Pernil
I was surprised that no food-savvy people could recognize the hunk of meat above as that Puerto Rican staple, Pernil. For those who are still unaware of pernil’s allure; it is slow roasted pork shoulder embedded with garlic and topped with oregano and olive oil. The pernil above was from La Lechonara Criolla in the Bronx. I can personally attest to the meat’s succulence and the perfectly crisped fatty skin which I, without a shred of guilt, devoured heartily.
Vegans and vegetarians, the meaty image below might be offensive to you. Now is the time to cover your eyes. You’ve been warned.
For all others, our new game requires expert meat-defining skills. I’m starting out with a real softball. Educated foodies out there in food blog land should be able to whack it out of the park. But this is a two-part question/answer. Tell me the cut of meat and, a bit more difficult, what is its “cooked” named. Leave your answers in the comments section below. On Monday I will identify the meat and its name. I’ll even throw in where you can eat it.
Have an excellent weekend. More Adventures in Chow City on Tuesday.
As you will see below, Nomad was the initial pick for Mike from Yonkers and an unfortunate one. The good news is that he learned from his mistake as you will read in future installments.
NOMAD
78 2nd Avenue
East Village
There’s an old cliché in sports that by the end of a player’s first season the rookie is no longer a rookie. Mike from Yonkers has been our “rookie” in terms of experience with the group, but by now, at least a year since his first outing, he also can’t really be considered a rookie. So with that in mind, he was, for the first time, given the opportunity to choose our next destination. We had complete confidence that after observing the previous year’s picks he would understand our loose criteria. That he would find a place close to our $20 limit and one that was below the radar of the major food critics. It wouldn’t hurt if the place he found might also cause a stir by our group’s appearance; where we would be the minority whether in ethnic origin, skin tone, or the language we speak.
Mike from Yonkers ’ first choice was a restaurant in Astoria , presumably Greek, called Philoxenia. Our only Greek experience was the unfortunate Uncle George’s that Zio is still living down. Upon further research, however, Mike from Yonkers discovered that Philoxenia was no more. To his credit, he quickly came up with a Plan B: that being Sriprahai, the acclaimed Thai restaurant in Woodside, Queens. Sriprahai might have been an excellent choice five years ago, but by now it has been crowned by critics everywhere, including the New York Times, as possibly the best Thai restaurant in the region. As a result, Sriprahai no longer fit into our criteria.
Mike from Yonkers now had to scramble and this time, came up with a restaurant in Brooklyn called Sweetwater. The first problem with Sweetwater was that it was in Williamsburg and that alone should have set off alarm signals to Mike from Yonkers. With tattoo-clad culinary grads on every corner, the new (nouveau) restaurants of Williamsburg are pretty much the antithesis of what we seek out. That Sweetwater had its own website didn’t help and a quick look at the reviews and menu that included items such as “saffron-tinged rice balls,” and “cornmeal-crusted brook trout,” immediately eliminated it.
By now, we realized that Mike from Yonkers was on the wrong track. Hoping to steer him back, Gerry offered guidance reminding him that very few places we’ve been to, if any, have a wine list and that we tend to “favor more ‘gritty’ type places—a place with a little greace (sic).”
After those words, Mike from Yonkers was on his own; we could do no more for him. So despite that it had its own glossy website; that it was in the now pricey real estate of the East Village and that it had a wine list; we were resigned to convene at the appropriately-named Nomad.
Around the corner from East Sixth St and the cluster of restaurants known as Little India, Nomad, which claimed to serve the food of North Africa , was barren when we arrived. Once we were all seated, minus Rick who was in Arkansas and dining on pulled pork, the waitress came and, to our dismay, recited the restaurant’s nightly specials, one of which was something with “seared tuna.” Another one of our unwritten by laws is that any recitation of daily specials is strictly forbidden. The mention by the waitstaff of anything “seared,” an absolute no no. We understood that she was just doing her job—she was blameless in this fiasco.
Chicken pastilla: Sweet +savory=confused.
We did our best and tried to stick with what was genuinely “North African,” avoiding pedestrian menu items like endive salad, steak au poivre, Moroccan crab cakes, and duck confit Our first choice was zaalouk, a wedge of roasted eggplant with tomato, a very good octopus salad, with fennel, orange and mint, and merguez, gamy lamb sausage. For entrees, there was tajines including lamb with prunes which excited Zio at the hopeful prospect of regularity, and a chicken tajine, a bland stew with pieces of chicken and vegetables. We tried something called chicken pastilla; kind of chicken pot pie stuffed into a phyllo-dough turnover and topped with powdered sugar. The savory and the sweet not a good combination here. Couscous is, of course, a North African staple, and it came with the tajines, but you can never have too much couscous, so we ordered a “couscous royal;” topped with vegetables and sausage, and accompanied with stewed chicken and lamb in the same, undistinguishable tajine broth.
The waitress announced the dessert special as a “rose water” scented crème brulee. Knowing that there was no way we would come under our allotted $20 per person food budget and given the extraordinary opportunity to dine on crème brulee, scented with rose water no less, at one of our gatherings, we succumbed and even threw in an order of North African cookies that Zio commented, were suspiciously similar to what one might find in an Entemann’s box. As for the crème brulee, I sniffed, but the scent of rose water was non-existent. As it turned out, Rick, with his pulled pork in Arkansas , fared best of all of us on this night.
North African cookes…minus the Enteman’s box.
In reality, the food at Nomad was not bad at all. But our group sometimes travels in an alternate reality and in that world our Nomad experience was, as I said above, a “fiasco.” For those who are interested, Nomad now has added that Moroccan specialty, tapas, to their repertoire. For those interested, here is their very slick website: www.nomadrestaurant.com.
We were not fortunate to experience the “attractive back garden.”
For $3.99 you get a couple of stealth helicopters, a few select Navy SEALs, and Pakistani curry, extra spicy please.
Enjoy your weekend. Adventures in Chow City will return on Tuesday.
Rick steered us to the Middle Eastern enclave on Steinway Street in Astoria on a summer night in 2006. Our destination was an Egyptian restaurant called Eastern Nights. What follows is our experience on our night on Steinway Street.
Eastern Nights
2535 Steinway St
Astoria
The man with the Middle Eastern accent grumbled on the phone that the R Train-Steinway Street stop was the closest subway station to Eastern Nights, the Egyptian restaurant, assigned by Rick. When I got out of the station and onto Steinway, I began to walk west. My phone buzzed. It was Zio telling me that the address for the restaurant was a billiards club, not Eastern Nights. I looked at the address I had; the numbers had been inadvertently transposed. The restaurant was east of the subway station—I was going in the wrong direction. I waited in front of a Colombian bakery while Zio circled back to pick me up. I saw the Connecticut plates and hopped into the car, the sound of Zio’s precious pesticides splashing in their containers in the back. Steinway Street was as congested as the teeming alleys of Old Cairo and it was slow going with no sign of our destination. It wasn’t until we began seeing men sitting on folding chairs in front of cafes sucking on hookahs that we knew we were close.
We all arrived pretty much at the same time and were escorted into the back, under a big tent to a round table that was wet with water—the waiter joking with us that it had just rained, though we hadn’t had rain in days. There were a number of televisions suspended from the tent’s ceiling; a 1950’s black and white Egyptian romantic comedy was playing; the female lead looking a bit like Lucille Ball and not a head scarf in sight. The waiter mopped up the water and we sat and took a look at the menu. The first page was dominated by a variety of flavored teas and a separate hookah menu. We were in the back of the tent and in clear view of a large collection of hookahs that were maintained by a man whose only job was to maintain the hookahs, to blend the tobacco and light the coals. Inhaling tobacco with fruit flavors like apricot and mango would make for a unique experience, but we were here for the food, not the hookahs or the teas.
Hookahs
And the food was enough of an experience for us. So much so that our round table was just not big enough to hold all of it; the overworked waiter had to bring over a spare chair to use as a side table. Our unabashed excess drew looks from others in the restaurant, but nothing we weren’t used to. The feast began with fattoush, a cucumber, tomato salad followed by something called foul which turned out to be refried fava beans. A mound of warm pita bread was accompanied by a platter of hummus and baba ganoush, both swimming in olive oil.
Foul…but it really wasn’t.
A plate of grilled sausages, comprised mostly of casing stuffed with rice went alongside the hummus. Soon a platter of dry, tough and undernourished rabbit and duck crowded the table along with fatta, a stew made with a gamy lamb shank. Shrimp and calamari tajin, cooked in a crock and overwhelmed in a thick tomato sauce was squeezed onto the table as was a big plate where a whole grilled striped bass, cooked to perfect moistness was centered. We also had rice and something like rice with pieces of pita in it.
And then the pigeon arrived. Eastern Nights was the first restaurant of the many we had visited in almost four years that served the tiny, big city bird. It was magnificently presented; trussed lovingly—its tiny wings tied delicately together, a greasy glaze over its succulent skin. Zio looked at it and wondered if the chef has put a rub on it and if so, what could it be? The pigeon was stuffed with wheatberries and mint, which was a good thing because the meat on the tiny bird was scarce, to say the least. We picked at the pigeon, leaving the upper portion intact, its wings still tied together. That there would actually be something left to eat on our table was a rare occurrence in our outings, but at Eastern Nights, portions of the duck, rabbit and lamb tellingly remained. The striped bass, however was picked clean.
Urban poultry
Desserts were tempting and we would have liked to try them, but our waiter was scrambling from table to table, all alone in his work with the exception of the Hookah Man who was preparing the hookahs for use. Instead, we wandered across the street to a Middle Eastern café where we did our best to enjoy phyllo-wrapped sweets, but the Arabic newspaper prominently displayed in the café with its front page of color photos of the mutilated bodies of Lebanese children made dessert bittersweet to say the least.*
*Our visit to Steinway Street occurred during the peak of the Israeli/Lebanon conflict of 2006.
Searching the internet, I learned that Eastern Nights is now Eastern Nights Hookah Cafe. They have their own Facebook page which proclaims that it is also under new ownership and management. From Facebook I also learned that there is a DJ at the café Sunday through Friday nights and a belly dancer on Saturdays which, I’m sure, would make sucking on a hookah an almost pleasurable experience.
On Friday I presented all of you with four images of a New York eating establishment dear to my heart. I am happy to report that there was a winner. He/she chose to remain anonymous but correctly identified this place.
Big Nick's Burger Joint
Big Nick’s 27-page crowd-pleasing menu includes the famous “Sumo” burger, “Hawaiian,” burger and “Madrid” burger, featuring feta, olives, pimento and with or without buffalo meat. The choices can be overwhelming at Big Nick’s, but to relieve any menu-stress you can always watch the continuous loop of Three Stooges shorts that plays on the restaurant’s ancient television. And always remember that even though Big Nick Loves You, don’t you dare open that laptop.
Welcome back to this month’s installment of Name That Place. I know I’ve been tough on all of you in the previous challenges I’ve presented in this little Fried Neck Bones game we play. So tough that I’ve stumped the masses the previous two times. This time, however, in identifying the joint in question, I will offer multiple images that should serve as hints. There might even be a subtle hint or two amongst the prose here as well.
If you have lived in New York for at least a few years, I would think you would know the place I am hoping you will name. Many have passed through its narrow doors. It’s not an exotic, out of the way place. It’s not hidden in a fringe neighborhood (if such a thing exists in New York anymore). And the food is meant to satisfy almost anyone’s dietary requirements. And at that, I think I’ve said enough. Now let’s let the images speak for themselves.
“Celebrities” are honored to have their photos on display here.
Here is a small sampling of what you might find when flipping through this establishment’s generous menu.
This place was one of the original to have an “open kitchen.” And here the flame is always burning.
Yet contradictions abound here adding to its unique allure.
How many restaurants offer Muscle Milk and Red Bull along with red and white wine from their own barrel?
There they are: five images from the place I am confident you will name. When you identify the place, add it into the comments section below. Look for the answer right here at Fried Neck Bones…and Some Home Fries on Monday.
You can’t go wrong with any of Today’s Specials. And a hot roti wouldn’t be so bad either.
A new Adventure in Chow City will return on April 26th. In the meantime, Buona Pasqua everyone. To those who don’t understand the Italian language, in British that means Happy Easter. And to those of the Jewish faith, a joyous and safe Passover.
Salute Kosher Restaurant
63-42 108 Street
Forest Hills
“Time is flying! You’re getting older, but you don’t feel you’ve accomplished anything with your life.” Those were the opening lines to Everything is Possible, a pamphlet based on the teachings of Rabbi Nachman of Breslov that I was handed at the conclusion of our dinner at Salute Kosher Restaurant. The Hasid who fittingly choose that particular pamphlet for me was genial despite our initial reservations about accepting his pamphlets. He remained genial as he took our “tax deductible” contribution to Breslov City in the Galilee in return for the pamphlets. It was the least we could do after our feast of countless inexpensive shish kebabs at this self proclaimed, Uzbek-style restaurant.
Salute Kosher was Eugene ’s second choice. La Kasbah, a Moroccan restaurant in Astoria , was his first, but the phone at the restaurant was no longer in service meaning the restaurant was most likely out of business, so the ever-diligent Eugene steered us to the Forest Hills section of Queens to Salute. Just as the cuisine of Tibet intrigued him enough to choose it in his last pick, the food from Uzbekistan now, for some reason known only to Eugene, piqued his interest.
Suspicious eyes greeted Zio as he was the first to enter the restaurant. The regulars in this Uzbek-Russian enclave of Queens must have wondered what to make of the rotund stranger. The glares were too unsettling for Zio and he decided to wait for the rest of us outside the restaurant. Once Eugene announced his presence inside, however, the guarded looks eased. With his Sicilian-swarthy countenance, Eugene could pass for a Moroccan, not to mention an Uzbek. But when he opened his mouth, and despite reciting the one word of Russian he did know, it was obvious he was anything but an Uzbek. What he couldn’t express to the English-struggling waitress, he compensated by raising his voice until it was booming within the busy restaurant causing more than a few disturbing glances our way. He finally explained to the waitress that we were there to sample a good portion of the extensive menu. After that, language was no longer an issue.
Though Mike from Yonkers had been excused, Rick, whose presence was in doubt, showed up just in time to sample the home made babaganush served with “national” bread. What distinguishes Turkish babaganush from, say, Egyptian, or Greek? The differences are subtle, and Salute’s Uzbek version had an intense creaminess that put it high on the world wide babaganoush meter. We followed that up with a platter of assorted smoked fish. The cured fish were salty and tough enough to survive the harsh winters of Uzbekistan. And I’m only assuming that Uzbekistan has harsh winters.
Our final appetizer was the Uzbek mantu, homemade meat dumplings whose gaminess, after the strong flavor of the fish, I, much to Zio’s horror, just could not tolerate. Even a swill from the Russian beer we were drinking could not extinguish the taste. Thankfully the parade of shish kebabs soon followed. We tried the lamb, the lamb ribs, the lula (ground seasoned lamb), the chicken with bones kebab, and the beef kebab (special cut). But this wasn’t enough for Gerry and Zio, who, in their gluttony, insisted we order another round of lula, chicken (with bones) and, because it was special cut, more beef. Now picked clean of their meat, the sharp-edged skewers on our table were piled dangerously high. Our waitress arrived soon and, without comment, cleared the cutlass-like utensils before Zio could use one to clean his teeth with.
Assortment of kebabs.
As we pondered dessert, a honey-noodle pudding in a box from the grocery store next door, the Hasid entered and despite our initial protestations passed out appropriate pamphlets to all of us. Flipping through “Everything is Possible” I noticed that, according to Rabbi Nachman, the drives—sexual, monetary, pride, eating, and drinking are “water-based” but can be controlled by giving your life back to “G-d.” I’m not sure if it was the forlorn look of the noodle pudding in a box or the words of Rabbi Nachman, that helped me decline dessert, but whatever it was, I made sure I stopped at the grocery store next door for a bottle of water for the ride back home.
I’m an old school kind of guy and in a world now populated with food trucks selling aioli-smothered crab cakes and truffle-shaved cheese steaks, I have a real soft spot in my heart for an old school hot dog braised in a piquant hot dog “broth.”
The goods
Enjoy your weekend everyone. Another Adventure in Chow City will appear here on Tuesday.
Fried Neck Bones...and some home fries 