Tag Archives: culture

The Cannoli Dream

13 Mar

I had that dream again. The one where I’m on a lumpy mattress and I smell tomato sauce cooking. It’s almost always the same. There’s this fat guy making the sauce and laughing; singing really, to who, I don’t know. “Why don’t you tell that nice girl you love her? I love you with all a my heart, if I don’t see a you again soon, I’m a gonna die.”

It’s murky, like dreams usually are, but the smell of the sauce is distinctive. There are men in the room with me. I’m young, though; a teenager and these men are serious.

“Come over here, kid. Learn something,” The fat man says, I think to me. “You never know, you might have to cook for 20 guys someday.”

And then he gives out the recipe. “You start out with a little oil. Then you fry some garlic. Then you throw in some tomatoes. Then some tomato paste. You fry it, make sure it doesn’t stick. You bring it to a boil and then you shove in your sausage and your meatballs. Add a little bit of wine. A little bit of sugar. And that’s my trick…”

Then one of the serious guys comes over and tells the fat guy to cut the crap; that he has more important things for him to do, which I can’t understand. What could be more important than cooking sauce for 20 guys?

In my dream I am now in different place. It’s quiet, dark, and seems deserted. A man is with me. He carries flowers and smiles nervously. I ask who he is. He says he is a baker and that his bread is the best on Pleasant Avenue. I see that his hands are shaking.

A baker bearing flowers.

The next thing I remember from the dream is that I’m driving around with another group of serious men. We end up in front of some Italian restaurant in the Bronx. I’ve been told it’s supposed to be a “family” place with good food and, for some reason, I should check out the bathroom. I’m eating with strangers and someone asks how the veal is? “It’s the best in the city,” is the muffled response I can barely hear because of the rumbling of the nearby elevated train.

A family place.

Finally, I’m in a sunny garden, but I’m now a little boy. There’s an old man with me. He’s got beautiful tomato plants but he’s spraying them with pesticide. He obviously isn’t organically informed. The old man likes oranges; there are always oranges around him. But he scares me when he puts the peel in his mouth and makes a face like a monster.

I run away and the fat guy who was teaching me how to make tomato sauce is telling me something. I hear him, but I’m not sure I understand.

And then I wake up sweaty and confused. Was I supposed to leave the cannolis and take the gun? Or was I supposed to take the cannolis and leave the gun? I can never get it straight.

March 15, 1972: Happy 40th Godfather.

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A Tale of Two Food Lines

9 Mar

It was the best of times.

 

It was the worst of times.

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The Fazool Trilogy: Part One

1 Mar

I had an Italian teacher in high school who was about four and a half feet tall. She had gray-hair she wore in a strict conservative bun and dressed like a Sicilian widow. She was no-nonsense in class and compensated for her diminutive size by never hesitating to come down hard and loud on a slacker. Her pet word for me was “pigrone,” or lazybones. She was also a stickler for classic, traditional Italian; no dialect, and definitely no Italian-American slang was tolerated. Whenever she heard the hated, vulgar misuse of her native Italian, she would spew venomously: “It’s fagioli. Not ‘fazooool.’ It’s capicola, not ‘gabagool!’ And this was way before Soprano’s speak made the slang even more popular.

Just getting some sun while waiting for an order of gabagool.

I don’t know where my teacher is now, but I hope she doesn’t mind too much that I’ve titled this series, The Fazool Trilogy. I promise I’ll never utter such an abomination in public.  What follows is part one of the trilogy.

Pasta e Ceci a la Nanny

After my grandfather died, I would try, whenever my schedule permitted, to visit my grandmother for lunch. If it wasn’t a Sunday, when lunch was red sauce, polpette and other meats, the lunch would usually include some sort of pasta and bean combination. My grandmother, we called Nanny, knew that I loved her pasta e ceci (pasta with chick peas); one of the few in the family, besides my grandfather, who did.

So a big hearty bowl would be waiting for me which I would devour much to my Nanny’s pleasure. Nothing made her happier than having the food she prepared devoured.

Now Nanny is also gone and with it the recipes that were in her head alone…she never wrote any down.

Over the years I’ve done my best to re-create her dishes, including pasta e ceci.

The recipe that follows is my version and incorporates the lazybones label I earned in my high school Italian class. I cut a few little corners, but the result, I found, really hasn’t suffered.

This is what you’ll need.

1 15 ounce can of chick peas, preferably Italian*

1 garlic clove, sliced thin

½ cup of chopped onion

½ tsp of dried oregano

¼ teaspoon of dried hot red pepper flakes

¼ cup of olive oil

¾ pound of dried pasta (medium shells, pipette, or any other medium-sized cut)

½ cup of grated parmigiano Reggiano or pecorino Romano.

Salt to taste.

Chopped parsley for garnish

*Where I’ve cut a huge corner is using canned chick peas instead of dried. I’ve done the bean soaking thing and though it is slightly more economical, I find it not only time consuming, but sometimes, for whatever reason, you end up with beans that never soften. And maybe it’s my unsophisticated palate, but I really don’t notice a major difference in bean quality or taste; certainly not enough to justify the effort. Though some canned beans are better than others, but I’m not naming names.

Drain the beans and rinse with cold water.

Heat the olive oil on a medium flame and then add the onion. Sauté for about three minutes or until the onion softens. Add the garlic and cook for about two more minutes. Toss in the oregano and red pepper flakes and toast for one minute. Add the beans and a quarter cup of water.

Simmer all on low.

Pipette: the preferred pasta cut for ceci.

Meanwhile, boil a big pasta pot full of water. When it boils add salt and the pasta. Cook until al dente or a minute less and then add the pasta to the saucepan with the chick peas. Scoop in about three tablespoons of the pasta water to the chick peas and cook together for about another minute or so. Toss in a quarter cup of the grated cheese, mix, pour into a big bowl and garnish with the parsley.

There should be enough to feed four adults. Sprinkle more cheese into your individual bowl if desired. Serve with a salad and a hard crusty bread. Devour heartily

Pasta e ceci a la Nanny

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The Happiest of all Hours: Subway Inn Edition

17 Feb

Now, interspersed within the Adventures of Chow City chronicles and other nonsensical restaurant paeans and food-related ravings that make up Fried Neck Bones…and Some Home Fries, comes the debut of a new semi-regular installment called The Happiest of all Hours.   Focusing on the saloon equivalent of Neckbones-like eating establisments, The Happiest of all Hours will attempt to capture what it is that makes that hour (or hours) so very happy.

To lead off the series comes the Subway Inn Edition.

No stranger to the Subway Inn, it seems whenever I go, it’s the happiest of all hours. But it had been a long time between visits. Upon entering, however, not much had changed with the exception of an abundance of flat panel, high definition televisions scattered throughout. And the presence of Modelo Especial in bottles.

“Bartender, a delicious Modelo Especial, por favor.”

Averting my eyes from one of the many aforementioned high definition television screens, I glanced upon the mantle above the bar.

Ah, yes, Godzilla wearing a tie. But I just can’t find the right words to describe the mate next to him. Could it be a signal that the happiest of all hours should come to a close?

Before leaving the Subway Inn to travel on the subway home, a visit to the facilities is almost always necessary.

I have a very painful memory about a happy hour past at Subway Inn when nature urgently called and the facilities were off limits;  blocked by a posse of plain-clothes detectives as they used said facilities to conduct a drug shakedown of some of the bar’s more devoted patrons.

I swear, the seat was already up.

On this happiest of hours, I am happy to report, there was no such dilemma.

I don’t get around as much as I used to, so if any of you have suggestions or recommendations of establishments that might make good additions to The Happiest of all Hours, please don’t hesitate to contact me at friedneckbones_andsomehomefries@yahoo.com.

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And the Answer is…

23 Jan

On Friday I showed you these two photos of a place here in New York

Someone said that the place was the “Bellevue Hospital organ replacement room.”

Others recognized the Russian hats and presumed a Russian restaurant like either the Russian Tea Room or Firebird.

They were close, but the answer is…

At Russian Samovar, 256 W. 52nd Street, the ginger root, whole lemons, slices of unpeeled pineapple, and horseradish root, that bathe in the vodka can take on that organ-like look. I personally like to drink various alcoholic beverages that have been naturally infused by funky fruits, tubers and roots that claim to make me “strong like bull.” After a few shots, I don’t care if I really know the claims are preposterous.

Lemon infused vodka.

It also helps that at the Russian Samovar,  I can listen to Russian covers of 1960’s pop tunes like “Those Were the Days,”  and “What’s New Pussycat” played by the house piano player.

The infused vodka experience at Russian Samovar is enhanced by the live entertainment.

As I said, there is food at Russian Samovar. Someday, if I can get past the extensive vodka menu, I plan on trying it.

 

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The Ham Hock Hangover Cure

30 Dec

Start with a pound of black eyed peas.

Chop up a few cloves of garlic and a large onion.

Take a good-sized ham hock, it’s restorative powers never factually documented, yet hotly debated among nutrition professionals, and add it and all the other  ingredients to a big pot.

Sprinkle in at least six dashes of hot sauce.

Cover with water and cook over very low heat for about eight hours.

While the peas cook, enjoy your beverage of choice, be it alcoholic or not. By the time a headache or general malaise ensues, the peas should be cooked and the meat easily shredded from the bone. Consume even if you feel like you might retch.  Eat with rice and greens.

While you eat, try not to dwell on the mistakes you made the previous year and direct your positive thoughts to the 365 days ahead, beginning with the most delicious Ham Hock Hangover Cure in front of you.

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And the Answer Is…

19 Dec

Where you will find this model replica of Al Capone along with a shrine to gangsterism.

And where they sell rabbits and calf brains.

You will also find this.

Broccoli rabe

And this.

Dried peppers, fruits and vegetables.

Here inside this place.

Known as the Arthur Avenue Retail Market, in the Bronx.

Thank you all for playing and showing off your New York foodie creds. Keep your eyes open for a new edition of Name that Place in 2012.

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Name That Place: Christmas Bonus Edition

16 Dec

This one is so easy, I’m a little embarrassed to actually be posting it.  But in the spirit of the season;  a time of tenuous comfort and forced joy, I am offering this bonus round of Name That Place.

There’s obviously a gangster theme going on here. Is that supposed to be Al Capone? Or is it supposed to be this guy?

Either way, it’s just another sad stereotype of the Italian as gangster.

Ooops, I just gave away a hint, as if you need it. Where is this tribute to gangsterism? I won’t use the “M” word to describe what is depicted because my Poppy from Calabria always said there was no such thing.

Since I’m in such a giving mood, I’ll add a few more photos of what you might find at this place.

You can buy calf brains there.

And even fresh coniglio, also known as rabbit.

Is it a meat market? One with a statue of a gangster? Am I confusing you now? I certainly hope so, but doubt it.  No, from what I’ve revealed here, I might as well just wrap this gift up and put it under the tree for you.

As always, leave your answers in the comment section below. The place will be revealed here on Monday.

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The Jamaican Beef Patty Gospels

9 Dec

As seen in the People’s Choice Kitchen.

And the beef patties were good too.

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Biryani Joy

6 Dec

Rawal Ravail
641 Lydig Avenue
Bronx

A little bit of Pakistan in the Bronx

The din from the uptown/downtown 2 and 5 trains on the elevated tracks above White Plains Road was really nothing more than background noise to the constant cacophony that resonated in the frantic Morris Park section of the Bronx where Gerry had summoned us. It was our third straight session in that borough proving that the Bronx could hold its own with Queens and Brooklyn in ethnic food diversity. This time we were to sample Pakistani food; strictly Halal; meaning no pork and no alcohol.

Located next to the Islamabad Deli, an uplifting message on the Rawal’s window read: “Everyone brings joy to this restaurant. Some when they enter and others when they leave. Thank you. Management.”

Forced joy is not one of my strong points, but I told myself to at least make the effort. The lone person inside the restaurant—a young man wiping down a table—didn’t even notice me or my joy as I entered. Compared to the frenzy outside, even with the babble in Urdu coming from the gigantic flat screen television tuned to a Pakistani television station, inside it was calm.

The news from Pakistan was from what I could translate, not good.

No one else had yet arrived and due to a last minute work engagement where pork might be served and alcohol most definitely would be, Rick had already bowed out. Soon the others arrived including Eugene, who was daringly dressed in short pants.

Rawal’s only menus were of the take-out variety and we quickly discovered, pretty much useless. The dour owner begrudgingly had our group come with him to the steam table where he could explain what was available that day. There he pointed to each tray where there were various curries; chicken, goat, and kidney/liver, two vegetable dishes, three solitary small grilled fish, a tray of bright red chicken tikka, and another of chopped grilled chicken. He lifted up the rice containers; two biryanis and one with plain white basmati rice.

The process was more complicated than it should have been. To make things easier, we had him fix each of us a platter with a sampling of some of the dishes. And this he did with not a trace of joy.

Rawal Ravail’s steam blurred steam table.

Within a few minutes, a female server in traditional Pakistani dress, brought us a plate of lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, chilies, and a raita dressing. Soon, the man in charge returned, accompanied by his female helper with our individual plates and five, Frisbee-sized loaves of nan bread. Each curry, goat, chicken, and liver and kidney, were fiery. Even the channa (chick pea) and cabbage curry was hot. The only respite from the spice was the rice and bread. All the curries were delicious, but, with the exception of the unique texture of the kidney and liver, very much alike and, crowded on our platters, they bled together making them somewhat indistinguishable.

Channa and cabbage and…biryani

Despite the heat, we quickly devoured our plates with the exception of Mike from Yonkers who was deliberately picking at his liver and kidney, dabbing each forkful into the cooling raita. We tried to be patient and display some level of dining etiquette, but Eugene and I could wait no longer.

While Mike from Yonkers continued to maddeningly play with his liver, we headed toward the entrance of the restaurant where there was a display of sweets including a few that were alarmingly colorful. Among them was a tray of milk where blobs of dough bobbled, a pink rice pudding, an orange coconut pudding, and a carrot orange sweet along with a white, nut-filled sweet. Eugene took a bite of the latter and proclaimed it second only to the “lima bean dessert” we had years ago at a Filipino restaurant in Queens, as the worst dessert he ever tasted.

Dessert offerings.

Zio added that the carroty orange thing had a distinct cardboard taste. Everyone agreed that the orange coconut pudding was the best of the bunch, though Gerry had no complaints about any of them and what no one else would touch further, he piled in front of him to quickly finish off.

The tab; well below our group’s $20 per person allotment left plenty of leeway for a generous tip despite the lackadaisical service. And after handing over our cash to the owner, for the first time that evening a smile was apparent on his face. The message on the window, prophetic, for we indeed, upon our exit, brought joy to the restaurant.

Our tip left the staff of Rawal Ravail extremely joyous.

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