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The Noise of Noodles in the Night

4 Jan

Jang Tur Noodle
35-38 Union St
Flushing

After walking up the steps to Jang Tur Noodle and entering the very brightly-lit restaurant, the smell of cooking cabbage almost overwhelmed me. I was the first to arrive at the Korean noodle shop I chose in the Korean enclave of the Asian community of Flushing, just off Northern Boulevard. And after a few whiffs inside the restaurant, even with the door open on an early winter evening, I was tempted to send out an all-points bulletin via my cell phone that we should find another venue—there certainly were plenty within the vicinity. But it was too late—I could see Gerry, Eugene, and Mike from Yonkers through the glass windows as they climbed the steps that led to the Jang Tur’s entrance.

I didn’t say anything about the smell; I was waiting to see if any of the others would comment. No one did and maybe it was because the door was open for a bit. Or maybe because I was becoming acclimated to it that I no longer found the smell offensive and instead of my stomach wrenching, it was now clamoring for sustenance.

The restaurant’s lone waitress brought us plastic glasses of what looked like beer but was actually warm, barley tea. There were pictures of the noodle dishes offered on the wall with descriptions of them underneath. The descriptions were in Korean only and the waitress spoke no English. There were, however, a few laminated one page menus that did give English translations of the noodle dishes offered.

I’ll take the one with the noodles.

While we waited for Rick, Eugene chatted about the five Christmas parties he was soon to attend including one that featured a “Viennese” table. Rick’s arrival saved us from hearing more about the Viennese table and, with the exception of Zio, all were present.

A few days earlier we received an email from Zio with his apologies for not being able to make the dinner.  “I have a chance to make a good chunk of money if I go to ct (Connecticut) on Tuesday,” was Zio’s brief email message. The murkiness of it led to wild speculation about what he would actually be doing in Connecticut to make a “good chunk of money.”

The noodles at Jang Tur were, according to the English-language menu, “hand cut or hand torn and made on the premises daily.” There were also two variations of dumplings, chive and beef and when the waitress came to our table we pointed to them. And then doing more pointing, we picked out our noodle bowls.

When I arrived, there were two diners in the tiny restaurant, a man and a woman. The man was slurping magnificently. I peered to see what it was he was so proficiently devouring. It was a bowl of something dark red, almost clay-like in color. It could only be the noodles in red bean porridge. If he was having it, I wanted it too.

Red Bean noodles and dumplings

“Red bean?” our waitress said in her very limited English. She wanted to make sure that it was really what I wanted. I confirmed with an enthusiastic nod. Mike from Yonkers pointed to the noodles in spicy anchovy soup on the menu, Gerry the rice cake and dumpling soup, and Rick, the stir fried squid with rice.

Instead of pointing, Eugene insisted on speaking in loud, clear English and asked for the noodles in a spicy red pepper sauce with vegetables. Our waitress looked at him blankly. He then pointed. She nodded.

“No, mushrooms, right?” he bellowed as if she had any idea what he was asking. We’ve learned over the years that Eugene has an unusual aversion to mushrooms that’s so drastic it’s as if he has a life compromising allergy to the fungi.

Seeing she wasn’t responding, he tried again. “I can’t have mushrooms,” he said shaking his head. “No mushrooms?”

“Mushrooms,” she mouthed like an alien learning the language of the foreign intruder.

Eugene shook his head again. “No mushrooms,” he repeated.

Mimicking Eugene, she shook her head too and said, “No mushrooms.” Apparently that was enough to satisfy Eugene and we were spared anymore mushroom discussion.

Jang Tur’s kimchi

The dumplings arrived along with big bowls of kimchi and a spicy, pickled squash. The dumplings were light as tissue and perfect with the salty dipping sauce that accompanied them. The steaming, dark red porridge came next. I took a few bites. At first it was bland, like porridge can be, and negotiating the thick noodles with the silver chopsticks at the table proved troublesome. In the bowl also were small dumplings similar to those found in traditional chicken and dumpling soup. I added a bit of the hot pepper condiment to give it a little bite, but it wasn’t needed. What started as bland evolved into a comforting, unique taste.

Spicy anchovy noodle soup

Mike from Yonkers was struggling with his soup; taking tiny sips because of the intense spice of it. Soon his nose was flowing freely and he was honking loudly into a handkerchief. Eugene incorporated the Sicilian method to eating noodles, using a spoon with his chopsticks. He had no complaints about the heat. “It’s like a noodle salad,” he said of his bowl.

Eugene’s “noodle salad” sans mushrooms.

While Rick was picking out the larger, tough pieces of squid from the smaller, more tender ones on his plate, Gerry was deliberately sipping his soup; savoring it. “The best soup I’ve ever had,” was the supreme compliment he uttered after finishing it.

“The Best Soup Ever;” so said Gerry.

With all the bowls just $7.99 each, we were way under budget. We had some extra time so we crossed Northern Boulevard and entered the Cool Hope Beer Hall. The “Hall” was practically empty and the five of us spread out at the bar. The television above the bar was broadcasting a Korean version of “Dancing With the Stars.” We watched silently while we enjoyed a round of soju, Korean sake, chased by Budweiser before heading back out into the winter night.

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A Certifiable Czech

13 Dec

Zlata Praha
28-48 31st Street
Astoria, Queens

“Polish cuisine,” Mike from Yonkers wrote in his email to our group alerting us of his Astoria-located choice called Zlata Praha, and what he thought they served there. “Unlike most of you, I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure with that part of the world.”

He was obviously absent when, years ago, we traveled to Greenpoint to the Old Poland Bakery and endured silent glares from the waitstaff and local clientele as we devoured enormous platters of kielbasa, pierogies, and boiled beef for next to nothing.  But after a quick visit to Zlata Praha’s website  http://www.zlatapraha.cc/main.htm, I noticed the proclamation that the restaurant was the city’s number one destination for Czech and Slovak cuisine. Mike from Yonkers was going to have the pleasure of dining on food from that part of the world, though in this case, just a little bit west and south of Poland.

Walking past the bar area where pictures of Czech and Slovak celebrities; hockey players, tennis stars, unknown singers and actors adorned the walls, Zio and I entered the empty dining room where only the rumbling from the N and R trains on the elevated track above 31st Street intruded on the silence. We were shown to a table with table cloths and cloth napkins tucked ornately into stemmed wine glasses. A stuffed deer head smoking a pipe peered over the room.

Some of Zlata Praha’s rustic decor.

Zio noticed that there was an outdoor garden. It was a pleasant evening; we hadn’t dined “al fresco” in many years, possibly since we ate in the back garden of Uncle Sal’s Ribs and Bibs in the Bronx where we were surrounded by a junkyard and serenaded by a nearby boom box. So despite what Zio, showing off his expertise in such things, pointed out was a decorative rock that really was camouflaging rat poison, and with the distinct smell of fresh bug spray in the air, we decided to eat outside.

I was thirsty and the Pilsner Urquell displays were enticing, but our smiling waitress, instead, recommended her favorite Czech beer called Staropramen. I figured she knew her stuff and went with her choice. She returned with a thick, cold mug of what was a full bodied, rich colored brew that was better even than the very good Pilsner Urquell.

We sipped the beer and pondered the typically hearty Eastern European items on the menu; schnitzels, sauerbraten, goulash, pierogies, potato pancakes, and assorted dumplings.

Of the cold appetizers, a selection of head cheese was debated roundly between us. “I’d get it,” Mike from Yonkers said boldly, but he was the only one that would dare attempt to penetrate the gelatinous mix of animal body parts that was an acquired taste none of us had the desire to acquire.

A no to the head cheese.

The head cheese was nixed, instead replaced by an order of the comparatively tame herring in cream sauce. We rounded out the appetizers with a sampling of potato pancakes, dense and bland, the accompanying apple sauce very much needed and a kielbasa, Czech-style, which tasted just like the Polish counterpart with mustard, ketchup, and fresh horseradish that was minus the accustomed zing.

While we waited for our entrees, we listened to Zio complain about his current residence on a rustic Connecticut lake. “I gotta get outta there. There are canoes,” he moaned and shook his head.

Before we could make sense of his objection to canoes, the entrees arrived. The ever smiling waitress placed a plate in front of me with a Frisbee-sized, flattened piece of pork fried in potato pancake batter while Rick, sitting next to me, was the recipient of half a duck that looked like it had been cooked with a blow torch. He offered samples for all. I declined, but Gerry took a bite. “Very good,” he proclaimed. “Good and gamey.”

“Definitely gamey,” Rick sighed.

I sawed through the wiener schnitzel cutting off portions for all who wanted a taste. I was more than happy to share the pork that could have used a generous portion of Tabasco to spice it up. I was more protective, however, of the very good potato salad that accompanied the meat.

Wiener Schnitzel: serrated steak knife mandatory.

Trying not to be negative and suppress the unusually good spirits he was in; the prospect of a trip to Italy within days will do that, Eugene mentioned that the sauerbraten he ordered “didn’t have much meat,” under the brown, soup like gravy it was immersed in. Mike from Yonkers had the same gripe about his goulash and agreed to help Zio with his order of chicken paprikash that was supposed to be red with paprika but had a goulash/sauerbraten-like dull brown tinge.  Gerry, however,  is generally easy to satisfy and he plowed through his order of spaetzle with feta cheese without objection.

Sauebraten or goulash?

Zio and Mike from Yonkers were the only ones who could manage the large portion of apple strudel topped by whipped cream and ice cream after that leaden meal. And the more I sat there after all that food, the nearby rat poison and the smell of bug spray still evident, the more I wanted out of Zlata Praha no matter how enjoyable the company and food was.

I signaled to the waitress and asked her for the check. I didn’t know it at the time, but this was the moment she was waiting for. Her ever present smile was now glowing “Here I am,” she said and stood there, waiting for my response.

The food and beer had obviously dulled my thought process. Gerry nudged me with a grin. “Get it,” he said. She was still standing there smiling and I still didn’t get it.

And then the Czech went to get the check and I finally got it.

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The Mysteries of 67th Road

1 Nov

Arzu
101-05 67th Rd. Queens Boulevard,
Rego Park

Eugene, when it is his turn to choose one of our eating destinations, takes his responsibility very seriously. He painstakingly researches what possible cuisine we have not yet experienced and, sometimes regardless of other factors, makes that his primary choice. In our most recent case, Eugene not only unearthed an obscure cuisine, he found one that was also in an indeterminable location making it a challenge for a GPS machine, Mapquest, Google maps, Yahoo maps, or any other electronic direction device. Was Arzu, the name of Eugene’s selection located in Flushing, Queens? Was it in Rego Park or Woodside? Was it on Queens Boulevard. . .67th Rd.  . .67th Ave. . .67th Place? No one really knew for sure.

After finally locating 67th Rd. . .but no Arzu, I found the restaurant tucked away on a side street on the opposite side of Queens Boulevard of where my Google Map had originally directed me. It helped that Eugene’s lean, dark, melancholic figure was standing outside of the restaurant or I would have missed it on my first go round. The others had not arrived, but Eugene and I went in.

Thinking Arzu was in Flushing, I assumed that the cuisine was regional Chinese, but inside, the patrons and staff looked like extras from the movie Borat. I asked Eugene if he knew what kind of food we would be eating. He just shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s something different,” he said with a shrug. He was as clueless about it as I was.

A quick glance at some of the grilled kebabs on long cutlass-like skewers that were appearing at other tables and I surmised that we would be dining on some variation of a “zikastan.” And after looking at the menu, which proclaimed Arzu as Kosher, the only hint of where the nation of origin for the food we were about to eat was the mention of Uyghur—as in “Uyghur hand-made Lagman (noodle soup with meat and vegetable.)”  The others in our group were late. I was hungry. I ordered a bowl.

Lagman soup

Just as I was about to begin slurping the “lagman,” my cell phone rang. It was Gerry. There was desperation in his voice. “Can you please just walk out of the restaurant and wave,” he pleaded.

I took the phone and went out of the restaurant, waved, but in the darkness of 67th Rd, there would be no way he could see me. I told him it was directly across Queens Boulevard (also known as the Boulevard of Death) from the Starbucks; a landmark Gerry quickly identified. A few moments later, Gerry, along with Mike from Yonkers and Zio filed in.

Neither Zio, Mike from Yonkers, nor Gerry were familiar with the cuisine of Uyghur nor did they know where that country might be located. It took a session with my son, the geography whiz to learn that Uyghur is in fact, the name of the peoples who populate East Turkistan bordered by China on the east and Kazakstan on the west. And, with the exception of the very smooth, slightly spicy soup, we soon learned that the food is as rough as, undoubtedly the terrain of that region.

I wonder if there is a 67th Road in the Uyghur Region?

Eugene’s very limited charm was having no effect on our waitress as he tried hard to get her to help us in making our choices from the undecipherable menu. She was able to figure how many orders of meat pies and steamed dumplings appetizers would be suitable for our party of five and brought them to us immediately.

After severing through the almost impenetrable crust of the pie, the indistinguishable chopped meat within tasted as if it had been sealed inside for months and was as equally tough as the crust; a small sample would have been more than enough of the meat pie.

The steamed dumpling platter included half stuffed with sweet pumpkin while the others contained the same mystery meat that was in the pies. No wonder most of the patrons at the restaurant knew to bring their own bottles of vodka. Now if Eugene provided us with no other information than that, his duty would have been more than fulfilled.

There wasn’t much to say about the shish kebabs. They were what they were: grilled meats on a skewer. The soup had helped satisfy me, but Zio wanted more and unashamedly scooped the remains of the meat pie onto his plate. “Yeah, I know its dog food, but I’m still hungry,” he said.

The others were, not surprisingly, feeling somewhat undernourished, but none dared return to the meat pie. Instead we tried the local “halvah” dessert; a tiny, pistachio-dusted diamond that surpassed anything else we ate that night along with Azrzu’s other dessert offering, a mound of dried Chinese noodles soaked in honey that, sadly, was the perfect complement to the unfortunate meat pie.

The mystery of the meat pie can be found buried within. Open at your own risk. 

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Egg Rolls and Adobo by Candlelight

18 Oct

Philippu
21-01 21st Street
Astoria

Hobbling from a knee injury, I made the trek from the N train stop at Broadway in Astoria down to 21st Street. Turning right, I could see Gerry and Zio waiting in front of a White Castle.  And before I could even comment on Gerry’s new salt and pepper, heavier on the salt, goatee, Zio approached me anxiously.

“They have real tablecloths,” Zio said, his shame evident on the expression of his face. Could he possibly have erred so badly by choosing a place that might actually be a little too classy for the riff raff that was our group?

“Yeah, and from what I saw, they might even have candles on the tables,” Gerry added.

Linen table clothes and stemmed water glasses

Trying to ease Zio’s embarrassment, I reminded him that I noticed crispy deep fried pigs’ knuckles on the online menu he forwarded to me. That made him feel a little better and we walked the next block to Philippu the Filipino restaurant with the linen tablecloths and candles.

Eugene and Mike from Yonkers were already seated in the spacious, sparkling, mostly barren restaurant. The big flat panel television was on and tuned to a Filipino news network. Rick walked in a few minutes later and, with the exception of a few other diners, we had the restaurant to ourselves.

“I think this might be the cleanest place we’ve been in,” Eugene remarked innocently. “Did you see the bathroom?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Zio buried his head in the menu, trying to ignore Eugene and hide his disgrace.

And, despite the tablecloths, plasma television and clean bathrooms, the menu offered tremendous promise with items such as sizzling sisig (minced pork relish on a sizzling plate), dinuguan (pork and beef blood cooked in vinegar) and bopis (pork lungs and heart sautéed in tomatoes, chilies and onions). Yet with all the exotic choices, the best we could decide on was the grilled pork belly, sautéed taro leaves in coconut sauce, kare kare (oxtails in peanut sauce), chicken adobo, and deep fried sweet and sour fish.

Zio was a bit concerned that we neglected the appetizers.  We didn’t really; it was just that at Philippu, what was offered as appetizers were a challenge including a mix of the conventional; buffalo-style chicken nuggets, mozzarella sticks, and shrimp tempura, along with an assortment of Filipino-style egg rolls. We choose a sampling of the egg rolls and when the first one arrived in a soft, chow-fun like wrap, stuffed with a variety of vegetables, Eugene observed that it tasted like an egg roll with chop suey inside. At first it seemed like one of Eugene’s typically nonsensical statements, but after a few bites, we were in agreement—the vegetable stuffing was clearly reminiscent of cafeteria Chinese.

“Chop suey” stuffed egg rolls

The next selection was pretty much like the first but with a hard, crispy fried exterior like that of a fried Vietnamese spring roll with that same “chop suey” stuffing. The final selection was a platter filled with tiny, firecracker-sized fried egg rolls stuffed with something that was pretty much unidentifiable; maybe minced pork—maybe mushroom. I couldn’t tell and because the egg rolls were so dry only an abundance of the accompanying vinegary dipping sauce could rescue them.

Thankfully our entrees arrived promptly and the waiter could clear what was left of the unfortunate egg rolls. My first taste of the entrees was of the grilled pork belly; a piece of tender pork surrounded by a thick roll of fat in a slightly sweet, brown barbecue sauce. The chicken adobo was tender and swimming in a soy-vinegar mixture while the oxtails of the kare kare came in a big bowl of peanut sauce with string beans and greens. Lastly, the green taro leaves arrived, sautéed in mild coconut sauce.

Mild seemed to be the operative word at Philippu. The food had flavor, but lacked the edge, or bite that would make it really standout. The only foreign taste was the presence of very bitter, bitter melon that was hidden in a shrimp and vegetable noodle dish. It was as if the sterility of the restaurant contributed to the blandness of the food. Whether that blandness was perceived or actually a reality was hard to tell.

Kare Kare

For Philippu, there were no raves, bathroom cleanliness excepted, and there were no complaints. Our lack of enthusiasm was evident when no one had any desire for any of the dessert options.  But, despite our uncharacteristically mellow mood, all that remained was the fat from the pork belly and one, unpicked oxtail that even Mike from Yonkers deemed not worth the effort.

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The Indonesian Cold Remedy

20 Sep

Minang Asli
86-10 Whitney Avenue
Elmhurst

The snowflakes were falling heavily when I exited the Elmhurst Avenue subway station. On the other side of Broadway was Winnie’s Bar while across the street from the station was the Hong Kong Supermarket. It all looked eerily familiar and when I noticed Taste Good restaurant nestled next to the supermarket, it was like déjà vu all over again. I was in the exact same location when we last convened and dined at Taste Good.

As I navigated the dark, snowy streets to our next destination, chosen by Eugene, the Indonesian Minang Asli, I realized that our previous three restaurants were of the Asian bent, including the Malaysian, Taste Good, the Vietnamese Bronx find, World of Taste Seafood, and the Upper East Side fusion of  Korean, Japanese, Thai, Chinese, and Vietnamese, Buddha Bbeeq. Not that I was complaining.

Zio was shivering outside the small restaurant when I arrived. Why he was standing outside freezing when there were three very gracious Indonesian women in the otherwise empty restaurant gesturing for him to come in, was beyond me. To escape the cold, I needed no prodding and he followed me in.

A small electric heater struggled to add a little warmth to the chilly, non-descript dining room. We were told we were expected; Eugene had called ahead to reserve a table for what was to be a party of five. Rick had already excused himself on account of a corporate holiday celebration that, incredibly, did not require the guests bring their own bottle. Free food and drinks during these dismal days?* Who could blame him for going with the free stuff despite having to endure the obviously fake giddiness he would most likely encounter?

Zio and I waited for the others to arrive in the cold confines and then, after about fifteen minutes of waiting, Zio blurted, “I’m starving!” We ordered beef stew soup and pempek palembang, also known as deep fried fish cake in a sweet and sour vinegar sauce. Gerry, Eugene, and Mike from Yonkers, who commuted together from Westchester arrived just as one of the three aforementioned waitresses brought soup bowls and what we thought was soup.

Pempek palembang: soup it is not.

In our frozen delirium, not to mention our unabated hunger, we spooned the dish into the bowls and began to eat. I wondered why the soup was cold and then realized that we actually were spooning the fish cakes and sauce into our mouths instead of the soup, which came a few minutes later. Were the three Indonesian women giggling because we had just made fools of ourselves? Maybe so, but our gaffe didn’t faze Zio who continued to slurp at the cold vinegar sauce. I was less concerned about our faux pas when I glanced at Minang Asli’s menu and noticed its proclamation to “leave your manners behind, and eat your heart out.”.

The standard in Indonesian food was set a few years back at nearby Upi Jaya and, despite ultimately developing calluses on our intestinal tracks that have since come in handy when confronting the extreme heat of chili peppers that we so often endure in our adventures, we were initiated to the pleasures of Indonesian cuisine, and most notably, the signature dish, beef rendang. It was the gauge to measure an Indonesian restaurant’s authenticity. Would they prepare the dish in the uncompromising, harshly spiced manner it is meant to be prepared or would they soften the blow; alter it somewhat to appease the Anglo tongue?  We unanimously agreed to find out.

Beef rendang: the measuring stick of Indonesian suthenticity.

Maybe it was because my aforementioned intestinal track had been callused, but Minang Asli’s version of beef rendang seemed a tad milder than the one I remembered at Upi Jaya and only for that reason was it a close second to what we experienced years back.

You never quite know Mike from Yonkers’ reasoning, and when he resolutely put the menu down and said, “Gotta have the brains,” meaning the menu option of beef brains stewed in lemongrass flavored coconut milk, we knew better than to dig any deeper into his already complicated psyche.

One brain left

Gerry was disappointed the kale leaves were not available, but settled instead on the jackfruit, a starchy, blander and less juicy or tart version of a pineapple. To please Zio we ordered the whole fried red snapper in a lime and soy marinade and added another Indonesian/Malaysian staple; gado gado, a traditional dish of mixed vegetables in a peanut and sweet soy sauce.

The noodles we ordered, a lo-mein-like dish, was a disappointment but not enough to stop us from cleaning the platter. In fact, all that remained on our table was a solitary beef brain—its creamy consistency an acquired taste that, apparently, most of us, including Mike from Yonkers who ordered it, had not acquired.

No one had entered the restaurant during our meal and the owner/chef, her coat on, thanked us for coming and announced that now that we had finished, she could go home.

The food must have brought out Eugene’s reflective nature when, looking up at the television where Snoopy was decorating his dog house with Christmas lights, he sighed. “Imagine,” he said, “us all alone here in Queens, in this Indonesian restaurant with ‘Charlie Brown’s Christmas’ on the television.”

We didn’t have much to add to his comment so we slowly gathered our coats and headed out into the cold.

Dining entertainment

*This was December, 2008, and just months after the Wall Street meltdown of that year.

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A Considerable Taste

13 Sep

Taste Good
82-18 45th Avenue
Elmhurst, NY

 Taste Good was chosen by Gerry who usually sends us to the far corners of the tri-state region for better (Indian dosas in Jersey City, authentic Korean barbecue in Ft. Lee) or for worse (tacky Mexican in Yonkers and mediocre barbecue in Valhalla). This time he stuck closer to what Zio refers to as the “epicenter” of our food universe; the corridor around the number 7 train of Woodside, Jackson Heights, and Elmhurst, where Taste Good was located. But even this time, Gerry’s curse was not totally diminished when the roads close to the restaurant were closed due to a subway shooting. Still, no one was complaining and a few of us, Zio, Rick and myself even had a few extra minutes to browse the next door Hong Kong supermarket where baby bok choy was on sale along with a special on live frogs.

Frogs for sale.

All of us were in attendance including Eugene who displayed no side effects after the defeat of his Red Sox. In fact, he was suspiciously silent on the subject. To prod him, we made sure he was aware of the availability of sting ray on the menu and even our collective eagerness to order it in some preparation would not illicit any type of self-pitying response. Thus is the demeanor of the now jaded Red Sox fan.

The menu was large and our waitress intent on speeding up our ordering. Though her English was shaky, she was not shy about making suggestions, especially in the quantity of our orders. When we suggested an appetizer of  nasi lemak, a rice platter served with curried chicken, salty spiced pungent anchovies, and hard-boiled eggs, she wanted to know how many orders. When we asked if one was enough, coupled with two orders of roti canai, an Indian-style pancake served with a chicken curry gravy, and tahu goreng, deep fried bean curd stuffed with bean sprouts and sprinkled with a peanut sauce, she shook her head adamantly and said, “No. Two!”

Golden aromatic clams

When I, on name alone, wanted to order the “drunken clams” she shook her head. “This is no good,” she said. “Have this instead,” she said pointing to the clams in “aromatic flavor.” I wasn’t sure, but pretty confident that debating the choices was not an option. With the clams, the aforementioned sizzling aromatic sting ray, hokkien udang mee, a shrimp broth soup with noodles, fish cake, eggs, and greens, and one of our Malaysian favorites, beef rendang, here subtitled cleverly on the menu as “Love Me Tender,” which, of course, when it comes to beef rendang, is the only way to appreciate it, we thought we had enough, even for our crew.

“Not enough,” our waitress barked. Scrambling through the dense menu, the waitress and I collaborated on the choice of char kway teow, rice noodles with shrimp, fish cake, and egg. “Two orders,” she said. At this point she had taken over and all we could do was nod compliantly.

Char kway teow: Two orders please

As it turned out, we ordered so much that by the time the last dish, a huge platter that held the sizzling sting ray, arrived Zio was beginning to groan. Mike from Yonkers, who was seated next to me, however, was unfazed by the assembly of dishes. His secret to enduring the onslaught of food could have been his propensity to rise to a semi-standing position while piling portions from each dish onto his already congested plate; the physical act quite possibly serving to allow his stomach to stretch, creating almost unlimited consumption capacity.

Though he made a few disparaging remarks about the rapidity of the service as if he would be happy with more deliberate service, Eugene held no grudges to the sting ray, which was smothered in a spicy, muddy brown sauce, and dug in dutifully.

The clams were seemingly roasted in, as the menu suggested, a golden aromatic paste, and drunken or not, an excellent recommendation. There was so much that when a big bowl of soup arrived, we wondered if we actually ordered it believing that our waitress might have just “thrown it in” thinking we wouldn’t know any better. But in fact, it was the fiery hokkien udang mee and we indeed included it.

Hokkien udong mee

Quantity certainly did not detract from the Taste Good’s quality and the restaurant certainly lived up to its confident moniker.

And when all, with the exception of the bottom half of the sting ray had been devoured, Eugene looked at his watch, which he had been doing throughout our meal and then nodded. “All that food eaten in about a hour,” he said.  An impressive feat, but from the look on Eugene’s  face, we could do better.

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Hot Pot Time Machine

4 Aug

Minni’s Shabu Shabu
131-17 38 Avenue
Flushing

It had been almost three months since we last convened and in the midst of deadlines, I never reported on the dinner. The place was called Minni’s Shabu Shabu  (www.minisshabushabu.com) in Flushing, Queens and though my memory of that night has blurred somewhat over the past few months, I do remember that it was very cold and the steaming hot pots offered at Minni’s were a relief. Eugene, going on the advice of a friend, had chosen the brightly lit restaurant where each table had a built-in hot pot filled with broth. There were on/off switches with a temperature control and each of us was given a platter of raw vegetables, two uncooked eggs, some starchy provisions we could not immediately identify, and rice noodles. Apparently, it was up to us to cook the food, but the combination of technical savvy and culinary knowledge of what goes into a shabu shabu (the meal created with the hot pots) was complicated and looking to Eugene, who supposedly researched the place, for any advice was futile.

The waiter who was busy buzzing between tables in the crowded restaurant quickly helped us get started; we had to order a meat or fish to be cooked in the broth along with the accompanying vegetables and noodles. The offerings were plentiful—lamb, pork, beef, clams, lobster, squid, tripe; all of it making it even more confusing. I kept it simple by ordering beef, but the waiter mistakenly thought I wanted the tripe and beef so along with thinly sliced raw round steak, I had a honeycomb of tripe as well which I quickly donated to Zio’s already enormous platter of uncooked shellfish and vegetables.

Ingredients for the hot pot

After dousing the beef into the boiling broth, the red meat immediately turned a sallow gray and tasted as lifeless as it looked. Maybe adding a few of the vegetables would help? I threw some cabbage and the eggs in the broth and then wandered to a buffet where a variety of sauces were available; hot chili sauce, soy, sweet barbecue, a green, coriander sauce, red tofu and countless others. Without any guidance, I began adding a little of all of them. The result was more flavor, but minus any distinction.

The color of…

All of us were pretty much clueless on the art of making shabu shabu with the notable exception of Mike from Yonkers who was deliberately adding ingredients; slowly layering his soup with flavors. Whether it was an act or something he was a natural at, we will never know, but he certainly looked good doing it. So, though most of my broth had evaporated and the ingredients already devoured, I mimicked Mike from Yonkers’ technique, and, surprisingly, the last remnants of the soup was now a hearty, flavorful meal. Next time I visit a shabu shabu place, I’ll be better prepared though, in all honesty, that next time won’t be soon.

We last visited Minni’s in Flushing in 2008. It still goes strong and now, I believe, deserves a return trip.

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Guilt Among Gluttons

19 Jul

Spicy Mina
(R.I.P)

Zio didn’t plan that we would be dining in a Bangladeshi restaurant at the same time that nation was suffering from the effects of a deadly cyclone; that we would be stuffing our respective faces while many Bangladeshi people were without food and water. It was just one of those ironic coincidences. Would the circumstances induce guilt and inhibit our appetite? The family that ran Spicy Mina, including sari-attired Mina herself, certainly hoped not. There were only two other customers, Bangladeshi men chatting over tea, in the small restaurant located on an isolated portion of Broadway in Woodside the night we were there.

We were all assembled on time except Rick, who seems to enjoy making a grand entrance midway through our appetizers. This time, however, Rick checked in via cell phone to say he was stuck in traffic on the BQE and to start without him as if we might actually consider waiting. But with the arrival of the appetizers, a gamey lamb dish in a thick stew called haleem, something that looked like puff pastry filled with ground chick peas, called alur chop, and “loly-pop” chicken, the Bangladeshi-version of the Buffalo chicken wing, Rick wasn’t missing much.

Buffalo Chicken Wings: Bangladeshi-style

But we just couldn’t wait any longer. Eugene was merciless: “The BQE is a block away!” he intoned in his typically brash manner. And Zio was restless—the promise of “mastard” (sic) fish, had him anxiously chugging diet Coke’s. So we ordered without Rick, but included a dish for him—something he would appreciate, fish kofta curry, or as explained in the menu: fish balls.

Mike from Yonkers, suffering from a gravely throat, thought the palak paneer might offer relief but when it arrived it look different than any paneer I’ve ever seen; the spinach shredded spinach with crumbly, feta-like pieces of cheese, along with a few whole dried chilies. The taste was something reminiscent, according to Eugene, to broccoli rabe, and I couldn’t disagree; there was definitely an Italian flavor to it.

Gerry’s idea of relief was a vindaloo, specifically lamb and Mina’s version was fiery in a light, oily sauce, again nothing like your cookie-cutter variety vindaloo. The dal fry Mina special, mung daal in special spices was a nice accompaniment to the nan and roti bread we ordered, while the chicken tikka masala, in a rich, creamy yet spicy sauce had Eugene swooning, which, to be honest, was not a pretty sight.

Fish Balls: A.K.A. Fish Kofta Curry

The fish balls arrived just as Rick called again, this time to say he was still stuck on the BQE in the vicinity of the legendary Kosciuszko Bridge and was aborting any further attempts to try to make it to Spicy Mina’s. And though we ordered for six and now we were only five, the fish balls, light and with just the faintest hint of fish, were made short work of. The waiter slowly cleared our table, allowing Zio sufficient time to scour the remains of the whole fish searching for any stray pieces of edible flesh that might have escaped our intense scrutiny. It was unanimous; the fare at Spicy Mina’s was nothing like the $7.95 Indian buffets we were used to gorging ourselves on.

By the time the waiter returned with complimentary half-orders of rose water-accented rice pudding—perfect to cleanse our over-spiced palates—any guilty thoughts about the human suffering in Bangladesh that any of us might have had going into Spicy Mina’s was completely forgotten. But why then do I feel guilty about that?

Unfortunately, Spicy Mina didn’t survive the recessionary cyclone that ravaged many small business in New York the following year and  persists today.

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A Tibetan Chef in a Japanese Kitchen in Sunnyside, Queens

21 Jun

The night after the Di Fara experience, our group dined at Yamakaze, on Queens Boulevard in Sunnyside, Queens. Apparently, Yamakaze is no more, but here is a brief testament to its short life.

Yamakaze
R.I.P

 The trip out to Sunnyside, Queens on the 7 train was an easy one especially compared to the previous night’s trek to Midwood. Eugene’s puzzling choice was a Japanese restaurant called Yamakaze. We were all more than familiar with the obligatory Japanese restaurant menu—the sushi, the tempura and teriyaki dishes, the udon and soba noodles, What would make Yamakaze a unique experience; one worthy of our efforts? I would withhold judgment. We all had confidence in Eugene’s peculiar, but effective approach to his choices. There was a method to his madness.  We hoped.

The carbohydrate-induced bloat in my stomach after Di Fara’s pizza the night before had subsided throughout the day, but to make sure I ate a light, fiber-rich lunch in preparation for the additional starch to come. The 7 train got me to the restaurant early where I saw Zio waiting outside, perusing the menu skeptically.

  “Whatta we gonna eat here?” he asked, gesturing dramatically with his hands.

  I shrugged and mumbled that maybe the noodles would be good. Again, I was resolved to withhold judgment.

Dazie’s : Live entertainment with your linguini, Thursday through Saturday.

 To kill some time, we walked a block for a drink at Dazie’s Italian restaurant. The bartender, who introduced himself as Dominick, informed us that they were “auditioning” piano players. Before we could withdraw our drink orders, Zio and I had the misfortune of sitting through an abbreviated set of “My Way” and “New York State of Mind.” Thinking we might actually consider returning to Dazies, Dominick gave us each a card and carefully wrote on the back that on Thursday, the entertainment at the piano bar would be “Danny” while on Friday and Saturday, “Jimmy” would be the featured act. We graciously accepted the cards and then got out of there as soon as we could suck down our drinks.

 Yamakaze was empty, but the waitress led Zio and I to our “reserved” table for six. Eugene showed up on time, but Gerry and Mike from Yonkers took a wrong turn off the BQE and ended up in Brooklyn while Rick was stuck in traffic near the Kosciusko Bridge. I’d often heard about the dreaded Kosciusko Bridge and the traffic jams attributed to it, but this was the first time somebody I knew was actually stuck in it.

Fun time on the Kosciusko Bridge

 Taking a look at the menu again, I did notice a few unusual, non-traditional Japanese items. Among them were “Buffalo wings,”  “chicken pocket,” and a Caesar salad.” But along with the above-mentioned non-appetizing appetizers was something called “choi-la,” spicy grilled beef and cucumber stick, and “alu tarkari” spicy potato on deep fried bread. On the entrée portion of the menu, there were others that looked promising like the “Himalyan rasha,” braised goat meat in Thai red curry sauce, and the “sha-ngopa”, sautéed beef or pork with jalapeno, garlic pepper and served with bread. These were definitely not Japanese in language or food. The waitress said that the chef was Tibetan and the menu included a few Tibetan dishes. Did Eugene know this was a Tibetan-Japanese restaurant? Was he, the man who brought us to Himalayan Yak, still fixated on the cuisine of Tibet? Or was it just coincidence? Eugene claimed the latter.

Once Gerry and Mike from Yonkers arrived, we ordered two of those Tibetan hot starters, the choi-la and the alu tarkari along with Japanese gyoza. Rick arrived just as we were cleaning up the very tasty alu tarkari with the deep fried bread and ordered another for him. Tibetan seemed the way to go here—not much excited us on the Japanese menu, but Zio and Eugene ordered noodles, ramen for Zio and thick noodles for Eugene. I mistakenly, maybe intrigued by the name, ordered something called momo which turned out to be the Tibetan version of gyoza. Gerry, who can never get enough of goat, couldn’t resist the Himalyan rasha. This Tibetan goat, however, didn’t meet the high standards set by the Punjabi or African versions of goat we enjoyed at previous outings.

Alu Tarkari: Fried bread and spicy potatoes

There was nothing really wrong with Yamakaze. Sure the muzak of Celine Dion and Barbra Streisand we had to endure while dining didn’t enhance the experience. But we met our $20 limit, even with a few rounds of hot sake. Everything was perfectly fine. That being said, I doubt any of us will ever return.

And no one did.

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A Cold Sweat in Flushing

7 Jun

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.

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