’t do it; the termites were beginning their early spring spawn and his talents were needed elsewhere. Mike from Yonkers claimed other commitments such as a job. Eugene claimed other commitments such as working out, if that can possibly be believed. Rick was a Di Fara veteran and a hard working executive; consecutive eating orgies might appear to be frivolous. That left only Gerry and I. We were braced for back to back expeditions to the outer boroughs and the culinary pleasures they promised starting with a long anticipated trip to the much hyped Di Fara Pizza followed by a trip to Queens and a Japanese place picked by Eugene called Yamakaze.
Normally we wouldn’t consider a food destination if we classified it “much hyped,” but for Di Fara’s we were willing to make an exception. Yes, the pizzeria had been ballyhooed in all the local publications, many claiming it to be the best pizza in the city. And after making the trek, finding it surrounded by Kosher bakeries and grocery stores on Avenue J in the heart of Jewish-orthodox Midwood, Brooklyn; the exterior non-descript, the interior cramped, the few tables either occupied or empty but with bits of congealed cheese, olive oil, sauce, and crust from possibly a generation of diners still on the tables, the walls, where the paint wasn’t peeling or crumbling, covered with accolades from all the usual suspects: New York Magazine, Time Out New York, Newsday, the Daily News, the Times, along with a photo of Di Fara proprietor and master pizza maker Dominic DeMarco and his daughter with Rob Reiner, and a framed, and very apt quote credited to Mohandas Gandhi: “There is more to life than increasing its speed.”
Gerry and I both were prepared for a wait. We knew Dominic DeMarco took pride in making every pizza himself and his way, which was, so we heard, painstakingly methodical. There is no defined ordering system at Di Fara. When we walked in there were a number of people scattered around the counter. Was there a line to order? I asked but all I got in return were bemused smiles and shrugs. I took that to mean that there wasn’t. But when Dominic’s daughter, who was the old man’s only help that evening, actually asked us what we wanted, we knew we had to be ready with a quick answer. That didn’t leave any time to peruse the options so Gerry and I went with the easiest; a regular “round” pie and two slices of “square.” And to our surprise, there were actually two hot square slices available as well as a just vacated, oil-streaked, tomato sauce-stained table. The slices would work as the perfect appetizer as we waited for our pie.
Square Pie
A stack of empty boxes that held cans of San Marzano tomatoes was piled next to the counter which I quickly attributed to the robust sauce on our “square” slices. When lifting the slice the olive oil slid gracefully over the cheese while the crust, cooked not in a wood burning brick oven and despite being saturated by the oil, retained a crunchy, almost fried-like texture. Before even tasting the slice, Gerry, reflexively, added granulated garlic which he almost immediately regretted; the addition totally superfluous.
So we devoured our slices and then began to wait. We had no idea who might have ordered before or after us. People began to fill the small confines, gathering around the counter. DeMarco’s daughter had disappeared into the back; presumably to prepare additional ingredients like sausage, pepperoni, onions, and mushrooms. When she returned, she didn’t immediately go to the counter to take orders but went about her business oblivious of the hordes that were forming. I went out and bought a few beers for the wait and bagels from one of the kosher bakeries for the next morning’s breakfast. A half hour went by. A group of high school students who were there before us were still waiting for their pie. A man sitting and staring at the counter expectantly, also ahead of us, would occasionally get up, take a look at what was going on behind the counter only to return to his seat and resume his staring. The area around the counter was now three deep. Some were waiting for orders, others waiting to put in an order whenever the daughter got around to asking.
Our appetizer, the square slices, instead of holding off our appetites, increased it. We were ravenous. The daughter noticed us and checked her pad; she confirmed that our order had been placed. “Just a few more ahead of you,” she said. That was reassuring.
Forty five minutes had passed. Our beers were gone. I was contemplating the bag of bagels. The high school kids finally got their pizza; we watched as Dominic, a bit stooped, accompanied the pie to the counter, hand grated parmesan cheese from a huge wedge and sprinkled it on the pie, added a slather of olive oil from an old fashioned spouted tin and then brought over a bunch of basil and using scissors, clipped a few leaves onto the pie. Gerry and I eyed the pizza as the kids began to eat. The man waiting next to us got up, made his way to the counter and tried to peer over it. Dominic noticed and nodded. The man acknowledged the nod. Progress. The next pizza out was his.
The hands of DeMarco at work.
We were close. We had been waiting just over an hour when we got the nod from Dominic. Gerry got up and let Dominic prepare the pie the Di Fara way; a sprinkling of grated cheese, a few swirls of olive oil, and then the freshly scissor-cut basil. Gerry brought the pie to the table. We waited just a few moments for it to cool down while admiring its aesthetic perfection and then, despite hungry, envious eyes upon us, began to deliberately consume it, slice by slice, finishing in less than a quarter of the time of our wait for it to arrive.
It was large pie and despite its somewhat delicate crust, still heartier than the thin, coal-fueled oven pies from say, Patsy’s in Harlem or Totonno’s in Coney Island. which made finishing it in its entirety an accomplishment or a blatant display of gluttony, depending on your point of view. Gerry and I certainly believed it was the former. What was the point in taking a slice or two home? We could have been generous and shared a last slice with one of the many now waiting anxiously for DeMarco to make their pizza. But then who knew when we would ever return to Midwood and subject ourselves to the bitter and the sweet of Di Fara Pizza? The pizza was extraordinary, but was it worth the long, confusing wait within Di Fara’s dingy, cramped confines. Di Fara’s requires work; you have to plan your visit, trying your best to avoid prime times, but, in a strange way, maybe the extra effort enhances the flavor and overall dining experience. Maybe Di Fara’s pizza would not taste so special if it were more accessible? If nothing else, it was something to think about on the long ride home.
Where the man works.
Since our visit in 2007, Gerry has returned to Di Fara’s several times, but I’ve never been back. Again, it’s the planning thing; I just haven’t cleared the afternoon/evening to make the trek. And Di Fara’s is seemingly recession-proof; in 2009 they upped their slice to a whopping $5. But Di Fara’s is unique; the pizza cannot really be replicated. Or so I thought? According to Di Fara’s website; www.difara.com, there is the sobering news that there will be a Di Fara’s debuting this summer in, where else, Las Vegas. The only good news about that is that the time it takes to get to Midwood from where I live in Manhattan along with the requisite hour plus wait for a pie, it actually might be faster to get a Vegas Di Fara slice into my mouth than a Brooklyn slice.
Sunday is the big parade. You know the one I mean: the National Puerto Rican Day Parade. And to show respect to all my friends who claim roots from Las Isla Del Encanto, Fried Neck Bones hereby proclaims this Cuchifrito Weekend. So go out there and eat all the deep fried pig parts you can find, particularly the delectable ears. Don’t be shy about devouring chicharron (fried pork skin), papas rellenas (fried potato balls stuffed with meats), bacalaitos (fried stuffed codfish balls), morcilla (blood sausage), and pasteles (pork-filled deep fried pastry) to your, by now, overworked heart’s content.
Cuchifritos and frituras
To add to the spirit of the weekend, here’s a treat from that honorary coqui, the late, great vibraphonist, Cal Tjader who had the very good sense to compose a piece about the goodies above he titled Cuchy Frito Man. Click below to listen.
Little Pepper
18-24 College Point Blvd
Flushing
A few days before the long overdue gathering of our gallant gang, Eugene, who was to make this much anticipated pick, had to bow out due to more a more pressing professional commitment, as if there actually is such a thing. His last minute announcement, however, was only a minor setback. Our collective hibernation during the recent frigid spell just further fortified our determination to carry on without Eugene, and as we quickly learned, without Rick who also had a business engagement that he unconvincingly explained took precedence over our mission. Displaying leadership skills long dormant, Gerry unhesitatingly assumed Eugene’s pick and steered us, with his usual creative gusto, to a part of Queens we had, inexplicably, neglected in the four years we have been assembling. We were going to Flushing—to the largest Chinatown in New York.
Heading east off the Grand Central, away from Shea Stadium and under the 7 train tracks on Roosevelt Avenue, Gerry and I in Gerry’s jeep, crossed what seemed like in the dark, a bridge over very muddy waters. Once over the bridge, we were in Flushing’s Chinatown, crammed with buses, police cars, slow moving traffic, busy sidewalks, tea houses, banquet halls, bakeries, Asian supermarkets, and noodle houses. Before entering the somewhat controlled chaos of the Flushing streets, we saw the yellow awning with the English-language name of the restaurant that was our destination: Little Pepper, also known in Chinese as Xiao La Jiao Sichuan.
Descending into the basement restaurant, we noticed ornaments of chili peppers and posters of bucolic scenes that could have been New England.—or somewhere in China. The restaurant was mostly empty except for one large round table occupied by a Chinese family who stared at us incredulously upon our entrance.
We were, apparently, assigned the one waitress who spoke some semblance of English. That, and the specials on the wall written in Chinese characters, increased our anticipation. We like it when communication is difficult—when we need help to decipher a menu. But this menu didn’t seem too problematic; it was written in English and offered an assortment of non-traditional eats such as bull frog, rabbit, duck, and eel along with a variety of offal; stomach, intestines, tongue, pork blood, ox tripe, and pig kidney. The menu also featured numerous little peppers next to items signifying that the dish would be spicy. Our waitress’s first words to us were; “You like spicy?” We understood; we were in an authentic Szechuan restaurant; there would be no compromise when it came to the heat level of the dishes. We would not have it any other way.
spicy pork dumplings
We began the ordering drill, or more aptly, the pointing drill. We pointed to what was on the menu and our waitress wrote it down starting with pork dumplings in hot sauce, noodles with minced beef in hot sauce, diced rabbit in a red chili sauce, lamb with hot and spicy sauce, that szechuan classic, double cooked pork, and Chinese string beans with intestines in hot sauce which, even after pointing to it, our waitress seemed unconvinced of our intentions. She peered closer over my shoulder and, in her broken English said either “interesting” or “intestines” in an unbelieving tone. She wanted to make very sure that we were indeed ordering the intestines, not “interesting” string beans. My finger hadn’t moved from the spot on the menu and, finally convinced we were serious, she smiled tightly and wrote it down. We concluded the ordering with the only nod to a non-little pepper signified item was sautéed snow pea leaves.
The dumplings arrived first swimming in chili oil along with the noodles covered in minced beef and topped with a generous handful of coriander leaves. Almost instantaneously our tongues began to tingle. But it took the arrival of the diced rabbit in red chili sauce to initiate the raves; the tiny pieces of rabbit, cooked tender and still attached to small bones was served room temperature and coated with a fiery chili sauce.
We could smell the intestines even before they hit the table; their earthy, distinctive aroma and flavor definitely an acquired taste. And after one bite, I had not yet acquired it. Mike from Yonkers commented, as if he were an expert in the preparation of Szechuan-prepared intestines, that he thought they were a tad undercooked. Zio wasn’t sure what they were exactly. “Chinese chitlins,” Gerry barked back. Whatever they were, they obscured the Chinese string bean, because if there was a string bean in the dish, it was impossible to find. The double cooked pork was thinly-sliced and with a salted, bacon-like flavor and a comforting rim of fat around the me. The most remarkable dish, however, was the lamb, served in aluminum foil, coated in a cumin-Szechuan peppercorn rub and tongue numbingly addictive. Despite our pleasure with the intense spice of the dishes, we were pleased when the sautéed spinach arrived to offset the heat onslaught.
cumin rubbed lamb
Dessert was not on the menu; there was nothing to cool down our palates, no orange slices, no ice cream, no pineapple; nothing except for the frozen Flushing air. By the time we left, the round tables were full; patrons were dipping raw meats and vegetables with chopsticks into boiling pots of water cooked on burners on the tabletops and holding them in the pot until they cooked. I wanted to know what it was they had ordered. I asked, but the only response in English I got was “hot pot.” I left it at that—it was their world, we were only visiting.
Little Pepper, I think, along with Tandoori Hut and Upi Jaya, remains as one of our best experiences. But I have not returned since our 2007 outing and was very disheartened to read a rumor that it had closed. The news about its closing throughout the New York food blog world was sketchy and thankfully, not accurate. Little Pepper did not close, but relocated from the original Roosevelt Avenue location in Flushing to College Point Boulevard, also in Flushing. There are no more excuses. A return visit is now required.
No one was able to identify where I was below:
In my subtle hinting, I mentioned that the competition was fierce for the salt fish, baccala, bacalao, and link fish business within the confines of where I was.
Here's one
And another
And more
Pigs tails, pig snout and other goodies are also available in abundance at this place.
So what is the name of this foodie wonderlad; the poor man’s Eataly? Here, while you shop, the rumbling of trains above will serenade you. That’s because you are on 115th Street and Park Avenue in East Harlem at…
Until the next installment of Name That Place, eat well and don’t forget to change the water a few times when you soak your salt fish.
As instructed by the sign above, I checked this place out. As you can see it is in a industrial-like setting. It is not a restaurant, but you will find food here with the emphasis on salt fish, a.k.a salted cod, baccala, bacalao, etc, etc. In fact, the competition for the best “salt fish” boneless or not at this place is fierce. That should be enough of a hint for all you New York food junkies. Leave your answer in the comments section below. On Monday, the place will be revealed right here at Fried Neck Bones…and Some Home Fries.
Let us remember those who gave their lives so that we could enjoy a festive and delicious Memorial Day Weekend barbecue.
On this day they were pardoned.
But these birds and bunnies were not so fortunate.
Have a great long weekend and go easy on the charred meat. Adventures in Chow City returns on Wednesday next week.
Five Star Punjabi Indian
13-05 43rd Avenue
Long Island City
I emerged from the station at 23rd St/Ely Avenue to hear the rumbling of another train above. It was dark, cold and windy. I could see the lights of Manhattan flickering across the river. I really didn’t know where I was going as I made my way down the desolate street toward 43rd Avenue in Long Island City passing warehouses and seemingly empty factories, my eyes on the alert for signs of life; for a tavern, restaurant, deli—anything. Like a welcoming beacon, in the distance I could see bright neon lights. I wasn’t sure what it was. A car wash, maybe—service station—something automobile-related. And then I got closer and could read the lights: “Banquet Hall.” Peering inside, a slim diner-like dining room was in disarray and obviously closed. Could this be the Five Star Punjabi Indian Restaurant? Had Zio not done his homework and the restaurant was closed? But then I saw activity in an adjacent room—a lone diner was eating and I noticed an unused steam tray. The room was brightly lit and just as I was about to enter, Zio emerged from his car. “This can’t be it,” he exclaimed.
But it was. Between the dilapidated “diner” and a vacant “banquet hall” was the Five Star Punjabi Restaurant. The room was nondescript and mainly empty. We were given an ample table to accommodate our group along with menus that were written on decorative swiveling paddles. Gerry, Eugene, and Mike from Yonkers arrived followed soon after by Rick. All were wary and doubtful that they were in the right spot. Zio and I assured them that we were.
Those swiveling menus featured familiar Indian items, pakoras and samosas for appetizers, a variety of breads, assorted tandoori, and an array of vegetarian dishes and curries. The lone diner, an Indian talking quietly through a headphone attachment on his cellphone, was brought a huge platter of tandoori chicken. Rick eyed the platter covetously and immediately put in an order in for the same only to have his hopes just as quickly dashed when the waitress informed him that the Five Star Punjabi Indian restaurant had just run out of tandoori chicken. As an alternative, Rick, with the group’s unanimous approval, opted for the fish tandoori. Though there was nothing on the menu that described what chicken mughlai might be, Zio, for reasons known only to him, was determined to try it. On the other hand, Eugene, after learning that the chicken tikka was both boneless and prepared spicy, was sold on the dish, while Mike from Yonkers went for the tried and true, sag paneer. It was now up to Gerry and I to find something a little bit out of that ordinary that might justify this journey to the wastelands of Long Island City. The best we could come up with was the mutton roganjosh and the goat curry.
Zio’s Ship of the Damned
While the bottles of Taj beer began to crowd the table, Zio regaled us with his adventure on the high seas and his narrow escape from the cruise vessel that carried 2,800 passenger, of which 700 were stricken with a “norovirus” including three that, according to Zio, were “mouldering (sic) in a freezer somewhere in the bowels of the ship.” Zio was particularly graphic in his description going on to tell us that “in the close quarters of the ship’s hold you could hear people retching and gagging. But this still didn’t stop them from clamoring for the next buffet, after all, some of them had not eaten in a half hour.”
Zio was particularly grateful for useful tips from the cruise boat crew.
Despite Zio’s grisly tale, once the food arrived and in absolutely no particular order; the fish tandoori first followed by bread, then the entrees, and lastly, the mixed pakoras we requested as an appetizer, we began to stuff our own faces. And we didn’t stop until the plates were wiped clean with the bread.
Everyone seemed satisfied with their food, though I’m not sure any of us were ready to award the restaurant five stars. Rick was pleased with the fish tandoori which might actually have been quickly fried in its rub as opposed to slow cooked. Not a bad alternative considering the fish was tilapia and most assuredly would have dried out if slow cooked in a tandoori oven. Gerry, however, was not as enamored with the goat. What was wrong with it, I asked?
“All I got was bone,” he answered incredulously.
I shrugged. “Yeah, it can be like that with goat.”
Goat curry: Bones included.
When we visited Five Star Punjabi in early 2007, the condo boom in Long Island City was just beginning. In the four years since, high rises abound yet the funky Five Star has survived the change…at least for now.
As we enter barbecue season, let us not forget those with less smoke than others. Would someone please help make this man’s bar b.q whole again?
Enjoy your weekend and look for another Adventure in Chow City on Tuesday.
B.B. African and American Restaurant
1715 Webster Avenue
Bronx, NY
The B.B. African and American Restaurant was just off the Cross Bronx Expressway, on semi-industrial Webster Avenue, wedged between a Taco Bell and a Puerto Rican Lechonera and across the street from a West African video store. There were no subway stops nearby. No signs of gentrification at all. After the regretful Nomad experience, we were happily in familiar territory. When we noticed that the dim restaurant was lit mainly by the big screen television where European and African soccer was playing; that there were only men inside with the exception of two women in the kitchen, and that there were sandals and prayer mats tucked off to the side of the dining area, we were even more reassured that we were in the right place.
Webster Avenue & the Cross Bronx: Gentrification-proof
The owner, Mr. B.B., an emigrant of Guinea, was also our host and offered us tea or bottled non-diet drinks. It was apparent that the clientele was predominately Muslim and that no alcohol was served here. So Lipton or overly sweet Mistic-brand drinks were our options. The menu featured the “American” portion first where hamburgers, eggs, sandwiches, even pastas were offered. We skipped past it to the last page where we found the West African choices. Mike from Yonkers, displaying his dubious knowledge of foods African, recited a few items from the menu to see if they were available; his pronunciation of them mystifying Mr. B.B. They were not. But Mr. B.B. assured us that they had everything else. Mike from Yonkers tried again—again he was thwarted. But despite the setbacks, Mr. B.B. said he had fish, tilapia to be exact; he had plenty of goat meat, and he had beef, lamb and chicken, “very good chicken” he added. To make things easier for him and for us, we told him to put together a good representation of his menu; that we had no dietary restrictions.
While we waited very patiently for the parade of dishes to make it to our table, Eugene, savvy cruise boat veteran that he claims to be, gave Zio a few worthless tips for Zio’s upcoming cruise through the Mediterranean and back across the Atlantic. As is usual, the conversation got loud, but didn’t seem to disrupt the African in robe and skull cap who was praying on the mat adjacent to our table.
A huge platter of peas in a thick, tomato sauce arrived first quickly followed by an equally large plate of crispy fried goat meat surrounded by onions—the small pieces of meat chewy, as goat tends to be, but without its usual heavy gaminess. Mr. B.B. returned almost immediately with another platter, this one piled with thin lamb chops, also smothered in onions. Knowing we would need more room, our intrepid host added another table for us to accommodate the growing collection of platters. Two bowls of stewed chicken arrived next, the chicken tender and moist floating in a rich, peanut-thickened gravy. Following the chicken were three whole, robust tilapia, ready for our attention. Mike from Yonkers immediately grabbed one and began shredding flesh from bone while Rick advised that he would hold out for the fish cheeks, as they were the most flavorful and tender part of the fish.
Chicken stew in peanut sauce
Though our combined tables were overflowing, Mr. B.B. forgot the rice and peanut gravy and quickly returned with them. I asked for a hot sauce and he brought a squeeze-top French’s “Original Yellow” mustard bottle. He warned that it wasn’t mustard, but very hot sauce. Ignoring Mike from Yonkers’ petty gripe that the rice was overcooked, I took some and sprinkled the sauce on it. It had a mustard-base, like French’s “Original Yellow” but with about ten times the kick.
We slowly cleaned the platters while Mr. B.B. told us of his journey from Guinea to Buffalo, New York, and ultimately to the Bronx, where he opened the restaurant in 1997. Though the restaurant seemed busy, he was lamenting the current state of his business; that he could not keep up with inflation by raising prices on the menu because his customers would leave him for the growing number of rival African restaurants that had sprouted in the area. Even a one or two dollar increase on an item and he might lose a customer. So who were we to complain when we got our bill and noticed that the items on the menu, had, in fact, gone up a dollar or two from what was listed. Though we were a couple of dollars over our allotted $20 budget, there were leftovers, a rarity at our gatherings—goat meat Gerry gladly took home for something to gnaw on when his colossal appetite would, in an hour or two, most likely return.
B.B African and American Restaurant, despite, Mr. B.B.’s worries back in 2006, remains open. In fact, after a recent visit, I noticed that everything about the semi-industrial enclave has remained exactly as it was on our visit except that maybe the constant traffic roar from the nearby Cross Bronx Expressway has gotten even louder.
Fried Neck Bones...and some home fries 