Life is difficult enough without having to decide whether to pair the bibimbap with a Cuban sandwich or go with the chicken salad BLT and the soft tofu soup. But what about the Philly cheesesteak, an inviting pasta, or a nutritious bowl of udon? Not only am I now confused, I’m getting a headache thinking about the eating possibilities here.
The first sizzling platter flowed through the dining room of Sagar Chinese restaurant soon after our gang of five arrived. The fumes from the platter clouding the dining room and strong enough, if not to set off smoke alarms, to induce a coughing fit from Mike from Yonkers.
We were in Jamaica, on an incline of Homelawn street just off bustling Hillside Avenue, a Halal heavy destination we had yet to explore and one of the reasons why I chose Sagar Chinese. The other was the restaurant’s designation as “Desi” Chinese. I had never heard of “Desi” Chinese and my research revealed the designation to mean a combination of Bangladeshi, Indian and Pakistani style Chinese. I, nor anyone in our group, had ever experienced what Bangladeshi, Indian, and Pakistani style Chinese might taste. It was time to find out.
Even the fried chicken…
…and the heroes on Hillside were Halal.
With a month-old baby boy now taking up some of the unused space in his gargantuan New Jersey money pit, sleep-deprived Rick was able to escape his parental chores for a couple of hours and dine with us in Jamaica. The only missing member of our group was Zio, who was reflecting on his life experiences exploring crawl spaces, boiler rooms and other dark, damp places in search of cockroaches and carpenter ants to an audience of undoubtedly rapt listeners.
We all glanced at the menu which featured traditional Chinese dishes; fried rice, General Tso’s (shrimp and chicken), sweet and sour, and that worldwide (minus China) Chinese favorite, chow mein. Along with the traditional, were a few Indo-Pak favorites like pakoras, gobi and “lolly pop chicken;” chicken manipulated into what looked like a lolly pop and presented with the “sucker” covered in aluminum foil. What made Sagar’s menu nontraditional was the melding of East Indian spices with Chinese. And one of those, the masala chow mein, immediately drew my attention.
“It’s Chinese food” Eugene declared. “We’ll order five dishes and share everything.”
No one disputed.
We started with appetizers of paneer pakora and something irresistible sounding on the menu called “chicken cake.” Making sure we choose one main course from each column; seafood, beef, chicken, noodles, and vegetable, we started with Manchurian fish, and given the choice of “dry or gravy,” choose the latter. The masala chow mein that I desired drew a weak, food snob sigh from Gerry, but was agreed to by all the others. From the vegetable column we went with the gobi masala while from the beef, decided to try the Desi Chinese version of sweet and sour. Finally, as other sizzling platters were parading through the dining room, held high by the restaurant’s waiters, the vapors clouding the room and again going right to our throats, we figured we had to try one and ordered the “Sagar sizzling chicken.”
The appetizers arrived first, identical in hue and fried golden. The pakoras were shaped like billiard balls, and after trying one, almost as impenetrable. The chicken cakes were flat round discs of spiced ground chicken and compared to the pakoras, tender as pillows. Each had their own dipping sauce and for the dense pakoras, a necessity.
The resilient paneer pakoras
After devouring the appetizers, the entrees began to make their way to our table with the sweet and sour beef leading the way. Since pork was not an option here, the beef equivalent of sweet and sour was, thankfully, not fried and battered, but sliced and the sauce, not as sticky sweet as the familiar version. The masala chow mein, a bowl of overcooked noodles with a combination of Indian and Chinese spices had a fiery kick and was a pleasant surprise, while the gobi masala in a spicy gravy that was identical to the gravy in the Manchurian fish, astounded Eugene.
Masala Chow Mein
“I don’t usually like cauliflower,” Eugene admitted. “But this is the best cauliflower I’ve ever had.”
Knowing Eugene’s limited background in cauliflower, we weren’t sure how much stock to put in his praise of the dish, but none of us had any complaints about it either.
Gobi Masala
We could hear the sizzling from behind the restaurant’s counter and soon the platter of smoking chicken arrived at our table. Mike from Yonkers began to cough uncontrollably. I covered my mouth and tried to push my seat a few inches away from Mike’s. I stubbornly refused getting vaccinated for the flu despite the slightly better than even 62 percent prevention rate of the vaccine. I thought my own odds in not getting sick might be just as good if I kept my distance from the hacking Mike from Yonkers, even if his cough was brought on by the Sagar Sizzzling Chicken and not the flu.
Once the smoke cleared, we dug in and made quick work of the dish, a platter of sliced white meat chicken and assorted vegetables in the familiar brown sauce accented by the presence of a few Indian spices.
The vapors.
While the dishes were cleared an extended East Indian family arrived, and took a large table at the other end of the restaurant. I noticed they ordered the loly pop chicken and, after we paid our tab; hitting the $20 mark exactly, numerous sizzling platters, the vapors flowing from them, made their way to their large table.
Mike from Yonkers began to cough again. Rick cleared his throat. Gerry rubbed his eyes. I could feel the burn of the fumes in my throat. “We’re about to be asphyxiated,” Mike from Yonkers hoarsely muttered.
“Time to go.”
“Yeah, it’s time to go,” I said, standing up. And though the Desi Chinese experience was, overall a very good one, respirator masks would have been appreciated.
Sagar Chinese
87-47 Homelawn St
Jamaica
On Friday I presented you with multiple photos of a restaurant and challenged you to Name That Place. To revisit the photos, you can click here: Name That Place, or you can scroll down these pages.
I’m relieved to report that one well traveled eater was able to correctly Name That Place as:
That’s right, the Cafe Edison, also known as the “Polish Tea Room;” its nickname derived when a patron, of which there were many from the nearby theaters; playwrights, directors,actors, producers, and stage hands, deemed the decor and food superior to the much more expensive and haughty Russian Tea Room.
See if the you can get goulash and noodles, cup of soup and a beverage for $16.95 at the Russian Tea Room.
If the matzoh ball soup I had at the Cafe Edison wasn’t the “greatest soup in the history of soup”, as proclaimed by the New York Times, then it was certainly in the top 50.
But at the Cafe Edison, those who know don’t flock to it just for the outstanding soup. These sandwiches are pretty good too.
I had one on my recent visit but it wasn’t roast beef, corned beef, brisket, salami, or pastrami. For bonus points, I wondered if any of the food obsessed out there could identify what type of sandwich I ordered. Here’s a look again:
Now that you know I was dining at the Cafe Edison, perhaps you will realize that what I was about to enjoy a generously stuffed vegetarian chopped liver sandwich on rye.
That concludes this edition of Name That Place. Be on the lookout for another serious challenge in the near future.
It’s a new year. The previous year wasn’t one of the better ones in these parts. So to get the new year off on a positive and giving note, I’m offering what is, I hope, a no-brainer, slam dunk of a Name That Place.
Now, granted, at first glance this entry might appear to be a toughie, but I’m going to include here a number of photo hints that I hope will help you, without too much difficulty, identify the name of the place.
Let’s start here.
This should get you off to a rousing start and maybe, with just the picture above,you will be able to identify the place in question. If not, go to the two photo below for more help.
What type of place would have such classical grandeur?
Believe it or not, a place that serves this.
And this.
Bonus points to whomever can identify the sandwich above, a specialty of the place in question.
Finally, I offer this one last quip of a photo taken in the same restaurant where there are elegant chandeliers and wall etchings, soup and a sandwich, and where no large luggage is allowed inside.
Good luck and leave your answers in the comments section below. The place will be revealed on Monday.
Every New Year’s there’s another food I’m supposed to eat that will bring me good luck. I think I’ve tried them all.
I’ve done the Southern thing with the black eyed peas.
Southern luck thing.
I’ve even tossed in a ham hock to make sure the Hoppin’ John concoction would be more effective.
Ham hock luck assurance
Based on something I read, I once tried collard greens on New Year’s.
I can’t say that eating greens brought me any luck. And I know if I ever hit the numbers, I would have remembered. Whatever, the greens were delicious…and healthy too.
As long as you have your health….
The Italians have their superstitions too, that’s for sure. I bought into the lentils and sausage scam a few times thinking that maybe by eating them on New Year’s, the following year would be truly remarkable.
A lucky legume?
If the year after the lentils and sausage was particularly amazing, I can’t remember. Not that it mattered. They were so good I would eat them again even if they meant a mess of bad luck.
Eating fish on New Year’s is another superstition. I tried that one too.
And you would think that eating a fish’s head would give me some serious good luck mojo. Sadly, though the fish head was memorable, any luck derived from eating it was not.
Since I’ve tried them all, this year I’m going with something not even on the New Year’s luck radar.
And I promise, if I have a particularly bad year, I’m not pinning it on fried dough.
When it comes to luck, in reality that old sports cliche, “you make your own luck” is probably most true. Just make sure that whatever luck you make tastes good.
Happy New Year!
I woke with a start when I heard the honking of a car horn. It had been awhile since I’d heard car alarms. Maybe they got wise to the uselessness of them and didn’t bother making them anymore. Whatever, the one out my window was pretty loud.
I looked around the room. I didn’t know where I was or what time it could be. Outside the window, the sky was dark grey. How long had I been sleeping? I was confused.
Soon it came back to me. I remembered taking a nap after devouring three tacos; two lengua and one spicy chorizo. I washed them down with a big glass of cold horchata. The lunch had immediately made me drowsy and my belly wasn’t feeling quite right. Could the horchata been spiked with tequila or mescal? Was the lengua spoiled?
I sucked down a double espresso in hopes of reviving my energy. There was Christmas shopping to get done. There was baccala to soak. I had no time for a nap. But it was no use.
It was daytime when I lay down and now the sky was dark. How long was I out? I was still trying to get my bearings.
As the sleep slowly drifted from my eyes, I noticed a wisp of haze at the foot of my bed. I immediately panicked. Did I leave something on the stove? I sniffed. No, it wasn’t smoke. I sniffed again. There was the distinct odor of grease—one made by overcooked lard. It wasn’t an unpleasant smell—at least not to me. I was drawn to it.
I pulled myself closer to the wisp and it quickly enveloped me The haze was so thick I couldn’t see through it. What the hell? I had to still be dreaming. Either that or I was on some sort of drug trip. But I hadn’t taken any drugs. Just the tacos and horchata.
I don’t remember putting on a coat and hat. I don’t remember getting on the subway. But there I was at a place I hadn’t been in many years: a restaurant called Dinastia China or La Dinastia or derogatorily referred to by one particular hater as La Di Nasty. It was the first restaurant I dined in when I moved to New York in the final quarter of the previous century.
The wisp was by my side. I looked around me and noticed the hot dog joint on the corner of 72nd and Broadway and the subway station across the street. Beyond that it was too dark to see anything. A decorative Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer was in the window of the restaurant. I peered through the glass. The counters with the stools in the front were exactly as they were decades ago. There were liquor bottles behind the counter and a cash register.
Rudolph was the lone window decoration.
I pushed the door open. Nat King Cole was singing “The Christmas Song” from the restaurant’s loudspeakers as I entered. The front wall was decorated with autographed photos of celebrities I had never heard of. Next to them was a calendar. I glanced at it and then looked again. That date couldn’t be right. It was an ancient December date I was looking at. Not 2012. I was suddenly chilled.
I turned to the wisp by my side. It just hovered there. Doing nothing. Saying nothing. But I noticed now that the greasy lard odor was gone replaced by the enticing smell of grilled red meat. It moved forward and as if I were a hound on a scent, I followed.
There were a number of waiters in white button down shirts scurrying about. None of them stopped to ask me if I wanted a table. I hadn’t been to Dinastia China since the last century, but I remembered that as soon as I would enter, a waiter, menu in hand, would appear and immediately escort me to a table. Choice tables were always available. Reservations were never necessary. In fact, they were probably discouraged.
I slowly moved past the front area into the dining room. To my right was the commander’s station just as I remembered it. A cluttered desk with a big microphone facing toward the front entrance. One of the waiters was there now and barking orders into it. From the microphone, I knew the orders were relayed to the kitchen and the chef.
The Commander’s Station
“Ropa vieja, arroz amarillo, frijoles rojo, platano frito, wonton soup,” I heard him say.
I didn’t speak Spanish, but I was proficient in China y Latina restaurant speak and knew that the order was for shredded beef, yellow rice and red beans, fried plantains, and wonton soup. Despite the leaden effect of the tacos I feasted on earlier, my mouth, I realized, was beginning to water slightly. The order passed on to the kitchen was one of my favorites. It was what I ordered countless times at Dinastia.
There were a few solitary men and women sitting at tables in the expansive dining room. Their heads were down and there were huge platters of rice, beans, beef stew, fried chicken and other Dinastia specialties in front of them. None of them bothered to look up from their food as the wisp and I moved through the room.
The dining room that time forgot.
I followed the wisp, despite it’s delicious smell, reluctantly now, sensing I should stay back. That what it was drawing me to I should not see. Frank Sinatra suddenly began to sing over the loudspeakers.
Oh by gosh, by golly,
It’s time for mistletoe and holly
A waiter juggling three plates; a big platter of chuletas asadas (center cut pork chops), separate bowls of black beans and yellow rice, and another plate cluttered with fried plantains whisked by me as if I did not exist. I turned and followed the waiter’s progress as he deposited the overflowing plates in front of an older, heavy-set woman, a copy of the New York Post spread out in front of her.
Tasty pheasants, Christmas presents
Countrysides covered in snow
The wisp spun around and around me forcing me to look away from those juicy pork chops and to follow it forward. And then there at a table in the back, near the familiar rest rooms, was another lone diner. I hesitated. I could only see the back of the diners’ head. It was a man and he was hunched over his food. The wisp prodded me closer.
Oh by gosh, by jingle
It’s time for carols and Kris Kringle
I looked at the table. It was a mess. A disgusting mess. There were pieces of yellow rice scattered on the glass top of the table along with a stray black bean or two, napkins were all over the place. Some of the broth from what was left of a bowl of wonton soup spilled onto the table.
“it was a disgusting mess”
I couldn’t look anymore. I wanted to turn away, but the wisp would not let me. The aroma of fresh baked baguettes that now came from it forced me closer.
There was more. I could see crumbs from the dried noodles. Just a few broken pieces remained in the wooden bowl. There was even a lone noodle that had drowned in the accompanying duck sauce.
Overeating…
And there were bones…fish bones. It was a king fish—serrucho—and it was pan fried. I could see the brown, burnt bits of garlic and the fried pepper strips. There were a few red blots of hot sauce on what was left of the fish. And then I noticed that some of the tender white flesh still clung to the big center bone. Who would waste such a treat?
merry greetings…
Again I tried to turn around and get out of there. I could see no more, but the wisp blocked my way. I smelled fried chicken and was paralyzed.
From relatives you don’t know
I looked again at the table and knew I had to see who would create such a mess. At first I noticed the fingers. They were slick with grease. And then I saw the distinctive swirl of light brown hair on top of his head. And I heard myself gasp.
I turned to the wisp in shock.”How can this be? So…young…yet…such a slob.”
The greasy fingers reached into the duck sauce and fished out the drowned noodle.
“Please,” I pleaded. “Please don’t let me look at anymore. I can’t watch. Don’t make me watch. Please…”
Oh by gosh, by golly
It’s time for mistletoe and holly
I wasn’t sure if I was crying or not. If I was, the waiters didn’t care. They just continued to go about their business as if I was invisible.
Fancy ties and granny’s pies,
An folks stealing a kiss or two
As they whisper
I shut my eyes tight. I wanted to cover my ears.
“Merry Christmas”
to you
When I opened my eyes, I was just outside the same restaurant. I looked around. There was no wisp by my side. I sniffed. No baguette, grilled beef, fried chicken, or lard grease odor anywhere. I heard a car honk. It wasn’t a car alarm. Just a normal impatient honk. I turned toward Broadway. The hot dog joint was there on the corner, but beyond the subway station I could see a gleaming glass high rise with a Bank of America branch and a Trader Joe’s market.
I looked into the window of the restaurant. Rudolph was where it was before. The tacos and horchata drink I had for lunch seemed to have been properly digested. I was now ravenous.
I pushed through the doors and walked briskly through the bar area glancing quickly at the photos of the unknown celebrities but making sure not to look at the calendar.
As I approached the Commander’s Station, a waiter met me, laminated menu in hand. I looked past him at the mostly empty tables. There was a family sitting at one of the big, center table and a policeman and policewoman in uniform at another. The other tables were empty.
“Table?” the waiter asked me.
I looked at him. He looked at me. I nodded.
“Just one?”
“Just one,” I said and he led me to a table.
Rod Stewart was singing a cover of the great Charles Brown’s “Merry Christmas Baby,” as I sat.
China
After devouring a meal of wonton soup, accompanied by dried noodles and duck sauce, followed by the serrucho ajillo (king fish with garlic and peppers), yellow rice and black beans, I wiped my fingers clean.
y Latina
“Coffee?”my waiter asked.
“No, just the check,” I said.
A few moments later he returned with the check and a rolled up magazine, or something like that.
“What’s this?” I asked as I opened it up. It was a calendar with the restaurant’s name on it. I glanced at the date.
I looked up at him. “2013,” he said with a knowing smile.
As I gathered my belongings and headed out with the calendar in hand, he turned to me as he wiped the table clean. “And I see you next year.”
“Yes,” I said with a nod. “You will.”
Sometimes the third time is the charm. At least that was the case for Mike from Yonkers who had to go to plan C for our latest outing.
Plan A was a “hot tip” on a place in Bloomfield, New Jersey. He kept the tip to himself, but we nixed schlepping to Bloomfield during the “gridlock alert days” we were currently experiencing.
“I’ll save that one for next time,” he slyly added, still keeping us under wraps on what we might encounter in Bloomfield.
Plan B illustrated that Mike from Yonkers was experiencing much holiday duress. Under pressure to select a destination, he mistakenly consulted New York Magazine and choose the wildly popular Brooklyn Thai restaurant, Pok Pok. That he didn’t realize that a place given multiple stars (whatever they mean) by New York Magazine wouldn’t be mobbed by voracious foodies can only be excused by a combination of work and holiday stress. To make it clear to him, we sent him links with actual photos of some of the long and legendary lines waiting to dine at Pok Pok.
One thing Mike from Yonkers did know, at least we hoped he did after almost eight years as a member of our group, was that we never wait on line to dine. The options are too many for that. So one look at the links and he knew he had to go to Plan C.
Now, under immediate pressure, he went to his own backyard. His pick: a Salvadorian place just over the Bronx border in Yonkers called La Pupusa Loca.
And despite it not being in the five boroughs, La Pupusa Loca fit right into our criteria. A brightly-lit cafeteria where English was very foreign and Spanish novelas blared from multiple televisions, La Pupusa Loca featured large tables offering our group of five—Rick being absent after the very recent birth of his first child—plenty of room for food and flesh overflow.
Serious happenings on the tube.
Mike from Yonkers and I were the first to arrive, followed soon after by Zio and at that time, the lone waitress was ready to take our order. I started with a Pilsener, a Salvadorian beer, but waited on ordering food until the others arrived. By the time Gerry and Eugene arrived, however, the waitress was occupied with others and the wait seemed interminable.
“Is this the longest we’ve had to wait,” Eugene asked.
“I’m hungry,” Gerry bellowed. “I haven’t eaten since lunch.”
Finally, visibly harried, the waitress came to our table and took our orders. I needed to discover what the restaurant’s namesake, the pupusa, tasted like and ordered a bean and cheese. Foolishly thinking it would be too much for me, I passed on what I saw someone else in the restaurant getting: the “mariscada especial;” an enormous bowl of fish soup where, lobster, shrimp with the heads on, and crab claws overflowed from. Instead I went with a seafood combination of shrimp and fried fish, casamiento, a mash of beans, rice, garlic and other herbs, and chimol, a Salvadorian salsa.
Gerry and Eugene both also ordered fish; Eugene the whole red snapper with onions and Gerry the fried porgy.
“Where does porgy come from?” I asked.
“Long Island Sound,” Zio answered.
“Yeah and that’s why I ordered it. To support our local fishermen,” Gerry cracked.
An enormous platter of pork chops passed our table and Zio’s weary eyes were immediately drawn to them. “I’ll have what they’re having,” he said repeating the oft-used line.
After studiously perusing the menu, Mike from Yonkers went with the steak combination which included an egg, scrambled according to the waitress.
“Can I have it fried,” Mike from Yonkers pleaded, giving her a look she could not refuse.
The pupusas arrived first, which came with a tomato sauce on the side and a big container of homemade pickled cabbage. Our waitress said the cabbage was eaten as an accompaniment to the pupusa.
“Its Salvadorian sauerkraut,” Zio announced after trying the cabbage. And so it was, but not really needed, in my opinion to enhance the already deliciously crazy pupusa.
Salvadorian sauerkraut
The platters began to arrive. First were Gerry’s and Eugene’s whole, fried fish, both smothered in onions. Next were the super-sized pork chops. After inspecting their enormity, Zio groaned realizing what he was in for.
Only Mike from Yonkers’ family-sized combination platter exceeded Zio’s. On the platter was a selection of beef cuts, two long “maduros,” sweet bananas, a wedge of salty hard white cheese, and a mound of rice and beans; all of it topped with the requested fried egg.
Meat combo with fried egg.
When my comparably miniscule plate arrived, the discrepancy was noticed by all. On it was just a small wedge of fish filet and a few “medium” shrimp, along with the casamiento and chimol. It was as if I ordered from the kids’ menu, if there was such a thing at La Pupusa Loca.
“Don’t worry, you can have some of mine,” Mike from Yonkers generously offered.
But I had my pride. I figured I would finish what was on my plate first before I began scavenging for more. It didn’t take long; only the dense casamiento slowed me down.
The kids’ platter; fish and shrimp.
Mike from Yonkers had hardly made a dent in his platter by the time I finished. In fact, Zio polished off the monstrous pork chops before Mike from Yonkers even touched the cheese.
Finally, I conceded. “I guess I’ll take you up on your offer,” I said to him. It wasn’t really that I was still very hungry, it was more as a prod to get him to work with a little more purpose on his platter.
He cut me a sizable wedge of “bistec,” thinly pounded grilled steak, but by the time I got to it, the meat was cold and tough as a hockey puck.
I wasn’t the only one to notice how long it was taking him to finish the gargantuan platter “Geez, we’ll be here all night,” Gerry barked.
Sensing pressure from the group, Mike from Yonkers pushed the platter away from him. “Okay, that’s it. I’m done,” he announced.
A snapper drowning in onions.
While we waited for the check, I walked around the restaurant and noticed that the placemats under the glass tabletops all had maps of Honduras. This was a Salvadorian place, wasn’t it? Was there a difference between a pupusa from Honduras and one from Salvador? Frankly, I didn’t care.
La Pupusa Loca
297 S. Broadway
Yonkers
“I’ll have a large General Tso’s Chicken,” I said into the phone.
There was silence on the other end and then: “Chicken? What kind?”
“General Tso’s,” I repeated, looking at the menu for Curry King that advertised Halal Chinese food. I was excited. I wanted to see if there was any difference between the standard Chinese rendition of General Tso’s as opposed to the Indo-Pak Halal version that Curry King was promoting. Besides the halal meats, what made Halal Chinese food unique? Would Indo/Pak/Bangladeshi Chinese automatically be spicier? I wanted to know.
“Chicken curry?” the voice on the other end of the line asked.
“No, General Tso’s chicken,” I asked again. “From the Chinese section of your menu.”
“Oh, that’s no more,” the voice said.
“What do you mean?” I asked, the deflation apparent in my voice.
“We don’t make the Chinese food anymore,” he said.
“No?”
“No one wants it.”
I wanted it, but I didn’t tell him that. Would it have done any good?
“What about the hot and sour soup?”
“Soup?”
“Yes, the hot and sour soup.”
“I have that,” he said.
I was puzzled that the hot and sour soup was available but no General Tso’s.
“I’ll have it,” I said. And then I went on to order a number of either Indian, Pakistani, or Bangladeshi items—I wasn’t sure what distinguished one from the other.
When I arrived to pick up my order, I glanced at the Indian/Pakistani and/or Bangladeshi items in the steam trays behind the counter.
Pakistani? Indian? or Bangladeshi?
“Is that the soup?” I asked, pointing to what looked like chicken soup.
“Yes, chicken soup,” the woman behind the counter told me.
“Hot and sour?”
“Chicken soup,” she repeated. “It’s fresh and very good.”
I had no doubt of that. “But it’s not hot and sour?”
Chicken soup on far left.
“We can make it hot,” she said.
I nodded, but didn’t ask if she could make it sour.
Fried Neck Bones...and some home fries 