Tag Archives: Food

Morgan the Egyptian

17 Jan

Morgan Fish Restaurant
2801 John F. Kennedy Blvd
Jersey City.

The temperature was dropping as I left my apartment on the way to the number 2 train. At 72nd Street I switched to the number 1 train. Two stops later I got off at 59th and onto the B train downtown. At 34th, I walked through the tunnel to the PATH train where I found Zio fumbling with a Metrocard/PATH vending machine. He was not clear what it took to gain entry on the PATH. He didn’t know that all it took was his Metrocard. Our next stop was our destination: Jersey City.

One of the several trains it took to get to Jersey City.

This journey was orchestrated by Gerry who, predictably, had chosen a place that would not be easy to get to. We were headed to a seafood place called Morgan Fish Restaurant. I think Morgan being the generic Captain Morgan because it certainly isn’t an Egyptian name and Morgan’s was most certainly an Egyptian establishment and one of the excuses Gerry used to drag us to Jersey City as he said: “To show solidarity with our Egyptian brothers and sisters.”

Zio and I arrived first and besides a woman sweeping the floor and another in the kitchen, we were the only people in Morgan’s. There were fresh fish displayed under a glass counter along with a platter of potato salad and small, pickled eggplants. The woman sweeping offered many friendly smiles, but either didn’t have much to say, or was hesitant because of language difficulties.

The fish of Morgan Fish

A man appeared. He did speak English and also possessed a friendly smile. He pointed to the fish; tilapia, striped sea bass, and branzino. There were also large, full-bodied shrimp and a few flattened pieces of uncooked calamari minus the tentacles. He could prepare the fish, he said, either fried or grilled.

We were hungry and while Gerry and the rest of the Westchester contingent were circling John F. Kennedy Blvd trying to locate Morgan Fish with Mike from Yonkers’ faulty GPS device, Zio and I hoped to get started with the ordering. The menu promised shrimp and/or seafood soup but our male host shook his head sadly: “Soup run out,” he said.

As we were about to order hummus and baba ganoush, (spelled humos and papa ghanoosh on the menu) the rest of the group, Rick included, entered. We found a table suitable for six and our host followed us in to commence with the ordering. We figured hummus, baba ganoush, and some of those tiny eggplants would be a good start. He concurred.

Before he could even get his winter coat off, Eugene was expounding on his Punta Cana vacation where the food at the all-inclusive Bavaro Beach resort was “incredible.” None of us, all stuck in this miserable New York winter, could debate his claim. I shut him off to concentrate on the menu.

Morgan’s menu

It was all simple enough. The question was how much to order and whether the fish should be fried or grilled. We compromised on fried shrimp and calamari along with one fried fish and one grilled. I don’t think we specified which fish should be fried or grilled; the branzino or the sea bass,  and when they arrived, none of us could tell the difference.

Fried shrimp and calamari

Our host brought not one, but two platters each of fried shrimp and fried calamari. Both were lightly crisped; the batter containing a distinctive dusting of some unidentifiable, but clearly Middle Eastern, spice. We picked through the calamari rings and shrimp, but, knowing we had two whole fish to also contend with, went slow and restrained ourselves from devouring them all.

Fish before

The fish was served with a brown (not health food brown) rice and a sofrito-like sauce. We took turns excising the flesh from the bones until all that remained were their skeletons.

Fish after

Once we were finished,  Zio, just making small talk,  mentioned his admiration for the movie, The Black Swan.

“Did you like the dance scenes,” Gerry asked.

“Huh,” Zio seemed surprised by the question. “No, the sex scenes,” he said with noticeable longing.

Eugene was studying his phone and then began to read from its tiny screen. “Natalie Portman. Born June 9, 1981 in Israel. Attended the Solomon Schecter Day School of Glen Cove, New York. First movie, “The Professional…”

What’s a nice girl from Glen Cove doing making Zio’s heart race?

Thankfully the check came and the Natalie Portman biography, as read by Eugene, was cut short. All that seafood and we were still a few dollars under our allotted $20 per person budget. Morgan Fish was a worthy choice, but just not one where it took four trains to get to. There had to be another way to show solidarity with our Egyptian brothers and sisters.

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The Fusion Files: Infusion Edition

13 Jan

 

Does an Mexican-Italian infusion mean the menu at the Avenue A Bistro Cafe might include rigatoni with an adobo scented marinara sauce served with fresh steamed corn tortillas? Or is it the other way around? Maybe enchiladas stuffed with fennel spiced salsiccia served with a side of escarole and pane di casa? Just wondering.

I guess if those “infusions” don’t appeal to you,  there’s always sushi.

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Eating Like an Afghan Family in an Afghani Restaurant in Astoria

10 Jan

Just about one year ago, our “gang” met in Astoria on a cold January night. I was laid up with a post-holiday stomach thing and had to bow out. Instead,  Zio was assigned to report on the meal. What follows is his interpretation of the dining experience that night.

Balkh Shish Kebab House
2310 31st St
Astoria

There were still some leftover glaciers under the el on Thirty First Street, remnants of the holiday blizzard. For a very short time the snow was pristine and white . Now as it melted and refroze it resembled an ugly kind of frozen gravy, riddled with dog piss holes and fossilized cigarette butts. Above me, the N Train crashed by and I thought of young Michael waiting for the same noise before shooting the veal parmesan out of Sterling Hayden’s throat.

“How’s the Afghani food in this restaurant?”  “Try the ‘manto’ it’s the best in the city.”

I guess I felt a little nervous. my thoughts were on the grim side, after all, Balkh Shish Kabob House was my first restaurant selection without Neckbones’ help and to boot he was AWOL. How friendly could the Afghani staff be when our military was sniffing around their country? I began to pace up and down the street checking the time every thirty seconds. I was sure nobody was coming at 6:59.

One minute later, they all showed up,  snapping me out of my anxiety spiral. The waiter seated us in a comfortable, secluded corner at a big round table near a huge hand painted map of Afghanistan, outlining all the regions. Eugene was quick to comment on the pleasing temperature of the room, maybe sensing my hopefulness.

We decided to pick four appetizers. , all of them were served with minted yogurt sauce. We knew to skip the samosas and ordered two kinds of dumplings. One was “manto,”  beef meat dumplings with curry sauce and yogurt, the other was “aushack,”  this was boiled and filled with scallions and herbs. Mike from Yonkers made it clear he would steer clear of the “bandanjan borani,”  fried eggplant, and the “borani kadu,” fried pumpkin with homemade sauce. We ordered them anyway. These were fresh tasting and personally I would almost eat anything in dumpling form.

While we were deciding what to order from the Balkh Special entrees list, we got help from the cook (I think), who said he would feed us like “An Afghan Family”. This took the pressure off and also gave us hope that we would have an authentic eating experience.

While we waited for the slaughter of the lamb, we heard the praying begin with earnest devotion. We countered the discordant chants with ramblings of our own which ranged from our favorite “Honeymooners” episodes to the fact that Ann Coulter is dating Jimmy Walker, the mystery of Alfalfa’s cowlick, Lee Meriwether, Spanky’s amazing performances as an infant, and of course the incredibly nubile “Darla”. ..This is why the rest of the world hates us.

Our “gang” at dinner.

Finally our entrée arrived, As I remember, it was a combo of a combo, kabli palow, and the fish combo. What we didn’t expect was that it came in a wheelbarrow. A mountain of tender lamb shanks and fish buried in basmati rice, raisins ,and carrots was placed before us.

A “mountain” of kabli palow

Our “family” did what it could so as not to offend our hosts. The large portion did cost us $75, one entrée multiplied by five plus the appetizers. We went over budget by five dollars each. Not too bad, but no way to treat a family.

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Pig Prejudice Revisited

6 Jan

A couple of months ago I documented some of the abuse of “the other white meat” that I discovered around New York in a post titled A Little Love For the Pig (please).

Sadly, since that post, the hate has only increased. Recently, I found another hater.

Yeah, yeah, “no ham on my pan” sound cute, but it’s hurtful, Makkah brother.

If we didn’t get the anti-pork policy the first time, it’s repeated two more times in living color.

Would a few thin slices of prosciutto really be so bad?

And when I noticed that Mookie’s, a leader of the “No Pork on My Fork” crusade closed, I had hopes that a new establishment at the same location would display a more open mind on matters swine related.

Mookie’s before.

I was wrong.

The new “Mookie’s” but with the same negative message.

Once again, all I can ask,  is to give the pig a little love…please.

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The Noise of Noodles in the Night

4 Jan

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.

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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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Seven Fishes for Seven Dishes

22 Dec

The day before Christmas, it’s no meat for me,

Even though I’m a non-believer,

on Christmas Eve,

I only eat from the sea.

The feast should have seven dishes

of fishes that day.

No one really knows why,

it’s just what they say.

Here then are the fishes,

in no particular order.

For the feast,

I present to you.

On my own fingers I counted,

To make sure it’s true.

They call it squid, but it’s calamari we know.

Cook it fast or cook it slow.

Any other way,

and it’s a no go.

Stuff  with breadcrumbs, parsley and nuts.

Enjoy the stuffed squid,

but don’t eat too much.

There’s six more dishes to go,

before you bust.

scungilli

It comes from a snail, is what I’ve heard,

this thing called scungilli;

I know, it’s a funny word.

Italian Escargot?

The French shake their heads

and say, ‘oh no!”

Boil until it’s tender, and then chop it

real fine.

Add to a salad,

and maybe drizzle with lime.

Long and slithery,

it looks like a snake.

With dark beady eyes,

this fish is not for everyone’s taste.

We call it eel.

In Italian it’s  capitone.

Its flesh is oily,

its look surreal.

Be careful there are bones.

You don’t want to choke,

especially while giving the

Christmas Eve toast.

Chop into pieces,

then fry or grill.

With garlic and vinegar,

this eel will thrill.

When the faint of heart see it coming,

they shriek and wail,

‘cause it’s got a slimy body and a prickly tail.

It’s a small fish, the little anchovy,

but the flavor it packs,

makes up for any good looks it lacks.

Dissolve in hot olive oil with garlic, of course.

Add some peperoncini,

and a little broth.

Pour over spaghettini

and you’ll be one of the first,

to line up at the trough.

Four dishes done, three more to go.

The feast of seven fishes,

can become quite a show.

Along the way,

things could get bumpy,

causing anxiety and stress;

a chef could get jumpy.

Time to bring out the fish,

the one that no one complains.

The reliable flounder,

it causes no pain.

Bake it with butter or oil, some

lemon and herbs.

Its mild mellow flavor,

will take the edge off,

will ease the nerves.

It comes in all sizes, this mollusk of grey.

But I like the small ones;

what they call vongole.

Clean them and make sure the sand is all gone.

Add to a pot with oil, garlic and white wine.

When they open just a bit,

they will release their magical brine.

Eat them from the shell or over

linguini.

Either way, you can’t go wrong,

with a clam this teeny.

Oh it smells something fierce,

this fish called baccala,

Just wait till you see it;

it looks even worse.

In a pot or bathtub,

soak it for days.

Change the water

a few times or more.

Yes it’s hard work;

it can be a chore.

Do it until that fish;

the one that smells,

grows larger,

until it swells.

Steam or bake,

soon the tender flesh will flake.

With onions and garlic,

what a delicious dish

this hideous monster makes.

Its appeal is so huge,

There’s even a poem called,

baccala-blues.

The feast over;

all seven fishes you’ve tried.

But now your mercury level is high.

No fear, everything will be okay,

because Christmas comes the very next day.

There will be more food.

Another big feast.

And this one, I’m sure,

will include juicy red meat.

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Pizza Unleavened

20 Dec

Eddie’s Pizza
2048 Hillside Ave
New Hyde Park, NY

I didn’t know when I walked into Eddie’s Pizza on Hillside Avenue in New Hyde Park that the place was some sort of Happy Days throwback. Gerry was at the bar, alone, sipping vodka and watching ESPN. The bar area was dimly lit. There were framed photos on the walls of Long Island celebrities like Boomer Esiason and a poster of the HBO series “Entourage.” The bartender was certainly a throwback; big frosted blonde hair, brassy nicotine ravaged voice and kiddingly friendly in that old school way.

And when I pulled up to the bar next to Gerry, she said, “What’ll you have, hun?”

For the first time in the almost ten years we have been convening, we were in Nassau County. This was Rick’s pick and he had taken us to the area where he grew up. Where, as he told us later, he and a few other friends, known as the Valley Stream “Fat Boys,” would cruise the strip malls in search of whatever place would satisfy their insatiable food cravings. That meant usually diners, but also, according to Rick, included Eddie’s Pizza.

Rick was stuck in the inevitable traffic on the LIE and Eugene was a late scratch, but Zio and Mike from Yonkers made it and after we all had a drink at the bar, moved to a table in a much more brightly lit area surrounded by posters from 1950’s teen rebel movies like Elvis’s “King Creole,” “Rock Around the Clock,” with Alan Freed, and of course, “Rebel Without a Cause.”

There were two televisions tuned to ESPN, but the sound was muted replaced by a stream of oldies. At first the music was just background noise, but soon it became intrusive not because it was too loud, but because there was something just not right with it. We were familiar with the songs, but they were off—remakes of the originals but meant to sound exactly like the original.

Though Rick was the man we needed at Eddie’s, we couldn’t wait much longer and ordered appetizers and by the time the sweet potato gnocchi and fried calamari ravioli arrived, so did Rick. The gnocchi was a nice balance of sweet and salty, but the fried calamari ravioli was an enigma. It was something deep fried stuffed with something else that had a briny, seafood flavor, more like the stuffing of a baked clam than anything reminiscent of calamari. We ate it anyway.

Our waitress, a brunette version of the bartender, suggested three pies. “They’re thin crust,” she said. “Kind of pizza on a matzoh.” The connotation was not the most appealing but we tried one tomato cheese pie, another white clam and a third tomato with anchovies. All three were regular-sized pies as opposed to the restaurant’s famous “bar pies” which were really just smaller, individual-sized pied that were said to fit perfectly on the bar. While we waited, glancing occasionally at the televisions, the music began to take over.

The “matzoh” crust of Eddie’s.

“Johnny Angel,” was the title of the female weeper about a teen rebel’s early death. Who was the singer?

“Lesley Gore?” Mike from Yonkers offered.

“No, not Lesley Gore,” Zio, the senior in our group, said adamantly.

“Connie Francis?” I tried.

Zio shook his head again.

Where was Eugene and his usually useless oldies’ knowledge when we needed him?

“I think it’s Shelly Fabares, but it’s not really her,” Zio said.

Yes,Zio, it was Shelly Fabares.

The pizzas arrived. The clams on the white pie were a bit tough, but the clam juice flowed through the grooves of the cheese which I thought was a good thing. The anchovies on the tomato pie gave it much needed flavor while the standard tomato and cheese pie was a disappointment.

We could hear “The Great Pretender,” playing in the background.

“That’s not the Platters,” Gerry said.

“That’s someone singing ‘The Great Pretender,’ I said. “Pretending to be the Platters.”

I poked at the matzoh-like crust to see if it would break. It didn’t. The sauce held to it. At the moment I couldn’t decide if that was good or bad. There was one clam slice remaining. No one wanted it. Not even Zio.

The waitress returned with espresso. There were lemon peels with each demitasse cup. Zio was impressed. “They never give lemon peels anymore,” he noted. “You gotta always ask.”

At Eddie’s you don’t have to ask for lemon with your espresso.

“Here we always bring them,” the waitress said proudly.

“But what do you do with it?” Zio wanted to know as he tried to squeeze the thick peel, hoping to extract some juice from it.

“You rub it around the rim,” she said. And this she proceeded to do, working over his shoulder to show him and then spilling half his espresso. She returned with another espresso, but after two super-sized diet Cokes, more caffeine was something Zio did not need.

“Come Go With Me,” a doo wop made famous by the Dell Vikings played, but this wasn’t the Dell Vikings.  Zio was listening closely.

“The scream’s off,” he muttered in disgust. “They couldn’t even get the scream right. Let’s get out of here.”

So went our Long Island strip mall experience at Eddie’s Pizza, Home of the Bar Pie.

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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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