Tag Archives: Dining

Baklava in the Bleachers

16 Oct

As I said in these pages about a month ago (New Year’s Penicillin), I’ve been spending a lot of time just off the 230th Street exit of the Major Deegan, sitting on crooked aluminum bleacher seats watching baseball on a small field. The field borders the Deegan and the hum of traffic is a constant.

The bleacher seats: no admission charge.

In between games or while waiting for the games to begin, I’ve become very familiar with the Kingsbridge neighborhood that surrounds the field.  A café con leche at Malecon Restaurant has become a weekly treat and as I reported here, I “discovered” a 50 year old Kosher deli named Loeser’s where the penicillin includes chicken broth, noodles, or maybe a matzoh ball.

More recently, as I waited for the games to begin, I happened on another place. Just a few paces from the 50th police precinct and across the street from the Nice Guys Car Wash, I found a small, shed of a diner called Christos Gyro & Souvlaki.

The souvlaki of Christos.

Christos, I learned, has been at its tiny location on Kingsbridge Road the past eight years—at least that was what the owner, Christopher, a.k.a Christos, said to me as he also proudly handed me a laminated Daily News article about his restaurant where that newspaper rated his gyro the best in the city.

The weather was changing. An Indian summer day was quickly turning into a brisk autumn one. I’d have to take the Daily News’ word on the gyro. I wanted something else. I didn’t need New Year’s penicillin, but the close Greek equivalent would do very well.

“You want the avgolemono?” Christos asked.

“Yes I do,” was my definitive response.

“Anything else?”

“Moussaka,” I said, not caring that I might miss the beginning of the game.

“Very good choice.”

The bowl of the yellow-tinged, lemon chicken soup was steaming. Spherical dots of orzo floated within along with slivers of chicken. The distinct citrus snap of lemon meshed magically with the hearty, comforting chicken broth.

I crumbled a few saltines into the bowl and slurped. It wasn’t long before the bowl was empty.

Christos’ avgolemono

Moussaka awaited, paired with a simple Greek salad, pita bread and a generous bowl of tzatziki. I dipped the pita into the creamy, garlicky yogurt…and then I double dipped.

The half inch of béchamel sauce on top of the ground beef and eggplant was airy, the filling scented with cinnamon. I alternated between bites of the moussaka and dips of the tzatziki until all was gone.

Moussaka, Greek salad, tzatziki

Christos came to clear my table. “You did good,” he said.

“I know,” I answered, happy to have made him proud.

As I waited to pay, I noticed a tray of baklava and remembered reading in the Daily News piece that Christos’ wife made them fresh daily. I pointed to it. Christos’ son was working the cashier—Christo’s was most certainly a family affair. “To go?”  he asked.

I nodded and took the bagged baklava back to the ball field. I devoured it watching baseball on the bleacher seats while like a continuous loop, the music of the Major Deegan played on and on.

Music to eat baklava by.

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One Tale From a Thousand and One Falafel Tales

9 Oct

“I was going to pick a Bolivian place,” Eugene said, “but I thought you guys didn’t want me to.”

We had been to Latin restaurants the past three outings,  so when Eugene mentioned the unnamed Bolivian place as a potential destination, we gently suggested another cuisine. Eugene took our suggestion to heart and came up with an alternate pick.

“Why, out of the thousands of falafel joints in this town, did you decide on Amir’s?” I asked wondering about the logic of Eugene’s choice of Amir’s where, on this night, just four of us were assembled. I should have known, however, that logic never factors into Eugene’s decisions. This is a man, a native of the New York suburb of White Plains, who always goes out of his way to root against all New York teams; a man who claims allegiance to other teams, most from Boston, but really gets his sports’ jollies more from a New York team’s defeat than one of his own teams’ victory.

That there were only four of us at Amir’s was probably a good thing. The small, eat in/take out place would have been a challenge for our usual brawny six. And it was probably better that Zio spend his wedding anniversary with The Colonel rather than dining on something he could get at a street cart closer to his love nest in Astoria. The question was, would what he could get at the street cart in Astoria, or at any of the other countless falafel places in the city compare to Amir’s?

Amir’s falafel

After our brief outing; ordering from the typically middle eastern falafel menu; falafel, hummus, babaganoush, along with what now are called “proteins” on many menus meaning meats; shawarma beef, chicken, and kebabs, the verdict, sadly, was yes. Though Amir’s falafels were relatively light, not drenched with oil, slightly sweet, and above average on the unofficial falafel meter, they were no more distinguishable than Mahoud’s, Ahmad’s, or any other above average falafel joint in the city, of which there are hundreds.

There’s protein somewhere in there.

The “protein” that Rick tried, a shawarma beef sandwich in pita, was not worthy of veering from the falafel while the “popeye,” a spinach pie Gerry bravely ordered, had an outer shell that to penetrate required the muscles of the cartoon character of the same name.

The “popeye.”

After our falafel experience, we strolled down Broadway, congested heavily with Columbia students. We again pressed Eugene on his choice. “I don’t know. I pick a neighborhood that I’ve never been to and then I find a place there. What’s the name of this neighborhood anyway?”

“I think it’s Morningside Heights,” Rick offered.

“The Upper West Side,” I said.

“It’s nice here,” Eugene added, successful in veering the conversation  to real estate and away from falafel.

We muttered collectively and though the meal was not as satisfying as we are used too, took solace in knowing that there was Bolivian food sometime in our future.

Amir’s
2911-A Broadway

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Neck Bones Anniversary Anchovy Sauce

3 Oct

Last year, around this time, on the first anniversary of the launch of Fried Neck Bones…and Some Home Fries, I celebrated with a batch of Neck Bones Tomato Sauce, the recipe I shared on these pages (Neck Bones Anniversary Tomato Sauce). I don’t really consider myself a man of tradition, but when it comes to food, and eating, maybe I am. So to follow tradition, on this, the second anniversary of Fried Neck Bones…and Some Home Fries, I have celebrated with another pasta sauce. This one is meatless, but to compensate any lack of flavor, doused heavily with that favorite little fish; the anchovy.

Speaking of traditions, the origin of my romance with the anchovy began with a Christmas Eve tradition. One of the seven fishes (Seven Fishes for Seven Dishes), prepared for that Italian feast in our family was the anchovy. My grandmother was the chef and when I was young, the featured pasta was spaghetti with anchovies.

But anchovy love doesn’t come easily or immediately. The sight, smell and taste of the little brown oily and spiny fillets could cause a child to retch. I wanted no part of it and I wasn’t alone. My brothers felt the same way and instead, on Christmas Eve, we had our spaghetti with just butter and Parmesan cheese.

Soon after experiencing puberty, our taste buds became more open minded and, though anchovies were still a tough sell, we graduated to the milder, white clam sauce. There was now a seafood alternative to coat the spaghetti with.

I can’t pinpoint the actual date when I converted, but it was sometime in early adulthood. Soon I was actually adding a few of those fillets into my white clam sauce. There was definitely something about that stinky fishy fish that was working magic in my mouth. Friends looked at me in horror when I began to, voluntarily, decorate my slices of pizza with the fillets. It wasn’t long before, given the choice on Christmas Eve, I would take the anchovy sauce before the white clam.

The romance was on and grows stronger with each year. There is no chance I eat spaghetti with anchovies just on Christmas Eve. It’s now a treat I prepare every couple of months—and a simple, inexpensive one at that.

I’m sure many of you might have a prejudice against the anchovy stemming from early encounters when, like me, your sense of taste just wasn’t ready for such an assault of flavor. Try to move past that prejudice and give the little fish another chance. And here, to lead you on to the path of anchovy righteousness is my recipe for Spaghetti with Anchovies.

Some of the ingredients for spaghetti with anchovies.

Ingredients

1 small bottle of anchovies in olive oil.*

½ cup of olive oil

4-5 good-sized cloves of garlic, chopped into large pieces**

½ tsp of dried red pepper flakes or a few slices of fresh chili pepper (for this one I used a fresh chili from the garden)

2 tbs of chopped fresh Italian parsley

¼ cup of dry white wine or water

1lb of spaghetti

*Anchovies come in several forms. There are the tins or bottles in olive oil, or they can be bought packed in salt. The anchovies packed in salt are the most desired, but also the most expensive and most work. The salt packed anchovies need to be rinsed under cold water and then cleaned of the tail and whatever guts might still be attached. Sounds disgusting, but worth the effort in the long run. For this recipe, however, I used imported Italian anchovies from a jar and they’ll do just fine. The anchovies found in the tins work too, but are not quite up to the quality you will find in the jar or salt packed.

What I used.

**The finer you chop or mince garlic, the stronger the taste. For this dish, which already is overflowing with flavor from the anchovies and red pepper, I like a milder taste from the garlic so I keep the pieces coarsely chopped, rather than fine.

Breaking up the anchovies.

In a skillet, heat the oil on a medium flame. Add the garlic, but do not brown. Toss in the red pepper, cook for a minute and then add the anchovies. There will be sizzling. Stir the anchovies around the oil, breaking them up with a wooden spoon. Add the white wine or water and lower the heat. Once the sauce simmers, stir again until the anchovies have melted into the liquid forming a brown, almost gravy-like sauce. It should look a little like the Piedmontese specialty bagna cauda. Taste and if it is too strong, add more water or wine.

The sauce is now ready for serving.

Cook the spaghetti al dente, drain, and then add the sauce, topping with the fresh parsley. If you are an anchovy fanatic, like my father, you might want to also add a few extra uncooked fillets on top of your bowl.

Though the pasta police prohibit grated parmigiano  Reggiano or Romano cheese on seafood sauces, if you choose to indulge, you have my word that I won’t report you.

Spaghetti with anchovy sauce

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And the Answer is…

1 Oct

On Friday I presented these two images and challenged you to name the place where you would find them.

The first image was correctly identified as a pig’s snout. But beyond that, no one could identify the place where the pig snout and the delicious dish above could be found.

As I said in Friday’s post, there are sometimes hints in my words. They were in there, but really, not much help at all. The hint was in this sentence. “In what eating establishment(s) might you find the bizarre image above?” Now how would you know that the pig’s snout image was in, technically, two eating establishments?

This establishment where the pork cutlet above was prepared:

Which is part of this larger, grander establishment:

The food court (emporium) known as Food Gallery 32.

Where  international means, predominately Korean, with some Japanese and Chinese thrown in including the Red Mango frozen yogurt chain, Jin Jja Roo, for Korean noodle and rice dishes, O-de-Ppang for Japanese rice bowls, and,

and,

 

Food Gallery 32
11 West 32nd Street.

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Name That Place

28 Sep

Now that we have turned the page on summer and everyone is back to school, work, and other serious stuff, I felt it was time to resume the game that appears semi-frequently here on Fried Neck Bones…and Some Home Fries, the ever popular: Name That Place.

And I’m going to get right down to it. Even though all of you might be a little rusty from the summer off, I’m not giving out any cupcakes.  Get this one right and you go right into the top echelon, the “most definitely knows his/her stuff” column of New York City foodie knowledge rankings.

Take a look at the photo below.

In what eating establishment(s) might you find the bizarre image above?

Because I know I’ve started you off with a rough one, I’ll add another photo which may help you or just add to your frustration.

From the looks of the photo above, someone couldn’t wait to bite into that perfectly formed slab of fried meat,  a specialty of the place(s) I challenge you to name.

As always, read my words carefully, there might be other hints hidden there. Or there might not.

Tune in here on Monday where the identities will be revealed.

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The Uptown Burger Deluxe

21 Sep

There was a time when the type of beef used in making a basic diner/coffee shop burger was never disclosed. We didn’t know if the diner ground the meat or not. We didn’t know if they made the patties themselves or if they were pre-made. The beef patty—or should I say the slab of chopped beef—was tossed onto a hot griddle, or, in some cases, a grill, and cooked until done. “How do you want it cooked?” was never asked.

Once done, some cheese (for a few coins more) was melted onto the meat. The patty was then was put onto a bun with a leaf of iceberg lettuce, and a slice of tasteless, out-of-season tomato. In various instances, a pickle and grilled or raw onions were also added to the bun. The burger was assembled onto a plate surrounded by French fries. This was the prototypical “Burger Deluxe” found at countless diners, luncheonettes, and coffee shops when I first moved to New York. And I ate at a lot of them.

Many food folks these days, when given their weekly—or monthly—burger allowance, would rather spend it at a place where the beef is derived from animals that eat only grass, never consume hormones or supplements, and are treated with the utmost kindness before being slaughtered. And I can’t blame them. In most instances I would rather travel to a shack, bistro, or joint for a high quality, organic, grass fed, humane, rare or bare, juicy five napkin burger. But sometimes nostalgia gets the better of me and I just can’t help myself. That’s when I yearn for the “burger deluxe.” And, thankfully, they are still out there.

There’s a soul classic called Across 110th Street, by the great Bobby Womack. And north of that street, from river to river, is where you will have your pick of a mini-chain of diners called  Jimbo’s Hamburger Palace. At Jimbo’s, the “burger deluxe” is a mainstay on the menu.

Jimbo’s Hamburger Palace at 284 Lenox Avenue

Jumbo’s on 116th Street, not to be confused with Jimbo’s, and how could you?

To satisfy my nostalgia craving, I found myself at the Jimbo’s on Lenox Avenue across from Harlem Hospital. I sat at the pristine counter and, not bothering with  pondering the sandwich wraps, gyros, or delicious breakfast options, went directly to the cheeseburger deluxe. The waitress who took my order did not ask me how I wanted it cooked. She didn’t even ask what type of cheese I wanted. She only asked if I wanted everything on it which I assumed were the various vegetable condiments. I said I did.

From my seat I watched as a generous patty/slab of meat was tossed onto the hot griddle and then covered with a bowl to steam heat it through.

It wasn’t long before the cheese was added—a thin slice of bright orange American. The bun was assembled by another cook, a slather of mayo, iceberg lettuce, a few grilled onions and two slices of an under-ripe tomato.

It took enormous self control, but I was able to keep my mouth shut.

The fries were frozen, dumped into a deep fryer and then scattered around the burger. Ketchup came in a red squeeze bottle. I decorated the burger and the fries with it. Though if I had been asked, I would have said “medium rare,” in regards to how I wanted it cook, but really, it didn’t matter. The meat was cooked the way a burger deluxe should be cooked; juices running from it dampening the bun, the ketchup, tomato, and thin layer of mayonnaise all melding together to form a perfect hot mess.

The fries, however, were another story. Maybe my memory of past burger deluxe experiences have dimmed so much I forgot how tasteless the fries were. Or maybe it’s just that I doused them so thoroughly with ketchup it never really mattered how they tasted. How could fries like these make a burger deluxe? And then I realized that of course they did. That the starchy blandness of the frozen French fries bolstered the already intense flavor of the meat—they were the perfect accompaniment.

Deluxe!

 

 

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New Year’s Penicillin

18 Sep

I have found myself spending much of my time in the Kingsbridge section of the Bronx lately. Usually I’m sitting at a small ball field just next to the Major Deegan Expressway watching baseball with the incessant hum of traffic as background noise. But the other day I took a break between games and wandered around the bustling enclave around Broadway and 231st Street under the tracks of the number 1 train.

In a neighborhood where Spanish is the predominate language heard on the streets and rice and beans joints the typical cuisine, I was surprised to notice a Kosher deli named Loeser’s squeezed amongst the Latin-tinged outlets. I took a closer look at the deli and on its window  accolades such as the “best pastrami in NYC” were plastered along with the proclamation of a 50th Anniversary. So even though the aroma of rotisserie chicken from one of the said rice and beans joints was seriously tempting me, I felt I had to pay tribute to a place with such fierce survival skills.

The man behind the counter was the same man in many of the pictures on the wall posing with family and luminaries from the Bronx. His name was Fredy.

“How about some pastrami,” he said when I entered the barren, narrow time warp of a deli.

I looked around. Much of the signage was ancient. The evening was cool. The summer was turning to a crisp autumn.

I noticed the “Jewish penicillin” sign. “I’ll take the chicken soup,” I said.

“And pastrami?”

“No, just the soup.”

“Potato salad?”

I shook my head.

Maybe some potato pancakes or stuffed cabbage?

“No thanks.”

“What about a knish?”

I thought for a moment.

“Okay, a knish,” I said.

“You want mustard?”

“Sure.”

“I’ll slice it into the knish,” Fredy said. “Take a seat.”

The soup was brought to me in a plastic take out container with a few slices of rye bread. The knish came on a separate paper plate.

I sipped at the hot soup, moistening the rye bread in the broth before eating it. No one came into the deli while I was eating. Fredy was busy preparing a large turkey dinner, pouring brown gravy over it.

After finishing the soup, I wrapped up the knish, paid Fredy and then returned to the cacophony on 231st street and beyond. I caught a whiff of the intoxicating aroma of the rotisserie chicken from the rice and beans joint before it was overpowered by exhaust from a city bus. The hum of traffic on the Deegan had gone up a few decibels. It was getting dark and cooler. The game was about the start and the lights I noticed were on; the small field now illuminated. I sat and took out the knish.  It was still warm. I bit into it. The potato filling was moist and, just as Fredy promised, there was a smear of spicy deli mustard at its core.

Loeser’s Deli
214 W. 231st St
Bronx

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Big D’s Gift to the Big Apple

14 Sep

Here in New York we can get ribs that claim influences from cities  from Memphis to Kansas City. We can get chicken fried like they do in Kentucky and Maryland.   But there’s only one thing we can get from the Big D that we can’t from any other place. Something so unique; so tasty it will even let you forgive that city for hoisting “America’s Team” on the country.

We forgive you Jerry.

J J you can keep the Cowboys as Dallas’s team as long New York gets  to keep Dallas  BBQ .

And it’s not the bbq that makes Dallas BBQ the institution that it has become in New York.

Scan those starters. Bypass the “Crispy Shrimp, ” the “new” “Angry Shrimp,” the “Crabcakes, and stop right there on number4; at the dish that immortalized Dallas BBQ forever.  The magnificent mountain that is the “Onion Loaf.”

That right there is what I’m talking about.

Start picking the mound apart with your fingers. Get your hands greasy. Don’t worry, moist towelettes are thoughtfully provided by management. Ketchup? No need.

Go ahead, finish it all. Sure you’ll pay for your indulgence within moments after scooping up the last sweet greasy strip of deep fried onion, but the discomfort you might feel will be quickly forgotten. Give it a few days and you’ll be jonesing for your next Dallas BBQ onion loaf (best in NYC)  fix.

 

 

 

 

 

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The Poor Man’s Pupusas of Port Chester

11 Sep

El Tesoro II

14 South Main St.
Port Chester

When Gerry sent out the email revealing his choice for our most recent adventure, there were doubts among us of its authenticity. His first obviously mock pick, for some reason known only to Gerry, was a fictional restaurant in Brewster, Massachusetts. Even Zio, who has been slow, as he is on most things, in recognizing Gerry’s much too subtle sense of humor, knew that we weren’t schlepping five hours to Cape Cod for dinner.

A few days later, Gerry came up with another destination. This one, El Tesoro II, in Port Chester, New York, I knew was genuine. Zio, however, had his doubts. He responded in an email writing the following: “I take it this is one of Gerry’s confusing attempts at humor. If I can’t get there with my senior metro card I will be relaxed about sitting this one out.”

Port Chester is approximately 24 miles from Manhattan. Gerry has had us put on the mileage before; taking us to Yonkers, Valhalla, White Plains, Fort Lee, Jersey City, and, worst of all, Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn. When it’s Gerry’s pick, we come to expect to battle the rush hour traffic leaving the city. Apparently, Zio wasn’t going to take it anymore, yet when the day arrived, his attitude changed and he not only agreed to travel to Port Chester, but to chauffeur me up there with him.

Rick, however, who lives roughly 77 miles from Port Chester, was a game day drop out. Attributing his cancellation to a late work-related meeting, Rick needed no excuse. He was more than justified in bowing out—Gerry’s cruel joke could be taken only so far.

Zio and I expected a long haul up to Port Chester but as it turned out during this rush hour, there was no rush. The roads were surprisingly clear and we made it to the stark streets of Port Chester several minutes before the scheduled meeting time.

Those few minutes gave Zio and I time to take a look at the nearby eating offerings of Port Chester. Besides El Tesoro II, which claimed two Central American countries; Guatemala and Salvador as the cuisines featured, there were a couple of Peruvian diners, a chili dog dive, and, across the street where a monstrous, correctional facility-like mall stood, there was an Applebee’s and a Buffalo Wild Wings.

Two of Port Chester’s inviting eateries.

We passed a window where numerous colorful parrots frolicked at the Bird House of Westchester, and then entered El Tesoro. There were birds inside the tropically adorned restaurant as well, but these were chickens and they were stuffed.

One of the several stuffed hens at El Tesoro.

Our waitress, who Eugene, executing one of his lamer lines, asked if she claimed Italian heritage, revealed that she was, in fact, not from Guatemala or Salvador, but that she was from Honduras. And if there was a difference in the cuisines of the three Central American countries, she wasn’t telling us.

Guatemala or Salvador? Which is it?

From the Salvador-labeled section of the menu were the well-known pupusas which we celebrated many years ago at a restaurant in Washington Heights that still survives called: La Cabana Salvadorena.  (See Pupusa Love). As I vaguely recall, the pupusas were worth loving there and we had to try a few at El Tesoro.

No love for the pupusas of El Tesoro.

Also from the Salvador starters section were the tamales while, representing Guatemala, were the rellenitos, which Gerry bravely ordered. Our waitress described them as platanos (plantains) stuffed with beans. What she didn’t say what that the rellenito was of the sweet variety, deep fried and then sprinkled with granulated sugar? Even with the presence of the beans, you really just wanted to take the thing and dunk it in your coffee; it was that sweet.

Maybe Dunkin Donuts should consider adding the rellenito to their doughnut menu?

Eugene ordered the garanchas; tiny tortillas topped with beef, cheese and the Guatemalan version of pico de gallo, which, after sampling one, did not live up to the more familiar Mexican version.

Garanchas

As we proceeded to sample the food, what we tasted, unfortunately were mediocre replicas of the major influences from the north (Mexico) and the south (South America).

The carne guisada I ordered, familiar to me at other Latin restaurants as beef stew, was, here, more like ropa vieja; shredded beef in a very bland tomato sauce.

“It’s mushy,” Zio commented about the tamale. “I like Mexican tamales better.” The tamale was dense with corn masa and stuffed with pork but Zio’s description was accurate. It was mushy.

Salvadorian tamale

Mike from Yonkers did not expect potatoes added to the rice in his pollo saltado, the Guatemalan attempt at the Peruvian specialty. “Too much starch,” he said and, in a rare display, put his fork down well before his usual meticulous cleaning his plate.

Pollo Saltado

Zio had ordered the pollo frito in what the menu described as “our secret seasoning.” He offered a wing and/or leg of the chicken to any takers, but there were none. “The fried chicken was really dry,” he confessed to me on the way back to the city.

I’m not sure what was expected of the chile relleno Gerry ordered, but again, what I tasted of it was a poor man’s version of the Mexican dish. The flavor, or lack therof, just not what any of us were accustomed to.

Things weren’t all lackluster at El Tesoro. The Famosa beers were cold and delicious. The service was cheery. Even the incessant screeching of a toddler added life to the otherwise drab Port Chester experience and, not that it was what I was seeking, made me feel right at home.

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Red Sauce Revisited

8 Aug

Dominick’s

2335 Arthur Avenue

The Bronx

There was a restaurant in the Bronx. It was a small, red sauce Italian joint that didn’t take reservations. You couldn’t pay with a credit card either. And there was no menu. When seats opened up, you squeezed into a table, oftentimes sharing with an extended family from Jersey who remembered the place from the “old days.” One of the two waiters would come over. Usually it was the one who was missing a thumb.  “Whaddya want?” He would brusquely ask before you were even settled.

“Whaddya got?” was the usual response.

“We got baked clams, stuffed artichoke, veal marsala, veal francese, chicken scarpariello. We got steak, linguini and calamari. We got mussels, ziti marinara, rigatoni with sausage and broccoli rabe. We got zuppa di pesce. We got steak…” And it went on and on. The menu recited.

“Do you have veal chops.”

“Veal chops?” The waiter who was missing a thumb stared dully. “Lemme check.”

He would disappear into the kitchen.

A few moments later he would reappear. “Yeah, we got ‘em. You start with a salad?”

Of course we would.

Wine was served in juice glasses poured from an over sized jug behind the small bar.

The salad came. Our group shared the large platter of iceberg lettuce redolent with red wine vinegar, speckled with onions, out of season tomatoes, and a smattering of provolone cheese.

The place was filling up. It was cold outside and no one wanted to wait in the cold. The bar area was packed. There were people overhanging our table. Our stuffed artichokes came. The eyes of those waiting were upon us…and the artichokes. We didn’t care. Let them wait.

“Hey, can we get a piece of your bread while we wait?” a wise guy snickered, his hand moving to our bread basket.

“Don’t be an idiot, Ralph,” the woman with him with the big hair and overpowering perfume spat back at him.

“Hey, this is a family place. We’re all family. What’s wrong with breaking bread with brothers?”

“Jerk off,” she muttered, rolling her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said sympathetically to us while her companion continued to grin like an idiot.

We polished off the artichokes easily, soaking up the olive oil dampened breadcrumbs with the crusty bread from the aforementioned bread basket. Butter never accompanied it—unless someone with no class or dignity stooped so low as to request it.

An enormous platter of linguini with calamari in a rich red sauce came next along with two dinosaur-sized veal chops with grilled onions and peppers. The calamari was fork tender; the sauce tangy with tomato and red wine. The veal chop was cooked to medium rare perfection; a slight char on the outside; the juices running from it with every forkful.

We finished everything.

The waiter minus one thumb returned. “Anything else? Some espresso?”

We needed the espresso to revive us after all that food. Clear glasses with stove-top espresso appeared along with a bottle of sambuca. The coffee and the liqueur combining to act as a jolting digestif.

“We’ll take the check,” we said to our waiter the next time he scurried past.

I would watch as he conferred with the bartender who wrote down something on a small scratch pad and handed it back to the waiter.

“$65,” the waiter said, not showing us what he held in his hand. There were no words on the piece of paper from what I could see; just check marks and cross outs, like a sloppy tic tac toe game.

We had no complaints. We paid and left a generous tip. Gathering our stuff we pushed through the overflowing crowd that was now ready to pounce on the seats we just deserted.

That was a long time ago. During the restaurant’s glory years. But nothing stays the same. The crowds got more unruly. One time a strange hand even reached into the bread basket. They soon opened up another room upstairs to handle the overflow. The platters got a little smaller, the calamari was not as tender, the red sauce not so special, and the number barked by a waiter—the one missing a thumb retired to the Jersey shore—kept going up. And up. It was time to say goodbye. Or at least take a leave of absence.

The divorce lasted almost twenty years. But I was ready to reunite. To make amends. To give Dominick’s, the red sauce joint in the Bronx, another chance. And what better way to experience nostalgia than with two old friends who I spent many an evening with at the same tables over twenty years ago.

But before entering, I noticed something unusual, at least for Dominick’s. It was a menu. A big one. And it was on prominent display right next to the entrance. I scanned it. There were even prices attached to the Italian-American classics I was very familiar with.

The Menu on the door.

I was a few minutes early. I ordered a drink at the bar and marveled at how deserted the small dining room was. Only a couple of the tables were occupied.

I sipped my drink and tried to recall if I was with Gerry or Paulie D, the two friends I was waiting for, the time Mayor Ed Koch and his entourage were hustled immediately to a large table. There was no waiting for hizzoner.

And, on this day, when my friends arrived there was no wait for the three of us either. Maybe change is good, I thought.

Paulie D, who I hadn’t seen for probably as long as it had been since I had been to Dominick’s, was the impetus for this reunion. He, also after a long hiatus, had returned to Dominick’s recently and relayed to Gerry that it was as good as ever. Gerry, a founding member of the Chow City group, whose adventures have been and continue to be chronicled on Fried Neck Bones…and Some Home Fries, passed the word to me and our dinner was arranged. Not only could I catch up with Paulie D, but I would also see if my youthful infatuation with Bronx red sauce stood the test of time.

A waiter approached us at the bar. Despite his complete lack of hair and that he was now wearing glasses, I recognized him from the “old days.” He had both thumbs and unlike his former colleague, did more than grunt when taking our orders. He shook my hand. “Good to see you again,” the waiter, whose name was Patsy, said as he looked into my eyes as if I were a still a regular.

We shared a long table and ordered more drinks. Wine, I was surprised to see, was served now in a stemmed glass. I handled it gingerly.

“So what are we gonna have?” Patsy asked, leaning over the table. There might have been a menu on display outside the restaurant, but we weren’t getting any table side. That was encouraging.

No one said anything.  But I, for one, had to hear it. So I opened my mouth. “Whaddya got?” I asked.

And then the recitation began: “We got mussels, baked clams, calamari. We got veal marsala, veal francese. We got chicken scarpariello. We got steak…”

“What about stuffed peppers?” Paulie D inquired.

Patsy nodded.

“Chicken francese?” Gerry asked.

“Sure, we can make it.”

“And ziti marinara,” Paulie D added.

“Anything else?”

I looked at Gerry and then at Paulie D.

“Let’s get the mussels,” Gerry said.

I thanked Gerry for not neglecting them.

“You gonna start with a salad?” Patsy asked, but he really didn’t have to.

“You gonna have salad?”

And then Patsy, who wrote none of our order down, departed.

Bread was brought to the table; crusty pane di casa, probably from Addeo’s bakery across the street. I noticed that along with the bread, there was a small plate with individual plastic packets of butter. And we didn’t even have to ask for it. I had to rethink my earlier belief about change.  Maybe it wasn’t as good as I originally thought.

The salad was as I remembered it: iceberg lettuce, onions, a few unripe tomatoes, and slices of provolone all in a vinegary dressing. The platter was just enough for the three of us.

Next to arrive were the peppers. On the plate were two extra large bell peppers stuffed with seasoned ground beef and smothered with a chunky tomato sauce.

Paulie D, who, before we ordered, reminded us that he was a “picky eater.”  In Paulie D’s case, that meant no seafood, no chicken on the bone, not even steak. But stuffed peppers were fair game and knowing Gerry and I would be eating the mussels, we left most of the peppers to him. Paulie D did himself proud; devouring one of the monsters effortlessly.

The remains of a stuffed pepper…smothered in a red sauce with a little penne.

The big platter of mussels took up most of the room at our table. Gerry and I worked methodically through the mound, plucking the sweet tiny bodies from their shells and swirling them in the garlicky, wine infused marinara sauce.

When the ziti arrived, penne on this night, I piled a few of the mussels on top of it, creating my own makeshift “ziti” and mussels.

Mussels…marinara of course.

Even the lemon-tinged chicken francese was soon swimming in red sauce, but I didn’t’ care.

There was bread left over. I broke off a piece and soaked it the soup of sauce that remained on my plate. And then I did it again—until all the sauce on my plate was gone.

Patsy returned. “You want espresso? Coffee?”

I thought for a moment. In the “old days” I could still fall asleep after a late night espresso. No more. And I wasn’t alone. None of us needed coffee.

Patsy conferred with the bartender and returned with the scratch pad scribbled with the unintelligible tic tac toe scrawl.

“$120,” he said to us.

I quickly tried to calculate what the rate of inflation of Italian red sauce joints in the Bronx might be since Ed Koch was the Mayor. The challenge being too much for my red sauce inebriated brain, I gave up that idea quickly and just decided to pay my share without thinking any more on it.

We rose and headed for the exit. The busboys quickly cleared our mess, but there was no urgent demand for our table.

Patsy waited by the door. “Hope to see you soon, gentlemen,” he said, seemingly looking me in the eye. There were no questions asked about my long absence. Even if I was totally wrong, and Patsy’s heartfelt greeting and hand shake were all just an act to suck me back to Dominick’s and its addictive red sauce, which I noticed was now sold in local grocery stores by the jar, I tried not to believe it. In my somewhat twisted, ego maniacal mind I sensed that maybe my presence was missed at this place.

Outside, Arthur Avenue was as quiet as Dominick’s was inside.

“It’s Monday,” Paulie D said. “That’s the secret. Come on a Monday and you’ll have the place to yourself.”

I’d have to remember that, I told myself.

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