But you knew that, didn’t you. Where else would your burger be sent from the kitchen to your table via a dumb waiter?
Dumb waiter contraption
The Old Town has been around a lot longer than David Letterman, whose show helped bring it to recent (the last few decades) prominence.
Call me old-fashioned, as many do, but I guess even a bar/restaurant that has been around since 1892 is not immune to the allure of self promotion at the expense of a quieter, classy exterior.
Where am I this time?
If you can identify the contraption above, you probably will have no trouble naming the place.
Above is another relic from the past, so you know the place must be…old.
Men might be familiar with those wooden doors.
While for the ladies, after a couple of drinks it might get dizzying finding relief.
Eating always helps and at this place you will want the burger (with or without a roll).
Or a hot dog, because it’s just that kind of place.
You should be sufficiently armed now to rapidly identify the place in question. As always, leave your answers in the comments sections. The place will be revealed tomorrow.
When you read menus or recipes that claim to be classic American comfort food, meatloaf, hot dogs, hamburgers, fried chicken, turkey with stuffing, mashed potatoes and corn on the cob are the usual suspects. I’m not here to debate what constitutes American comfort food. I am here to report that one of those items usually on the American comfort food list; macaroni and cheese, I recently sampled at a small take-out joint in the South Bronx called Landin Macaroni and Cheese and Pizza. And I can decisively state that what I sampled at Landin, prepared by Mexican chefs, was possibly the most comforting macaroni and cheese I’ve ever had.
The Mac and Cheese menu.
At Landin there are nine different macaroni and cheese options that come in three sizes: mini, small, and large. The mini, at $1.50 is the perfect portion if you want to try multiple macaroni and cheeses. And with nine to choose from, you will most certainly want to try more than one. I thought it was my duty to experience the Classic American to see how it might compare to other classic macaroni and cheeses. And it compared superbly. The elbow macaroni was rich with creamy cheddar and American cheese, the top, toasted to a golden brown.
The “Classic American”
Since Landin was run by the skilled hands of Mexican Americans, that more than justified my choice of the “Mexican” option. The combination of pepper jack and muenster cheese along with a few tiny bits of shredded chicken and chopped spicy jalapeno peppers was a revelation.
The devouring of the “Mexican.”
Eating two portions of macaroni and cheese, even if they were mini seemed decadent enough for me, but I couldn’t resist taking home the “small,” which was big enough to share with a family of four, of the “bacon,” option, mozzarella and muenster with pieces of chopped salty bacon. Again, Landin did not disappoint.
The “small” bacon to go.
Oh, and I can’t forget the pastelillos. There they were; glistening under glass; beef, chicken, cheese and spinach. How could I resist? I had a beef and spinach tossed into my bag as well.
Pastelillos
The damage was totaled on the cash register. All that creamy, delicious starch came to under $10. You really can’t get more comfortable than that.
In the previous installment of “Today’s Slice,” here on Fried Neck Bones…and Some Home Fries, I visited Full Moon Pizza on Arthur Avenue for the Spinach and Artichoke Slice ( see Artichoke and Spinach Pizza). In that post I mentioned Cafe al Mercato and the mini pies and square slices they sell from their booth inside the Arthur Avenue retail market.
The preferred slice at Cafe al Mercato is, undoubtedly, the broccoli rabe slice. And I’m not alone. When I last visited, the broccoli rabe was piled high on top of the booth counter in anticipation of being applied to many thin, square slices.
What makes Cafe al Mercato’s broccoli rabe slice so good starts with the broccoli rabe, cooked tender, but not overdone, topped with slivers of fresh mozzarella. All of this is applied to a thin, yet durable, crunchy crust cooked in a traditional “slice” pizza oven as opposed to a fancy, imported wood Neapolitan stove.
If you have an aversion to broccoli rabe or anything green, the simple, “regular” slice with tomato sauce and mozzarella will bring back memories of “homemade” pizza. And when I say homemade, I mean what my grandmother used to make in an old cookie pan, rolling out the dough, topping with her sauce and adding a few slices of Polly O Mozzarella. All of it cooked in her basement oven. It wasn’t pizza as we were used to from the pizzeria, but we never complained.
The unbeatable combination at Cafe al Mercato.
Cafe al Mercato
2344 Arthur Avenue
Bronx
We had just begun to stare at the wide array of exotic dishes offered behind the plexi-glass enclosed steam table when he was on us. He wore dark shades and a dark sport jacket. He shoved menus into our hands while proclaiming Accra, the African restaurant Gerry and I had wandered into, as something unlike any other African restaurant. Here, he said, you could get Ghanaian, Senegalese, Nigerian, all kinds of African food.
“We even have soul food if you want it,” he said.
The assortment was staggering and we had no idea which dishes matched the very vast menu above the steam table. Gerry pointed to a dark brown stew where the only identifiable food were hard boiled eggs.
Brown stew
“You want a taste? Give him a taste,” the man in the dark shades said to one of the African women behind the counter. She looked at him quizzically, but no taste was forthcoming.
I eyed a rich, forest green vegetable stew. “That’s spinach with meat. Give him a taste,” he said again to the confused woman.
“We have beef, lamb, chicken, fish. No pork here,” he added. I had noticed the “No Pork on my Fork,” sign on the window in front. It was a remnant from the previous establishment: Mookie’s which I included in a post I wrote on this site called A Little Love for the Pig (Please).
Still no love for the pig.
“We have peanut soup, jollof rice, fufu, dibi with acheke, wakey with beef…” He said, pointing to the trays as we moved down the assembly line of food. “Give them a taste,” he said again, this time to whomever might listen.
But no taste was offered.
There were trays of fish. Some just the heads. Others smaller, fried whole.
“Tilapia,” he said, pointing to the fish heads. “And whiting,” indicating the smaller, fried fish.
Spinach with meat…and tilapia heads.
“Black eyed pea fritters,” he said, indicating a mound of fried fritters. “Give them a taste.”
Finally, Gerry and I were handed pieces of the black eyed pea fritters off of small forks. Besides a slight spice tang, they were bland and could use a sauce or condiment as an accompaniment.
Black Eyed Pea Fritters
Next to the fritters was a tray that one of the women behind the counter was filling with a pieces of bronzed meat that had just come out of the deep fryer.
“What’s that?” I asked.
“Turkey butt,” she said.
“What?” I looked closer. They were small, rounded, bony orbs, fried to a reddish brown. I wasn’t sure if I heard correctly.
“Turkey butt,” she repeated.
I looked for help from the man in the dark shades, but he had disappeared. We were now on our own at Accra.
Turkey butt
Gerry decided on the dark stew of meats he first noticed along with rice, plantains and the spinach. I tried the sticky okra, jollof rice (a brownish yellow rice with bits of meat), lamb chops and also the spinach.
“Let me cut the chops,” the woman assembling my plate said. She cut them with kitchen shears into smaller pieces.
Lamb chops, spinach, okra, and jollof rice.
I noticed Gerry had a plastic bottle of homemade ginger beer on his tray.
“I’ll take a ginger beer too,” I said, but when I was handed the plastic bottle what was inside had a reddish tinge to it; a different hue than Gerry’s ginger-colored ginger beer.
“That’s ginger beer?” I asked.
The woman nodded but then a man came out from the kitchen. “Don’t give him that one,” the man said. “That’s the very spicy ginger beer.”
He was assuming that I couldn’t take the heat. That I wasn’t up to the challenge; that my American Caucasian constitution made me physically incapable. I didn’t resent the implication, but neither was I willing to accept it.
“Oh no, I’ll have this one,” I insisted stubbornly.
I took the food and the ginger beer back to a table where Gerry had already planted himself. Before even starting on the mound of food on my plate, I had to sample the ginger beer. I took a small sip. It was as strong as I’ve ever had; almost like drinking a wasabi smoothie. And after starting in on the very spicy okra and spinach dishes, the ginger beer was offering no respite. I had to cave and order a glass of water to put out the fire.
Once the water arrived, I was able to taste the food. Everything was flavorful and lovingly prepared. Even the multiple photos of Congressman Charles Rangel wining and dining with African dignitaries could not diminish my appetite.
Congressman Rangel sampling jollof rice.
Gerry looked around the dining room. “We are the only ones using forks,” he said.
I looked up from my plate to see the few occupied tables with men who, using their hands, were scooping their food into their mouth with pieces of pale fufu, familiar from our trip to Jamaica, Queens and the memorable Maima’s (The Bistro that Serves Fufu and Four Fingers), as their only eating utensil.
Once our plates were clean, I wondered what there might be for dessert. I noticed Accra carried donuts—the same donuts found at a thousand delis and bodegas across the city.
“Not for me,” Gerry said after I suggested it.
“Paris Blues then,” I said, indicating the bar two blocks away where the Les Goodson band would be performing soon.
“Now you’re talking,” Gerry said.
As Gerry and I exited the restaurant, moving past the long steam table, the women behind it and the men working in and around the dining room wanted our feedback. We heaped as much praise as we could before we got out of the door and even then, a man wearing an “Accra” baseball cap poked his head out. “Did you enjoy your food?” he asked
We reiterated our praise and said we would be back soon.
“Alright then,” He said with a smile and went back into the restaurant.
Accra Restaurant
2065 Seventh Avenue
Harlem
Back in 1968, when, according to the imagination of television’s Mad Men creator, Matthew Weiner, groups of Mad men were competing for the Heinz ketchup advertising account, the Sloppy Joe was a staple of my suburban diet. Usually it was made from a wet mix in a can or dehydrated in a little packet. All you had to do was add the can of wet to the ground beef and cook it up. With the dry, you added water and tomato paste. The mess was always served on a hamburger roll. Though pretty much long gone from my menu, the Sloppy Joe taste, slightly sweet, along with the salty ground beef, a touch of acid from the tomatoes, the crunch of onion, the sauce drenching the roll was unique and one I still vividly recall.
As it was in 1968, it is today.
I hadn’t thought of the Sloppy Joe until I noticed a recipe for it on the back of a plastic Heinz ketchup bottle. That recipe and the iconic condiment: Heinz ketchup, the account of which was bitterly fought over by the fictional Mad men of Mad Men inspired me to revive that childhood classic knowing very well that childhood taste recall doesn’t always live up to the memory hype. My kids now are about the same age I was when my mother made it a monthly regular in our family’s menu. Would they feel the same way about the Sloppy Joe I did? I couldn’t imagine they wouldn’t, but who knew?
“ketchup…not catsup.”
Even without the using dry seasonings or the “Manwich” version, the recipe looked simple, as it should be. But once I began preparations, I noticed a potential problem: the recipe called for one and half cups of ketchup plus two tablespoons of brown sugar. The brown sugar combined with the “high fructose corn syrup” already in the ketchup was going to make this a sweet Sloppy Joe. Maybe it was always too sweet and, as a kid with a serious sweet tooth, I just didn’t realize it. Now as an adult with a somewhat mellower sweet tooth, would the Sloppy Joe be too saccharin for my taste? Should I go with my instincts and alter the recipe eliminating either half or all of the brown sugar. I decided not to do anything and if needed, I would do damage control after the fact.
Recipe courtesy of the H.J Heinz Company.
Making the Sloppy Joe really was about as easy as it gets. I followed the directions, cooking the peppers and onions, adding the beef, skimming off the fat, and then pouring in the ketchup, the brown sugar, Worcestershire sauce, salt and pepper and then cooking it on medium heat for about ten minutes until it thickened.
Just ten minutes and it’s done.
Finally I tasted it. This was most definitely the Sloppy Joe of my memory, yet a very sweet one. I sprinkled in chili powder and added a few drops of hot sauce. That took the sweetness down a few notches, but not enough. The damage could not be undone. It was just too sweet for my tastes. Next time—and there would be a next time—I planned on either eliminating the ketchup altogether and substituting tomato paste with a teaspoon of brown sugar or maybe combining ketchup and tomato paste but nixing the sugar.
Sloppy Joe spillage.
But after witnessing both of my boys licking from their fingers what had spilled from their buns, I realized that maybe I was thinking too much of myself. Why should I impose my so-called adult taste on them? Maybe, I thought, I should just leave well enough alone and let them have their own sweet Sloppy Joe memories.
I woke up with a bloat in my belly. My head was fuzzy and my palms were hot. I slept but was wiped out. I didn’t want to get out of bed. What had I done that put me in this condition? I couldn’t recall getting drunk or ingesting any narcotic that could have caused this malaise—this funk I was in. I tried to remember—to piece together the events of the previous evening that put me in the place I was now.
I drove from the city to Mount Vernon, a suburb just north of the Bronx where our group was to assemble for another eating expedition. We weren’t far from the Lincoln Lounge where, in January of 2012 we celebrated the 10th Anniversary of Adventures in Chow City. The place that Eugene had chosen was called Chalanas. He mentioned in his email that it was Brazilian.
The restaurant had a small parking lot. Haphazardly parked cars clogged the lot and I had to park down the road from the restaurant.
Parking and dining “al fresco” at Chalanas.
Zio, Eugene, and Gerry were all in the parking lot when I crossed the street. Mike from Yonkers arrived a few moments later. I noticed he was wearing dark shades. There was consternation on their collective faces.
“Something wrong?” I asked, turning to Eugene who was the engineer of this escapade.
“No, nothing. Why?” he responded, but neither he or any of the others made a move to enter the restaurant.
“What are we waiting for?” I wondered out loud and began to head toward the entrance when a man whose face was beet red stumbled out stammering in Portuguese. I gave him wide clearance and then pushed the door open.
Beefy decor
The restaurant was loud with Portuguese chatter. It was happy hour: $1 drafts in small, eight ounce glasses. I ordered one and so did the others with the exception, as usual, of Zio who preferred the chemical nutrition of a Diet Coke with the citrus snap of a wedge of lime. The beers were very cold and surprisingly good.
“What is the name of this beer?” I asked the host, a middle aged Brazilian man with a sly smile.
He blurted out a response to my inquiry, but I couldn’t understand him. His accent was either too heavy, the chatter in the restaurant too loud, or I was already under the influence of something I wasn’t even aware of.
“Shock?” I looked at the others for help. “Did you say Shock beer? Is that a Brazilian beer?” I pointed to the now empty glass.
“Yes, shock of beer,” He said.
I was even more confused. I think I needed some food. Nobody was helping me here.
“Are you deaf?” Gerry yelled to me. “The man said ‘shot’ of beer.”
I pondered that for a moment. “But I asked him the name of the Brazilian beer?” I looked again at our host.
Now he looked confused. “Brazilian beer?”
“Yes, the Brazilian beer. What is it called?”
“Budweiser,” he said.
“Budweiser.” I mumbled and nodded to myself, staring in disbelief at the foamy dregs that coated my glass. I had never had Budweiser quite like what I just downed.
A “shock” of Budweiser
“Maybe you want to try a shot of Brazilian tequila,” he asked as he noted my empty “shock” glass of beer.
“You mean cachaca?”
He nodded. “Yes, Brazilian tequila.” Now my head was spinning.
“I’ll have one,” Gerry quickly responded by raising an eager hand.
“Four tequilas?” The host asked.
“Not for me,” I said, shaking my head. Eugene also declined.
Mike from Yonkers took off his sunglasses and let out a weary breath. “I’ll have one,” he said.
Dinner was self service here and I was more than ready to serve myself. Before I could, our host returned with the “tequila.” Gerry and Mike from Yonkers downed the shots quickly.
“That’s the best Brazilian tequila I’ve ever had,” Gerry announced as he staggered to his feet.
The five of us moved into the adjoining room where there was a coal fired grill. Inside the grill were racks on which skewers of meat were assembled; the juices dripping slowly onto the hot coals. We were to decide what we wanted—and how much and the grill master would carve from the meat on the skewers. For some reason the process was a bit overwhelming to me at that moment. Gerry, however, was raring to go.
Brazilian barbecue
When the grill master asked what we wanted, Gerry, his judgment maybe affected by the Brazilian tequila, blurted out, “Everything.”
The grill master stared.
Mike from Yonkers, also under the influence of the tequila, nodded and handed the grill master a large empty platter. ““Fill it up,” he commanded.
“Everything!”
I could only shake my head and retreat to the salad bar where I loaded a platter with greens, rice and beans, “eggs and cheese,” and avocado salad. When I looked back, there were two enormous platters piled high with red meat and another with chicken and sausage.
Our plates were weighed and, apparently, recorded by the cashier: “You pay when you finish,” he said.
Meat
We returned to our table and almost immediately a procession of forks began to spear the various cuts of meats on the platters and from there into open mouths. I glanced at the two huge platters of red meat and tried, for just a moment, to determine each of the cuts. Was it really important to distinguish one from the other? Though a bit overly salty, it was good grilled red meat and the way it was presented; piled high in the platters, made it as accessible as munching on potato chips or pretzels. I had originally thought that getting the chicken was superfluous. I was wrong. It was outstanding, kept moist by salty and fatty strips of bacon. I couldn’t stop stuffing pieces into my mouth.
More meat.
…and even more meat.
A woman came to the table to ask if I wanted a drink. I was thirsty and nodded.
“Beer?” she asked.
“No, I’ll take a caipirinha,” I said, not able to resist the Brazilian specialty while dining in a Brazilian restaurant.
She returned quickly with the drink. The caipirinha’s I’m familiar with and wrote about in the trilogy: A Lime Cut Three Ways (see A Lime Cut Three Ways: The First Cut) usually were served in small, Old Fashioned glasses. This one came in a big plastic cup with a straw. I sucked it down as I continued to stuff my face with the red meat and the chicken, occasionally dipping into the rice, beans and greens to offset the animal protein assault.
The Chalanas caipirinha
I finished the caipirinha and for some unknown reason asked Zio to take a picture of me. He struggled but the flash went off.
He took another.
I looked at the results. They weren’t good. My palms were suddenly hot. I was thirsty and needed something sweet, but I didn’t want another supersized caipirinha.
The Brazilian tequila effect
I got to my feet and wandered to the bathroom. When I returned, Eugene told me I owed $20 for the meal.
“That’s all?” I asked.
“And that included the tip,” he added.
I handed over the money.
Gerry disappeared to rush off to another date while Mike from Yonkers, Eugene, Zio and I crossed the street and found ourselves in a Brazilian bakery called Padaminas. The lights were bright in the café and news from Sao Paulo was on the television. Brazilian coffee was probably a good idea, but Brazilian flan was a better one. I took it to a table and stuck a spoon in it. It held the spoon securely upright. I excised the spoon with little effort and then working methodically devoured the astonishing flan.
A flan that holds up a spoon.
Lying in bed the next morning my palms were still hot and my head pounded. I had one caipirinha, granted a very big one, and one small “shock” of Budweiser. They weren’t the cause of my stupor. It was something else. I looked at the pictures on the memory card in my camera including the unfortunate ones Zio took of me. I looked again and then I knew what was ailing me. I had a hangover. But not from the alcohol. The hangover was from an overdose of red meat. I got up, swallowed two aspirin and went back to bed. In a few hours I felt better. The hangover was gone and I was hungry.
Just another adventure in Chow City.
Chalanas
105 W. Lincoln Avenue
Mount Vernon
On Friday I presented a series of photos and hints to spur your New York food knowledge on in this month’s edition of Name That Place. It seems I stumped more of you than I thought based on the lack of correct answers.
Here now, in another series of photos, is the puzzle unraveled.
First I was brought tea.
Next came egg rolls unlike any others.
They call their egg rolls “Original.”
But even an original egg roll tastes better with duck sauce.
Where else can you get such an “original” egg roll in New York but the…
Nom Wah Tea Parlor: est. 1920, the oldest Dim Sum establishment in Chinatown.
And the answer to this month’s Name That Place.
It’s been awhile since we played Name That Place. To shake off the rust, I’ve tossed a softball your way. In fact, I hope I’m not insulting your New York food intelligence with it.
The avatar I use for Fried Neck Bones…and Some Home Fries has the words from a sign of what was a soul institution in Harlem, and a place I wrote about in these pages early on, the late, great M&G Diner (see Across 125th Street). Those words are “Old Fashion’ But Good!” and they apply to place in question. Now that I’ve given you that substantial hint, here are a series of photos that should wrap this gift up for you and have you easily naming it.
Looks like any “old fashion'” diner counter, doesn’t it?
And you got to love the old tables and booths.
Bi-lingual restroom sign.
Famous filmmakers have been here.
Bonus points if you can also identify what I’m about to stuff into my mouth.
And here is the final hint.
I expect I will have many winners on this one, all will receive the usual prize: a year’s subscription, free of charge, to http://friedneckbonesandsomehomefries.com
Good luck and leave your answers in the comments section below. On Monday I will reveal the place.
The array of pizza slices available at so many pizzerias here in New York is staggering. I usually just glance at them and wonder at the sometimes bizarre combinations. I judge a good slice on the basics; crust, sauce, and cheese. My pizza education was very specific. I was weaned on either “regular” or “Sicilian” slices.
Sicilian slices
Despite my pizza purist upbringing, I’ve now learned to not totally disqualify a slice that is excessively decorated. I am a big fan of the “salad” pizza if done right. Louie & Ernie’s “white” slice is a Hall of Famer, as is the broccoli rabe pizza from Fratelli’s on Hunt’s Point (see A Slice of Ernie Ottuso Square and Bronx Broccoli Rabe From a Brother From Corona respectively).
I strayed again recently and again in the Bronx, this time when admiring the pies inside the Full Moon Pizza on Arthur Avenue.
I first experienced Full Moon Pizza probably the first time I experienced Arthur Avenue. But recently I’ve stayed away; not because there was anything wrong with Full Moon Pizza, but preferring instead the mini-pies at Cafe al Mercato inside the Arthur Avenue Retail Market. The last time I was on Arthur Avenue, Cafe al Mercato was closed so I returned to the Full Moon. When I did, I noticed the artichoke and spinach pie under glass.
I wasn’t sure how long the pie had been sitting under the glass, but the slice did have to be reheated, something I am very wary of. In this case, however, reheating did not diminish the taste. The spinach was tender, the cheese fresh, the crust baked perfectly, and the artichokes also tender and briny. But there was something else I tasted I could not identify. Something creamy, almost like another soft melted cheese addition to the mozzarella. I wanted to know what it was.
The artichoke and spinach pie minus one slice: mine.
Behind the counter there was a man in chef whites. I can’t recall ever seeing a pizza chef wearing whites…not even the legend, Dominic DeMarco from Di Fara wears them while preparing his pies.
To the man in chef whites, who said his name was Sal (of course it had to be, see The Many Pizzas of Sal’s), I asked what went into the artichoke and spinach pie.
“We use spinach, fresh mozzarella, imported artichokes, roasted garlic, and an artichoke spread,” he told me.
So that what I was tasting that melded with the cheese: artichoke spread.
Despite my traditional pizza sensibilities, I am against any rules on what can or cannot be put on a pizza. Some of those rigid Neapolitan pizza societies with the strict regulations on how big to make a pie; what type of sauce and cheese to use and how hot it should be cooked take it much too seriously. Not that I ever complain about the results. The addition of the artichoke spread was a welcome innovation. And I credit Chef Sal, if he was the innovator, with another revelation in my slowly expanding pizza slice world.
Full Moon Pizza
600 E 187th St
Bronx
Fried Neck Bones...and some home fries 