The problem with the Blarney Stone is that there are too many specials.
At first glance, a double stack burger is a temptation, but then I go inside and I find myself staring wide-eyed at the treasures of the sacred steam table.
These days, the Blarney Stone has incorporated an international flair.
Jerk chicken at the Blarney Stone? Who knew?
The choices are dizzying, yet I always return to what I know is reliable.
Corned beef on rye.
And I have no regrets.
Let the madness begin.
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.
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.
I hear they serve decent food at the place shown above. But I don’t go to this place to eat. As you can see in the picture, there is something else here that I’m more interested in than food. That, however, won’t help you name the place.
Here then is another photo of the place. Look closely, the answer is right there in front of you.
As usual, send your answers in the comment section of my post. The place shown above will be revealed on Monday.
Jang Tur Noodle
35-38 Union St
Flushing
After walking up the steps to Jang Tur Noodle and entering the very brightly-lit restaurant, the smell of cooking cabbage almost overwhelmed me. I was the first to arrive at the Korean noodle shop I chose in the Korean enclave of the Asian community of Flushing, just off Northern Boulevard. And after a few whiffs inside the restaurant, even with the door open on an early winter evening, I was tempted to send out an all-points bulletin via my cell phone that we should find another venue—there certainly were plenty within the vicinity. But it was too late—I could see Gerry, Eugene, and Mike from Yonkers through the glass windows as they climbed the steps that led to the Jang Tur’s entrance.
I didn’t say anything about the smell; I was waiting to see if any of the others would comment. No one did and maybe it was because the door was open for a bit. Or maybe because I was becoming acclimated to it that I no longer found the smell offensive and instead of my stomach wrenching, it was now clamoring for sustenance.
The restaurant’s lone waitress brought us plastic glasses of what looked like beer but was actually warm, barley tea. There were pictures of the noodle dishes offered on the wall with descriptions of them underneath. The descriptions were in Korean only and the waitress spoke no English. There were, however, a few laminated one page menus that did give English translations of the noodle dishes offered.
I’ll take the one with the noodles.
While we waited for Rick, Eugene chatted about the five Christmas parties he was soon to attend including one that featured a “Viennese” table. Rick’s arrival saved us from hearing more about the Viennese table and, with the exception of Zio, all were present.
A few days earlier we received an email from Zio with his apologies for not being able to make the dinner. “I have a chance to make a good chunk of money if I go to ct (Connecticut) on Tuesday,” was Zio’s brief email message. The murkiness of it led to wild speculation about what he would actually be doing in Connecticut to make a “good chunk of money.”
The noodles at Jang Tur were, according to the English-language menu, “hand cut or hand torn and made on the premises daily.” There were also two variations of dumplings, chive and beef and when the waitress came to our table we pointed to them. And then doing more pointing, we picked out our noodle bowls.
When I arrived, there were two diners in the tiny restaurant, a man and a woman. The man was slurping magnificently. I peered to see what it was he was so proficiently devouring. It was a bowl of something dark red, almost clay-like in color. It could only be the noodles in red bean porridge. If he was having it, I wanted it too.
Red Bean noodles and dumplings
“Red bean?” our waitress said in her very limited English. She wanted to make sure that it was really what I wanted. I confirmed with an enthusiastic nod. Mike from Yonkers pointed to the noodles in spicy anchovy soup on the menu, Gerry the rice cake and dumpling soup, and Rick, the stir fried squid with rice.
Instead of pointing, Eugene insisted on speaking in loud, clear English and asked for the noodles in a spicy red pepper sauce with vegetables. Our waitress looked at him blankly. He then pointed. She nodded.
“No, mushrooms, right?” he bellowed as if she had any idea what he was asking. We’ve learned over the years that Eugene has an unusual aversion to mushrooms that’s so drastic it’s as if he has a life compromising allergy to the fungi.
Seeing she wasn’t responding, he tried again. “I can’t have mushrooms,” he said shaking his head. “No mushrooms?”
“Mushrooms,” she mouthed like an alien learning the language of the foreign intruder.
Eugene shook his head again. “No mushrooms,” he repeated.
Mimicking Eugene, she shook her head too and said, “No mushrooms.” Apparently that was enough to satisfy Eugene and we were spared anymore mushroom discussion.
Jang Tur’s kimchi
The dumplings arrived along with big bowls of kimchi and a spicy, pickled squash. The dumplings were light as tissue and perfect with the salty dipping sauce that accompanied them. The steaming, dark red porridge came next. I took a few bites. At first it was bland, like porridge can be, and negotiating the thick noodles with the silver chopsticks at the table proved troublesome. In the bowl also were small dumplings similar to those found in traditional chicken and dumpling soup. I added a bit of the hot pepper condiment to give it a little bite, but it wasn’t needed. What started as bland evolved into a comforting, unique taste.
Spicy anchovy noodle soup
Mike from Yonkers was struggling with his soup; taking tiny sips because of the intense spice of it. Soon his nose was flowing freely and he was honking loudly into a handkerchief. Eugene incorporated the Sicilian method to eating noodles, using a spoon with his chopsticks. He had no complaints about the heat. “It’s like a noodle salad,” he said of his bowl.
Eugene’s “noodle salad” sans mushrooms.
While Rick was picking out the larger, tough pieces of squid from the smaller, more tender ones on his plate, Gerry was deliberately sipping his soup; savoring it. “The best soup I’ve ever had,” was the supreme compliment he uttered after finishing it.
“The Best Soup Ever;” so said Gerry.
With all the bowls just $7.99 each, we were way under budget. We had some extra time so we crossed Northern Boulevard and entered the Cool Hope Beer Hall. The “Hall” was practically empty and the five of us spread out at the bar. The television above the bar was broadcasting a Korean version of “Dancing With the Stars.” We watched silently while we enjoyed a round of soju, Korean sake, chased by Budweiser before heading back out into the winter night.
Zlata Praha
28-48 31st Street
Astoria, Queens
“Polish cuisine,” Mike from Yonkers wrote in his email to our group alerting us of his Astoria-located choice called Zlata Praha, and what he thought they served there. “Unlike most of you, I don’t think I’ve had the pleasure with that part of the world.”
He was obviously absent when, years ago, we traveled to Greenpoint to the Old Poland Bakery and endured silent glares from the waitstaff and local clientele as we devoured enormous platters of kielbasa, pierogies, and boiled beef for next to nothing. But after a quick visit to Zlata Praha’s website http://www.zlatapraha.cc/main.htm, I noticed the proclamation that the restaurant was the city’s number one destination for Czech and Slovak cuisine. Mike from Yonkers was going to have the pleasure of dining on food from that part of the world, though in this case, just a little bit west and south of Poland.
Walking past the bar area where pictures of Czech and Slovak celebrities; hockey players, tennis stars, unknown singers and actors adorned the walls, Zio and I entered the empty dining room where only the rumbling from the N and R trains on the elevated track above 31st Street intruded on the silence. We were shown to a table with table cloths and cloth napkins tucked ornately into stemmed wine glasses. A stuffed deer head smoking a pipe peered over the room.
Some of Zlata Praha’s rustic decor.
Zio noticed that there was an outdoor garden. It was a pleasant evening; we hadn’t dined “al fresco” in many years, possibly since we ate in the back garden of Uncle Sal’s Ribs and Bibs in the Bronx where we were surrounded by a junkyard and serenaded by a nearby boom box. So despite what Zio, showing off his expertise in such things, pointed out was a decorative rock that really was camouflaging rat poison, and with the distinct smell of fresh bug spray in the air, we decided to eat outside.
I was thirsty and the Pilsner Urquell displays were enticing, but our smiling waitress, instead, recommended her favorite Czech beer called Staropramen. I figured she knew her stuff and went with her choice. She returned with a thick, cold mug of what was a full bodied, rich colored brew that was better even than the very good Pilsner Urquell.
We sipped the beer and pondered the typically hearty Eastern European items on the menu; schnitzels, sauerbraten, goulash, pierogies, potato pancakes, and assorted dumplings.
Of the cold appetizers, a selection of head cheese was debated roundly between us. “I’d get it,” Mike from Yonkers said boldly, but he was the only one that would dare attempt to penetrate the gelatinous mix of animal body parts that was an acquired taste none of us had the desire to acquire.
A no to the head cheese.
The head cheese was nixed, instead replaced by an order of the comparatively tame herring in cream sauce. We rounded out the appetizers with a sampling of potato pancakes, dense and bland, the accompanying apple sauce very much needed and a kielbasa, Czech-style, which tasted just like the Polish counterpart with mustard, ketchup, and fresh horseradish that was minus the accustomed zing.
While we waited for our entrees, we listened to Zio complain about his current residence on a rustic Connecticut lake. “I gotta get outta there. There are canoes,” he moaned and shook his head.
Before we could make sense of his objection to canoes, the entrees arrived. The ever smiling waitress placed a plate in front of me with a Frisbee-sized, flattened piece of pork fried in potato pancake batter while Rick, sitting next to me, was the recipient of half a duck that looked like it had been cooked with a blow torch. He offered samples for all. I declined, but Gerry took a bite. “Very good,” he proclaimed. “Good and gamey.”
“Definitely gamey,” Rick sighed.
I sawed through the wiener schnitzel cutting off portions for all who wanted a taste. I was more than happy to share the pork that could have used a generous portion of Tabasco to spice it up. I was more protective, however, of the very good potato salad that accompanied the meat.
Wiener Schnitzel: serrated steak knife mandatory.
Trying not to be negative and suppress the unusually good spirits he was in; the prospect of a trip to Italy within days will do that, Eugene mentioned that the sauerbraten he ordered “didn’t have much meat,” under the brown, soup like gravy it was immersed in. Mike from Yonkers had the same gripe about his goulash and agreed to help Zio with his order of chicken paprikash that was supposed to be red with paprika but had a goulash/sauerbraten-like dull brown tinge. Gerry, however, is generally easy to satisfy and he plowed through his order of spaetzle with feta cheese without objection.
Sauebraten or goulash?
Zio and Mike from Yonkers were the only ones who could manage the large portion of apple strudel topped by whipped cream and ice cream after that leaden meal. And the more I sat there after all that food, the nearby rat poison and the smell of bug spray still evident, the more I wanted out of Zlata Praha no matter how enjoyable the company and food was.
I signaled to the waitress and asked her for the check. I didn’t know it at the time, but this was the moment she was waiting for. Her ever present smile was now glowing “Here I am,” she said and stood there, waiting for my response.
The food and beer had obviously dulled my thought process. Gerry nudged me with a grin. “Get it,” he said. She was still standing there smiling and I still didn’t get it.
And then the Czech went to get the check and I finally got it.
After boarding the ferry in Dominica, I downed an extra-strength Dramamine. The weather was clear, the waters calm, yet I didn’t want to risk a bout of seasickness before arriving at my destination: the J.M Rum distillery in Martinique.
Keeping my eyes straight ahead and sitting upright, I ignored the young man next to me and the others around me who were retching into plastic bags given out by the ferry’s crew as the boat was pummeled mercilessly in the channel between the two islands, also known, as I found out later as the “Blue Vomit.”
The ferry on the seemingly tranquil “blue vomit.”
With Martinique in sight, I was a bit groggy and wobbly, but my stomach remained intact and, once I exited the ferry onto the streets of Fort-de-France, Martinique’s capital city, a taxi whisked me to the northeast tip of the island to a place known as Macouba. I knew we were close and as the taxi descended down a steep incline, the red copper-tin roofs came into view and I could see the steam from the stills rising from the distillery through the dense greenery of palm fronds.
The distillery in Macouba
As we pulled in front of the old distillery, I smelled the alcohol-tinged cane juice as it was being “cooked” in the stills. Taking a healthy whiff, the vapors immediately restored my equilibrium, still somewhat shaky from the Blue Vomit nightmare.
Passing barrels of rum and ignoring a tour of the facilities, I headed straight to the tasting room/gift shop. A sample of J.M’s velvety white rum improved my situation even further but it wasn’t until I sipped the brand’s VSOP “rhum vieux” that I knew I had finally found what I was seeking. The taste was something so pure; so delicately smooth that the horrors of the Blue Vomit were worth the ordeal just to sip this amber nectar.
Stills and barrels of rum
My mission complete, I bought a bottle and returned to Fort-de-France where the next day I was to board a plane to San Juan and then another back to New York.
Keeping my precious cargo close by in my carry on bag, I was instructed by security at the Martinique airport to put the rum in a clear plastic bag. I did as told and was granted access to the plane.
Rushing through San Juan’s Luis Munoz Marin International Airport to make my connection to JFK, I waited on line at security. When it was my turn to pass through the gates, an overzealous customs officer, and most likely a rum aficionado, spied my bottle of J.M.
“You can’t take that on,” he said gruffly.
“But it’s in a clear plastic bag,” I pleaded.
“You could go back and check it in,” he offered, obviously knowing I had no time to do so. “or…I’ll have to take it from you.”
I stared at him. He stared at me and then held out his hand. I had no choice. He took the bottle, hiding a satisfied grin behind his bogus official demeanor.
The shock hit me as I settled into my seat. I was trembling. Once we were in the air and I knew my prized possession was gone, tears came to my eyes.
“Why are you so sad,” the abuela who was sitting next to me and on her way to visit her daughter and grandchildren in the Bronx, asked. “Have you left a loved one behind?”
I turned to her, dabbed at my eyes and nodded.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “Time will cure your sorrow. Watch the movie. It’s funny.”
I looked up at the small screen. It was something with Adam Sandler. I didn’t laugh.
Even the comedy of Adam Sandler could not penetrate my sorrow.
The wise abuela was right. Time did heal the deep wound of loss. When I first returned to New York, I frantically searched the many liquor stores looking for the J.M VSOP Rhum Vieux, but with no luck. I abandoned my search and resigned myself to settle for other “old” rums.
But then, one evening when dining at a cacophonous, yet delicious high end eatery downtown, my eyes were drawn to the offering of Rhum J.M VSOP on the restaurant’s cocktail menu. My heart pounded. I looked for my waiter and saw him at another table. I waved. I snapped my fingers. I rudely whistled. People were staring. I didn’t care. I needed him now.
Seeing my frantic state, he rushed over. “I want that!” I pointed to the listing of the J.M VSOP on the menu.
I tried to control my excitement as I waited at my table. I tapped my foot. I chewed on my lower lip. I stroked my cell phone and then it arrived. The beautiful amber fluid, served with just a twist of lime. I sipped. It was exactly how I remembered it. “Where,” I asked my waiter, “can I buy this?”
Liquid gold
He said he would check with the beverage manager. He returned with the name of the liquor store on a business card. I knew the place. I checked my watch. It wouldn’t be open now. I would have to wait until the next day.
I slept little that night, got up early and headed to the store to wait until they opened. As soon as the gates were pulled and the doors unlocked, I rushed in and found the rum section. There it was. The price was astronomical, at least twice what I paid for in Martinique, but I didn’t care. I bought a bottle that came in decorative box.
The rum now sits in a glass cabinet. I have yet to open it. I tried one evening, but I couldn’t do it. If I opened it, I would begin to drink it and eventually, maybe in a month, maybe more, the bottle would be empty. The thought chilled me to the core.
I’ve come now to accept that I will never open it, yet I do not care. It is mine. I possess it. And no one can take it away again…
Mine. All mine.
Sigiri
91 First Avenue
New York, NY
After missing our last two meetings, Rick was called upon to locate our next destination and after much deliberation, steered us to the gentrified East Village for a cuisine we had yet to experience: Sri Lankan.
Sigiri was around the corner from the stretch of Indian restaurants on East 6th Street between First and Second Avenues known as “Little India” where I often brought dates because the prices were the best in the city—even cheaper than Chinatown and always byob. I got a little nostalgic walking past the few remaining dingy dives on the block. My longings for the past, however, quickly dissipated after I was accosted by a row of servers standing outside the restaurants pathetically imploring passersby to sample what I now know is substandard Indian fare.
The narrow restaurant would be a challenge for our party of six, but accommodations were made and tables were joined and we were able to sit together. From my pre-dinner, online research, Sigiri, I believed was the only Sri Lankan restaurant in Manhattan and this was quickly confirmed by our hostess/server who spoke not with an Indian accent, but with a melodious British one.
And it was in that accent where she quickly charmed Mike from Yonkers by inquiring if he was Sri Lankan. I’m sure Mike from Yonkers has been called many things, but I doubt being a Sri Lankan has been one of them. For some reason it took him longer than it should have to respond in the negative and when she returned, she flattered him further by saying, “You know, you look a little like Denzel when you smile.” The Denzel in question being Washington and any similarity between Mike from Yonkers and Denzel from nearby Mount Vernon was lost on me. And with Mike from Yonkers’ ego now meteorically boosted, he, of course, did nothing to discourage her continuous compliments.
A Man on Fire…not Mike from Yonkers (though upon closer inspection, there is a slight resemblance).
The somewhat strained flirt fest between the two was beginning to dull my appetite, but when our hostess warned us that serving Sri Lankan without any spice modification was extreme even for her, I perked up. We emphatically told her to prepare our dinner as it would be prepared in Sri Lanka as opposed to what might satisfy the gentrified East Village of New York. We didn’t need to be pampered with cloth napkins or with flickering table candles, both of which Sigiri provided much to Gerry’s disdain. We didn’t want dulled down food even at the expense of our intestinal tracks, both upper and lower. And since we were Sri Lankan food novices, we also had her prepare what might be a good representative of that country’s cuisine with a request by Zio for a dish he insisted, for some inexplicable reason to be included, called “string hopper kotthu.”
While we were waiting for our food, Eugene, conversationalist that he is, filled us in on a doo wop show at White Plains High School he attended recently where the Harptones were the lead attraction.
Life is But a Dream
“Do you know Willie Winfield is 79,” Eugene informed us, referring to the great lead singer of that magnificent group.
I appreciated the update, but Rick and Mike from Yonkers, clueless to what Eugene was talking about could only stare dully at their beers while Zio believed that Eugene’s news was an opportunity to mention something about an obscure doo wop tune called “Knee Socks” which both Eugene and I had never heard of. Zio remained insistent of the song’s authenticity and even went so far as to send me a You Tube link a few days later of a video of assorted female “knee socks” flashing along with the very brief song of the same name by a group called the Ideals who were known probably only to only Zio and a few other lunatics.
Yes, Zio, we believe you.
The arrival of an assorted appetizer platter that included a selection of breaded and fried “nibblers;” fish spring roll, fish cutlet, lentil patty, and a vegetable spring roll, stifled the doo wop chatter. Anticipating heat, we were disappointed that what was on the platter was not only mildly spicy, but dry as well. Things quickly changed when the “devilled grill” arrived on our table; grilled chicken that was the Sri Lankan equivalent to genuine Jamaican jerk chicken—only hotter. After a few bites, Zio’s world weary eyes were beginning to tear up and his nose was running as was everyone else’s.
“black” curry
The heat onslaught continued unabated with a pork “black” curry, a fish curry in coconut milk sauce, and kotthu roti, a pancake chopped into shreds and fried with assorted vegetables. The only respite from the intense spice was Zio’s choice of string hopper kotthu, a version of Sri Lankan spaghetti accompanied with a chicken curry.
A platter of white rice and coconut roti (an Indian-style flat bread) also helped ease the pain and when Eugene was able to speak again, he proclaimed Sigiri as serving the hottest food we had yet to encounter, even spicier than the Sichuan Little Pepper of Flushing.
And if Eugene proclaims it, then it must be true.
String hoppers helped douse the fire.
Even if he is sent to the bullpen, things could be a lot worse for Yankee pitcher, Phil Hughes.
Time for relief.
After all, how many relievers have their own neighborhood watering hole named after them?
The door is always open at Phil Hughes for Phil Hughes.
Nauset Beach Clams
Thanks to the hard work of the very generous owner of the 100-year-old house I rent with my family each summer in Cape Cod, a bucket of freshly dug little neck and cherrystone clams was waiting for us when we returned one day from the beach. I could make chowdah, New England-style with potatoes, milk, onions and bacon. I could just open them up and eat them raw. I could steam them and dip them in butter and broth. Or, considering I had several ripe, in season, tomatoes that I wanted to use before they became overripe, I could make linguini with clam sauce, Manhattan-style (meaning a tomato-based sauce).
Local tomatoes
Given the option at a restaurant between red or white clam sauce, I always prefer the latter; the hearty red tomato sauce usually obscuring the distinct flavor of the clams. White clam sauce works for me. The garlic, olive oil, white wine, some red pepper flakes, and then the broth from the just opened clams makes for the perfect complement to either spaghetti or linguini. It’s easy to make and really, the only danger to screwing it up is to overcook the clams.
But with those ripe tomatoes and the bucket of clams, I decided to take a chance and combine the two over linguini.
This is what I used for the sauce:
4 overly ripe fresh, large tomatoes, diced.
20 clams (Cherrystone and Little Necks combined)
3 cloves of garlic
1/4 cup of chopped white onion
2 tbs of chopped basil
1 ½ pounds of linguini
¼ cup of olive oil
½ teaspoon of hot red pepper flakes
I first diced the tomatoes not bothering with skinning or seeding them and put them in a bowl with a few sprinkles of Kosher salt. While the tomatoes macerated, I rinsed the clams in cold water to remove whatever sand was clinging to them. Once cleaned, I put the clams in a big pot adding about an inch of water to steam them.* Covering the pot and turning the fire on high, I steamed the clams just until their shells opened and then put them aside.
The clams now steamed open.
Using a large skillet, I added the olive oil and softened the onions and garlic sprinkling the red pepper flakes into the pan. When the onions and garlic were cooked, I tossed in the tomatoes adding the broth from the steamed clams and brought it all to a low simmer.
Cooking the tomatoes down
While the tomatoes cooked down, I removed the clams from the shells and roughly chopped them. Chopped clams, in my opinion, should not be uniform in size. I like the surprise of a big, juicy belly along with the tougher tail end of the clam.
The clams chopped.
After chopping the clams, I boiled the water for the linguini. Once the water boiled, I tossed in the pasta, adding salt to the water. Just before the linguini was cooked al dente I folded the chopped clams and the chopped basil into the sauce, keeping it on a fire just hot enough to heat them.
The sauce.
Using tongs, I tossed the linguini in the sauce and then into bowls.
The result was a light, fresh, briny tomato sauce where, in this case, the flavor of the clams and the broth balanced each other perfectly.
Linguini and Cape Cod Clam sauce: Manhattan-Style: As pretty as it gets after too much “limeade.”
*Before I began preparing the meal, I had told myself to save about a half dozen of the smallest of the little necks to steam open directly in the sauce. The clams in their shells would not only look nice, but because of their size, also remain tender. But while preparing the above dish, I began to consume multiple glasses of limeade spiked with vodka and when it came time to steam the clams, dumped them all into the pot including the few I was hoping to reserve. Once I realized my mistake, it was too late. The little necks were cooked.
Fried Neck Bones...and some home fries 