You’ll find this 
here at
That’s right: Patsy’s Pizzeria in East Harlem (www.thepatsypizza.com), where, since 1933, that oven has been fired and turning out arguably the city’s best pizza. But I’ll save that argument for another day.
Many of you got this one without any trouble. I promise much more of a challenge the next time we play: Name That Place.
Before our venture to the South Bronx and Uncle Sal’s, our group had a date at an African restaurant in Harlem called La Marmite. As I vaguely recall, only two or three of us showed up for whatever reason and I never summarized our experience there. We made up for it when we all were in attendance at Uncle Sal’s Ribs and Brew. It was early summer and our dinner there became memorable for many reasons, but probably most of all because it was the only one , in the over two years we had been doing this, where we got to dine “al fresco.”
Uncle Sal’s: circa 2004
Uncle Sal’s Ribs and Brew
R.I.P
After our previous debacle, when only the devoted few got to experience the delectable offerings served at the Senegalese restaurant, La Marmite, the group was now more than ready to reconvene en masse. Even Charlie, who will be relocating to the hinterlands of Emmaus, Pennsylvania with his wife, and soon to be born first child, was present as we made our way to East Tremont Avenue in the Bronx for a taste of Uncle Sal’s Ribs and Brew (formerly known as Uncle Sal’s Ribs and Bibs). We were enticed to this barren stretch of the Bronx just off the Cross Bronx Expressway with the promise of barbecue ribs created by a Sicilian immigrant and his Puerto Rican in-laws. Who could imagine what the end result of that amalgamation of ethnicities would result in? But the possibilities were very promising and incentive enough to make the journey.
Eugene and Gerry, the first to arrive, were a bit concerned when they entered the storefront and only noticed a few small tables. Their worries quickly dissipated when the boisterous Uncle Sal greeted them and directed them to a “backyard” where there were two large picnic tables surrounded by assorted junk; boxes, rusting industrial equipment, and a badly damaged fig tree. Still, on this warm June evening, what could be better than dining “al fresco” on East Tremont Avenue in the Bronx, the sounds of firecrackers in the air, and security cameras reassuringly eying the premises.
We were all present except Rick, who called Uncle Sal to say he was running very late. We did our best to accommodate our comrade by ordering an assortment of selected appetizers while we waited for him to arrive. Uncle Sal recommended the mozzarella sticks, fried ravioli, and chicken wings. None of these fast food offerings really excited us, but we couldn’t disappoint Uncle Sal.
We sat outside in the Bronx evening, sipping beers and listening to a boom box set up on a wobbly table outside waiting what seemed like an interminable time for the appetizers to arrive. When they finally did arrive, we quickly devoured the tasteless deep fried mozzarella, zucchini, and ravioli, and then estimating how long it took for the appetizers to arrive, decided we better get Sal going on main courses. The ribs, of course, were why we came here and we ordered a rack of both the “special cut” and the baby back ribs. The difference, explained Sal, was really just the size; the baby back being the smaller ribs. Besides the ribs, the menu here was vast including pizza, pasta, tacos, and Spanish food. Sal was pushing the shrimp scampi that was “not on the menu,” so we obliged him his Italian heritage and ordered it along with a philly cheesesteak sandwich, and, as a nod to his Latino in-laws, an order of fried pork chops with yellow rice and beans.
It was dark now and one bright bulb lit up the backyard. Sal had switched the radio station appropriately from hip hop to blues. Rick ambled in just in time to salvage a few remaining, now cold zucchini sticks. As the fried food sat heavily in our stomachs, the main courses arrived and despite the density of the appetizers, we had no problems picking apart Sal’s very good ribs, slathered in a not too sweet, subtly tangy sauce. The cheesesteak, cut into six pieces, was also a winner but the scampi, Sal’s praises notwithstanding, tasted like the kind of shrimp scampi you might get at a barbecue joint. Finally, we divvied up the pork chops, sampling some of the rice and beans and the “sides” like corn, cole slaw, and corn bread.
Once we finished, Sal came out, a cigar in his mouth, a rum and coke in his hand, and a satisfied smile on his face, to sit and regale us with stories about his life in Sicily—how he came to America when he was 16, and about his adventures in operating the restaurant. Eugene and Zio were a rapt audience, especially when it came to the stories concerning the health department and health code violations. Sal, unfortunately, does not deliver his ribs to Manhattan, but knowing they are attainable just off the Cross Bronx Expressway might make for a pleasant way to sit out a traffic jam on that cursed thoroughfare.
What’s left of Uncle Sal today.
I never did make it back to Uncle Sal’s before he closed. I recently drove to the still restaurant-remote area of East Tremont in the Bronx to see what had replaced Uncle Sal’s. In its place was a restaurant called Manny’s, specializing in Latin American “cuisine.” I went inside to see what else had changed. Instead of the deli-like interior, there was a full bar. I asked the bartender what happened to Uncle Sal’s. “He left a long time ago,” she said. “But he still own the building.” On the awning next to Manny’s, I noticed the Protective Security Service, Inc, and on the side of the awning “Uncle Sal’s Ribs and Brew, Inc.” I guess security services have much more appeal in the East Tremont section of the Bronx than do Uncle Sal’s ribs.
Recession Special II
I find it very reassuring that chicken is recession proof.
Have a great weekend. Adventures in Chow City will return on Tuesday.
After my second son was born in early 2004, the rest of that year seemed like a blur. I do, however, remember the trip to Brooklyn to El Viejo Yayo #2. And after re-reading what I wrote below, my exhaustion was evident and probably colored my less than enthusiastic response to our experience there.
El Viejo Yayo #2
317 9th Street
Brooklyn
It was tough; only the group of gluttonous gourmands could get me out for my first nocturnal venture since the birth of my second son, but out I staggered, on very little sleep, to Brooklyn, destination: El Viejo Yayo #2 (bonus points for anyone who knows what a “yayo” is). This was Rick’s choice and, based on our Tandoori Hut experience, we were hoping history would repeat itself and that an inside tip, in this case a Latin restaurant recommendation from one of his Hispanic co-workers, would lead to a restaurant scoop.
Yayo 2 was in Park Slope Brooklyn in the increasingly trendy locale of 5th Avenue. But this was no trendy place. With the exception of the adornment of well-fed fish in a large fish tank, Yayo 2 was a simple, clean, relatively spacious, Dominican slanted, Latin restaurant. We were all able to assemble for this one and there was plenty of room for us. The meringue music was playing continuously and there was baseball (albeit exhibition baseball) on the television. The ambitious menu boasted not only Dominican specialties such as chicharron de pollo and an assortment of steaks and stews; it also had an “Italian corner” and a “Mexican corner.” All of us wisely stayed away from those corners and stuck to the Dominican dishes.
Unlike my local Dominican restaurant, El Malecon, Yayo 2 offered a selection of mofongos; double-fried tostones, stuffed with garlic, onions and pork cracklings, shaped into a cup and mixed with an assortment of meats and seasonings. To start we ordered two; one with pork chunks and another with sausage. They came to the table almost immediately and whether it was the density of the food along with the Presidente beer or whether it was my exhaustion, I was practically done before getting started. But the Yayo steak I ordered was soon to come and I was curious to sample Zio’s “horse steak Yayo style” as well as Gerry’s kingfish, Rick’s barbecue ribs, and Charlie’s chicken stew. The way he was protectively hunched over his fish, I knew better than to think I would get a nibble of Eugene’s fried tilapia.
Mofongo: The beginning of the end.
Soon my Yayo steak appeared; a slab of flattened, charred beef covered with onions and accompanied with a monstrous portion of yellow rice and red beans. Looking at the bounty in front of me, I knew I was in trouble. With the mofongo now anchored heavy in my gut, I began to labor my way through the tough, dry steak and pile of rice and beans. It didn’t help that opposite me I had to watch Zio heartily devour his horse steak—don’t worry, no ponies were harmed in production of Zio’s dinner. The steak was identical to mine, but covered with two eggs—over easy. I did sample a bit of Gerry’s kingfish, and Charlie’s chicken stew, but I couldn’t get myself to touch one of Rick’s ordinary-looking, and in his opinion ordinary-tasting, ribs. I was done; and to the surprise of the others, with half the slab of meat still on my plate.
Well, at least I thought I was done. I just couldn’t resist a tropical dessert and opted for the coconut pudding. A good choice, but not as good as the excellent flan I sampled from Gerry’s order.
As we left the restaurant having just barely met our $20 minimum, my stomach was beginning to misbehave. I do not blame Yayo #2 for this; exhaustion can do strange things to your body. But with the exception of the mofongo, which I very much liked despite its plaque inducing ingredients, and the desserts, Yayo #2 was a disappointment and not in the league of El Malecon in quality or value. Insider tips can be tricky; the insider might have an acquired taste for flattened, charred slabs of beef. You just never know. Despite how I felt the rest of the night, within 24 hours of the Yayo #2 experience, I was, I’m proud to say, able to regain my usual voracious appetite.
My son, the one mentioned being born just a few weeks before we visited El Viejo Yayo #2, will turn seven in a little over a month. Why does it feel then, like I was just there? And he was just a baby. Okay, that’s as deep as you’ll get me to go here. I’ve not returned to El Viejo Yayo but from what I’ve gathered on the internet, it has not changed much. There is still a number one (36 Fifth Avenue, Brooklyn) and a number 2, the one we experienced. It now has a website (www.elviejoyayo.com) and the menu, with a few minor deletions and additions, and, of course price increases due to inflation, has remained the same though El Viejo Yayo #1 seems a bit more stylish and doesn’t have the noted Italian or Mexican corners.
What was wrong with the old aroma? Just asking.
Have a great weekend everyone and look for another installment of Adventures in Chow City on Tuesday.
Getting your peas and rice ready for the New Year? Here’s a recipe from Sweet Sweetback. It’s a baaadassss one for sure. And don’t forget a dash or three of hot sauce. Just click on the button below and listen up.
Enjoy that Hoppin John and Happy New Year.
Okay if you take Plan #1, you get 2lbs of fresh neck bones, beef liver, turkey wings along with ground beef and chicken legs. You also get bacon, Boar’s Head at that, and a dozen free eggs. All for only $19.95. Now if I spend only $6 more, I can get the same amount of ground beef, neck bones, and chicken legs, plus 2lbs of pork chops, 2lbs of pig feet, 2lbs of chicken wings, which I could cook up for the bowl games on Saturday, along with the one pound of franks, also perfect for the football games. But with Plan #2 I don’t get the liver, bacon, or the turkey wings and that’s a problem; I like to cook my greens withturkey wings. And instead of a dozen eggs, I get a two liter bottle of soda. I don’t drink soda, so that does me no good. I wonder if they allow substitutions? They don’t make it easy, do they?
Adventures in Chow City will return next Tuesday.
Baccala Blues
When I was a little boy,
‘bout the age of five.
I’d get real excited,
when Christmas was soon to arrive.
But one year, I’ll never forget,
Something happened that still makes me sweat.
It was a few days before Christmas,
We were by the fireplace, putting up our socks,
When my Granny came to the house carrying an
old wooden box.
I crinkled my nose.
From the box there came a smell.
An odor so strong and so bad,
it was enough to curl my toes.
What was in that box even smelled worse
than that fish they call lox.
I had to know.
“Tell me, Granny, what’s in that box,” I cried.
“Never you mind,” Granny said.
“Go outside,
go enjoy the snow.”
But now I knew I just had to see.
What was in that box,
that was such a mystery.
I knew I shouldn’t, but I looked anyway,
And what I saw, is why I never forget that day.
There was salt, skin and bones.
It was some kind of a fish,
but this fish was as hard as a stone.
It even had what looked like a tail.
And a dead mouth that let out a silent wail.
Then Granny came back
and took the box to the bathroom.
I could hear her filling the tub,
and then a splash,
followed by a sickening thud.
When she left, I opened the door.
The smell was so smelly, I almost fell on the floor.
But soon I forgot what was in the tub.
Christmas was coming.
I was distracted by joy.
I couldn’t wait for Santa to bring me my toys.
Then on Christmas Eve morning, when my
Granny appeared.
The moment had come,
the one that I feared.
I remembered that thing in the bathroom,
the fish that was no trout.
I knew that today, was the day it would come out.
I watched from a distance as Granny took it from the tub.
The sight of that hideous fish,
was making my little left eye twitch.
She put it in a pot
covered it with water,
and then on the fire to get it hot.
What would happen to Christmas, I wondered.
Would it still go on?
Would Santa come to a house that smelled of rot?
Santa please,
I cried and moaned.
Please hear my plea.
Don’t let that funky fish,
keep you from bringing my toys to me.
Please, Santa, no baccala.
Finally we all sat, for the Christmas Eve feast.
On the table were clams and chestnuts,
spaghetti and shrimp.
And there was that thing, that fish,
the one that reeks.
Granny made sure I had a piece on my plate.
I stared at it in horror,
and silently prayed that that piece would disintegrate.
What’s it called, I wanted to be told.
“Baccala,” she said, “now eat it, before it gets cold!”
I put it on my fork and slowly brought it to my lips.
I opened my mouth, and took a tiny nip.
I hurriedly reached for my water,
forcing it down.
I drank so much, I hoped I wouldn’t drown.
Everyone at the table laughed and made fun of me.
Even my old Gramps was full of glee.
I felt silly and sad.
I didn’t want to make Granny mad.
That’s when Gramps hugged me tight and looked me in the eyes.
“It’s okay, boy, you just paid your dues,” he said
“‘cause now you’re hooked,
you got the baccala blues.”
Now that I’m a man,
I’ve learned that Gramps was right.
When it comes to baccala, I’ve seen the light.
It smells and it’s fishy.
It’s got salt by the pound.
But these days I like it so much,
it doesn’t have to be Christmas
to keep it around.
I’ll eat it fried or baked,
in a salad or made into cakes.
The taste of that salty fish is one
I never want to lose.
And that’s what happens,
when a man gets the baccala blues.
Buon Natale
Our first out-of-town odyssey with Gerry was our venture just across the bridge to Fort Lee and the Korean, Masil House (see archives for November 9). When his turn to pick came up again, he took us further, a continuing theme for Gerry, when we traveled to Westchester for the not very exotic, though maybe it is for Westchester, barbecue. Here is what we experienced in the in Valhalla, New York in the fall of 2003.
Southbound Bar-B-Que
R.I.P.
It was a bit confusing to begin with. We were heading north looking for the Southbound Barb-B-Que. And north, in this case wasn’t the Bronx, it was Westchester, Valhalla to be precise, conveniently Gerry’s hometown as well as the final resting place of Babe Ruth. Rick had obliged to haul those of us who lived in the city in his all-wheel turbo Ram out of the bright lights and into the dark roads of Westchester. Gerry is a bit of a barbecue aficionado, so we all very much anticipated his choice despite the schlep out of New York City’s environs. Using my increasingly fading memory of Westchester and the vague directions Gerry gave me, we were able to find the restaurant without too much trouble. Stepping out of the “Ram,” I sniffed. There was nothing yet. . .nothing to indicate that we were in very close proximity to a self-proclaimed “butt kickin’ rib joint.” But as we got closer two huge exhaust ventilators were spewing the reassuringly familiar perfume of smoking meat.
The restaurant was painfully bright especially after navigating the black streets of Westchester. Gerry and Eugene were already present and so was our table for six. All of the other tables were occupied making Southbound Bar-B-Que one of the most popular of places we have experienced. Could there have been a little blurb in the New Yorker? Or was it that this was the real deal? Service started off slow, but the delay was more than compensated by very cold mugs of beer, endless baskets of freshly-made potato chips that kept arriving on our table, and recollections by Eugene about his first experience watching ESPN at the former incarnation of Southbound Bar-B-Que, a German restaurant named Franzl’s.
Southbound Bar-B-Que’s former incarnation.
As is the case with most barbecue joints, the menu was not very extensive. Ribs were the advertised specialty and available in a half or full rack. The other typical barbecue items were pulled pork, smoked chicken, sausage, and beef brisket. With the exception of the chicken, we ordered everything, including two full racks of ribs. Then there were the sides; corn bread, baked beans, macaroni and cheese, corn, and “freedom” fries because the place would have been empty if they used the other F* word to define their fries.
David Wells and his bad back was not good for the Yankees or my appetite.
Our food began to arrive around the first pitch of Game 5 of the World Series. And by the time David Wells left the game because of a bad back, the Valhalla chapter of the Hells Angels had entered the restaurant and took seats directly behind us. But neither the intimidating presence of the Angels nor the unwelcome David Wells’ situation deterred us from devouring the variety of smoked meats placed in front of us. The ribs, though spiced a bit blandly, were cooked perfectly, and the pulled pork was a true winner as was the beef brisket. The sides were nothing more than adequate; the corn bread a bit sweet and the macaroni and cheese unmemorable. The sauces were also a disappointment; all were overly sweet for my palate and the desserts good but indistinguishable. But I guess, despite the shortcomings, ribs cooked very closely to perfection in, of all places, Westchester, is a triumph in itself. I just hope the close proximity to barbecue doesn’t make Gerry complacent and limit his excellent efforts in that very same department.
I’m not sure when Southbound Barb-B-Que closed, but Gerry assures me it’s been gone a long time and that the food, after several visits following ours, went downhill very quickly. So, according to Gerry, its demise was no loss to him. The Yankees lost the World Series a few days later; David Wells’ injury pretty much doomed them and it wasn’t until six years later when they got back to the Series.
*The F word in the fall of 2003 was “French” for French fries. This was during the ridiculous hysteria during the lead up to the Iraq invasion when the French and their anti-invasion stance was vilified by Rupert Murdoch’s minions.
Fried Neck Bones...and some home fries 