Tag Archives: humor

Friends With Frog Benefits

24 Apr

Hunan Manor
339 Lexington Avenue

That a man was outside trying to get passers by to take the menus he was handing out was not a good sign. Still, it was what was on those menus that enticed me to try Hunan Manor. And when I relayed to Gerry some of those menu items: “steamed pork elbow,” “frog in spicy soup,” “cumin flavored beef on toothpics,” fragrant pig ears,” and “numbing—and—hot chicken,” it was very easy to entice him to join me as well.

Without taking a menu from the man outside the restaurant, we went into the generic, harshly lit, restaurant where there were plenty of tables available. In the back a large party shared a big round table. There were bottles on the table; wine, alcohol, soft drinks and they were loudly toasting each other.

Along with the big table in the back, all the patrons were Asian, Chinese I assumed, maybe even Hunanese, but assuming is something I try not to do.

Hunan cuisine explained.

Gerry and I wanted to sample authentic Hunan, as opposed to authentic Szechuan, and after looking at the long menu, the restaurant would have been a natural for our Chow City group. The only problem were the prices; not outrageous by any means, but a bit too high for our miserly standards.

Gerry is a prodigious eater and I certainly can hold my own, but even by extending our gluttony to unheard of limits, the two of us alone couldn’t do the menu justice.

Before we ordered, our waiter asked the obligatory “You like spicy?” question. Once we got that out of the way and affirmed our penchant for unadulterated Hunan, we proceeded to order.

Our first course was a soup to share; the Chinese yam with pork ribs. While we waited, a tiny, Asian woman took the table next to us. She was familiar with the management and spoke fluently to them, not even bothering to look at the menu.

Our soup arrived. We used the provided spoons to sip the clear, yet fragrant broth delicately and then fished out the chunks of pork ribs and tore meat from bone with our teeth.

Pork and yam soup

While we made quick work of the soup, two enormous platters arrived in front of the woman sitting next to us practically obscuring her. One was some sort of meat sautéed with peppers and chilies while the other was pale; tofu, maybe…or something else we knew not what.

We looked at each other and then back at the platters on the table next to ours. Gerry raised his eyebrows at me slyly and then nudged his empty plate a little closer to the platters in front of the woman.

I admit to being a Hunan novice; I had no clue what it was that she was about to dig into. And I also admit to abhorring those who stare longingly at others’ dinners and then obtrude by pointing at it and asking, like I found myself doing: “May I inquire what that is?”

The woman next to us did not share my aversions.   “Frog,” she replied pleasantly, not put off at all by my sorry table manners.

We looked at the other platter in front of her.

“Potatoes,” she said, indicating the pale mound of starch topped with strips of peppers.

Potatoes at a Chinese restaurant? We were now very intrigued and kept staring—longingly at the platters. Gerry pushed his empty plate a little closer to her, hoping that she would pick up on his no longer subtle movements.

Trying to help Gerry out, I forced an idiotic smile and said,. “They certainly give you a lot of food.”

She finally understood and smiled in return. “Yes, I can’t eat it all,” she said. “I’ll bring the rest home to share with my friends.”

His hopes dashed, Gerry inched his plate back in front of him and, thankfully, the smoked preserved pork shoulder with dried tofu we ordered arrived along with a plate of sautéed water spinach and sliced fish, Hunan-style.

Smoked pork with dried tofu

The pork, a combination bacon/belly-like texture with a distinctive smoky flavor meshed well with the tofu while the fish, tender and moist, dusted with dry chilies, had a low key, yet distinctive kick to it, though not as fiery as the type I’ve experienced at various Szechuan restaurants.

Slice fish, Hunan style: note the dried chili pepper sprinkled on top. The dry heat a characteristic of Hunan cooking.

Finally the dark green water spinach; the roots crunchy and bitter and sautéed with garlic rounded out the perfect blend of flavors our three dishes had.

Our waiter brought our check and asked again if we liked hot, Hunan food.

We told him we liked it very much.

He shook his head. “Some don’t like spicy,” he said. “Some run away.”

“They don’t know what they’re missing,” Gerry said, blowing his nose loudly into a napkin as the heat from the food had worked its magic on his sinuses.

As we left the restaurant, I glanced back through the window. I could see the woman who was sitting next to us. She was texting someone on her phone; the mound of food in front of her had barely been touched.

“I wish my friends would share their frogs with me,” I muttered.

“You just don’t have the right friends,” Gerry said. And then we both took menus from the man outside the restaurant and shoved them into our pockets before heading off.

I’ll take one of those.

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Gourmet Comes to Harlem: An Essay in Photos (and a few words)

20 Apr

What I mean when I say “Gourmet Comes to Harlem” is not this:

It’s this:

This new, welcome, trend in Harlem has, despite gentrification, transformed the word “gourmet” to a populist term.

At the gourmet deli,  alongside fruits, vegetables, and homemade soups, you can also purchase a phone card.

Some delis have flashing and streaming neon lights, offer free delivery, and even sell fashionable hats and sunglasses.

Others have beautiful photographic displays of the delicious dishes they prepare along with the many combination options.

If you are short of cash, the gourmet deli conveniently provides the services of an ATM, with only a small, $2 to $5 surcharge.

Many of the gourmet delis also offer, along with soda and chips, games of chance like Lotto.

Depending on the religious convictions of the owner, beer is often available at the gourmet deli and sometimes even wine.

But religious convictions are never a consideration or factor regarding cigarettes.

Here’s  one that hasn’t even opened yet. Welcome to the neighborhood A&A Gourmet!

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The Fusion Files: What Once Was

13 Apr

Nice of them to let us know what once was. Any hints or tips on what they might be serving now?

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A Royal Serving of Baba Ghanoush

10 Apr

Queen Sheeba
317 W. 141st Street.

Zio and I were hungry. The next scheduled meeting with our group of gluttons had been postponed, but we couldn’t wait. We needed our food fix now. I suggested Margie’s Red Rose Diner on 144th Street, but when Zio and I arrived the gate was pulled down and there was a handwritten sign on it saying Margie’s would be closed in January, reopening February 28th. The date was March 8th. The gate was still down.

Plan B was a few blocks away, just down the hill from City College. A place I noticed while looking for parking when bringing my son to piano lessons at the Harlem School of the Arts. Queen Sheeba seemed like an odd choice for the neighborhood, but maybe not. It was advertised as Middle Eastern; halal, of course, and the specific country, Yemen.

There was a Hispanic couple at one of the tables in the ornately decorated restaurant along with a few children running around…obviously related to the owners.

Queen Sheeba’s art

The couple was talking loud, commenting favorably on the food and trying to engage the host/waiter/owner and then us into their conversation.

“Are those your grandkids?” the man at the table, gesturing to the children, asked the owner, who’s English was either truly limited or just pretending that it was so he had an out when it came to talking to his clientele.

He nodded that they were.

“How old are you?” the man at the table asked.

“Fifteen,” he replied with practically a straight face; the curve of a mischievous grin barely apparent.

“Okay, you don’t have to tell me. But you look great,” the man said. “Me, I’m 52.”

I took a closer look at him from our table. He didn’t look so great for 52, but I kept my mouth shut.

The female half of the couple saw me peeking. “Try the rice, it’s really good,” she said to Zio and I.

“Yeah, everything is good here,” her companion said in a booming voice so the owner would hear. “The lamb. The chicken. We’re coming back again. Enjoy your meal.” And then the two of them waddled out.

The Queen’s Baba Ghanoush.

Zio and I started with the restaurant’s baba ghanoush, which, drizzled with olive oil and garnished with pimento-stuffed olives, ranked in the upper echelon in the unofficial baba ganoush ratings. The pita bread it came with was warm and was the perfect texture for scooping baba ganoush.

Spaghetti or stewed fish? Both looked delectable to Zio.

Though Zio was tempted by the picture of the spaghetti displayed on the restaurant’s window; spaghetti—Yemeni-style would be adventurous to say the least, he couldn’t get himself to order it. Zio tends to be a wee bit predictable at times and if there is fish on the menu, that’s where he invariably goes. At  Queen Sheeba, he stuck to his pattern and tried the lightly stewed tilapia while I was intrigued by the “Yemen Dish” called Saltah.

A salad came out first. It looked undressed and there was a greenish sauce that came with it. Zio sprinkled it on the salad and so did I. As we took our first bite of the chopped iceberg lettuce, we winced; the sauce was no dressing but a spicy condiment for our meals. Even though it brought tears to our eyes, we were undeterred and ate all of the crispy hot sauce drenched salad.

Next we were brought bowls of muddy brown soup; a beef broth that was rich and thickened somewhat with mashed lentils…I think. I asked our waiter what type of soup it was. The answer was undecipherable. Whatever the soup was called, it was—and I’ll make an exception here and use the word I try to avoid when describing anything I eat—delicious.

Soup with no name.

Our entrees followed; Zio’s fish smothered in a onion, tomato, and pepper sauce accompanied by the highly praised rice.

The satah arrived in a bowl; a comforting stew of vegetables with bits of ground lamb. Though there were a few distinct middle eastern spices in the stew, it reminded me of was a dish my grandmother used to make for me she called “cucuzza longa;” stewed pieces of a long squash that my grandfather grew in his garden, peeled, chopped and served in a tomato-based broth with ground beef. Who knew Yemen had anything in common with Calabria?

Satah: The Yemen dish

Zio was having trouble finishing off his fish, but I made quick work of the satah, catching any remains of the stew with what was left of the pita bread.

The owner/waiter, whose name, we learned was Ali, smiled in pleasure when he saw how well we ate. He brought us Yemen tea, fragrant with cloves as a digestif which I drank along with a fresh, very moist slice of baklava (spelled on Queen Sheeba’s menu as baklawa).

Photos from the friends back home

Since I live in Harlem, though not within walking distance of Queen Sheeba; I asked if they delivered to where I live. I told him my address but he shook his head.  “You don’t?” I asked, disappointed.

Ali went to the counter near the restaurant’s entrance, found a pen and business card and returned to us. He had me write my address and phone number on the card.

“We’ll deliver to you,” he said.

I looked at Zio. “See, you’re special,” he said to me.

“Yeah, how about that,” I said, making sure to slip a take out menu into my coat pocket before we both left.

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The Happiest of All Hours: Tap A Keg Edition

6 Apr

Tap A Keg: A Hell of a Joint.

2731 Broadway

Like the Subway Inn, the first installment of The Happiest of All Hours Subway Inn, it had been several years since I visited the Tap A Keg. And I remember distinctly why I have stayed away for so long.

I, along with the softball team I played for, used to frequent the place after games uptown in Central Park. Beers were cheap;  a prerequisite, the juke box eclectic—they had an impressive selection of blues, and you could bring in pizza or anything else you wanted to eat without complaint by the establishment.

One year, however, we began to notice that in addition to the assortment of scruffy regulars at Tap A Keg, there were now a number of four-legged patrons. The place had become a refuge for dogs and their beer-drinking owners. They walked free throughout the bar, some big, some small, some curiously sniffing around our post-game sweat and scavenging the pizza scraps on the floor.

Time for a cigarette and a squirt..

I had no problem with the dogs; their presence contributed to the dive’s diversity. That is until one day, a not very well trained, four-legged regular could not control its bowels and did it’s “bizness” in the middle of the bar.

There is no escape from the dogs of Tap a Keg…even in the men’s room.

Now I have had dogs. There’s one padding around our apartment as I write this. Sometimes they f**k up; they make mistakes. I can forgive them for that. But what I couldn’t forgive at this hell of a joint,  was the negligence of its inebriated owner. The steaming mound sat there as I sipped my beer and munched on the house popcorn. And it sat there while I ordered another bottle. After the second beer, I knew the Tap A Keg romance was over. There were limits on what one could tolerate in a dive.

Tap A Keg’s “no leash” policy.

I returned to the Tap A Keg recently to see if anything had changed. The dogs still roamed free. The regulars were still scruffy. The bar prices had not been  affected by inflation. The popcorn was still complimentary. The happy hour extended. The juke box as good as I remembered.  And, thankfully, the floor was poop-free.

Tap A Keg’s table art.

After listening to Bobby “Blue” Bland’s “Member’s Only” on the juke box while sipping an ice cold Corona, I decided it was time to let bygones be bygones. I could now accept the concept of “pet friendly” in a dive bar.

Blues for man’s best friend.

After all, there were much worse things than pet friendly. The place could become “kid friendly.” Then it would truly be a hell of a joint.

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A Bengali Buffet in the Bronx

3 Apr

Neerob
2109 Starling Ave
Bronx

Eugene’s already swarthy skin was a shade darker when he walked into Neerob, the Bengali place in the Parkchester section of the Bronx he choose for our group’s tasting prompting Zio to comment that he fit right in with the rest of the restaurant’s clientele. And it was true. Eugene could pass for a Bengali. He could pass for an Arab, Latino, mulatto, Greek, or Sicilian. He had that versatile, dusky look; our own Anthony Quinn.

His skin had darkened from a week in Punta Cana, at a resort where he happily exclaimed that you never had to leave the property. “They had 11 restaurants,” Eugene crowed. “Italian, Asian, Tex-Mex, a Brazilian where they come and slice the meat for you. The place was so big they take you around on mini buses.”

Apparently there was no Bengali food at the Punta Cana resort though and when Eugene looked around the small restaurant he nodded approvingly at his choice. “Now this is the kind of place for us,” he proudly proclaimed.

Eugene the Greek (or Arab, or Latino, or Sicilian, or Quasimodo) at the buffet.

He made no mention of the framed New York Times review on the wall. Or of the Daily News and Time Out New York blurbs that were also displayed. And when we first started convening, now over ten years ago, framed New York Times reviews would have been a problem. If the Times had written it up, the place had officially been “discovered” and we had very loose rules against that. We needed to make the discovery and let the Times unearth it after our experience, and many times that is exactly what happened. Now, however, the restaurant world, even the one we lived in, had changed. Nothing was undiscovered anymore whether by the Times or on the internet

Neerob’s  specials of the day.

As it had at Singh’s Roti Shop, (A Double(s) Dose of Roti on Liberty Avenue) where we last met, that I was taking pictures of the restaurant and its food, caught the eye of Neerob’s owner. The camera being a giveaway that this group of non-Bengalis (Eugene aside) and non-Parkchester regulars, were either food critics or food bloggers. He immediately took an interest in our group, arranging tables so our party of six would have enough room and then bringing us a sampling of vegetable pakoras accompanied by squeeze bottles of a hot chili sauce and a cilantro based condiment.

Once everyone found parking, which wasn’t easy, and got to the restaurant, we crammed around the glass enclosed steam table looking at the offerings. Our very friendly host explained what we were gaping at; goat biryani, chicken curry, fried whole tilapia, bright red chicken tikka, saag with chicken, okra, lentils,and a smaller whole fish smothered in a red, tomato-based sauce.

Some of the steam table offerings at Neerob.

“It’s a fish like we have in our country,” our host said when I asked him about the smaller fish. “Like a sardine. One bone. Very good.”

He pointed to something that looked like semi-mashed vegetables and said that these accompany the fish.

I knew I wanted it and the others let him know what they were interested in.

“Leave it to me,” he said.

And we did.

A few moments later, the paper plates and bowls with our favorite utensils; plastic forks and spoons, began to arrive.

The mashed vegetables were placed in front of me. They were powerfully flavored and fiery in spice, obviously an accompaniment to the main dishes. I found out later that they were called “bhartas.”

Roi fish a.k.a. Bengali Sardines

The small fish was delectable, moist with oil, and separated easily from the small bone. We somehow ordered two plates of goat biryani but no one was disappointed; the tiny pieces of goat a gamey match to the bland basmati rice.

Goat biryani

We shared the bowls and plates as they made their way around the table, the fish cheeks of the tilapia, however, were gone before they got to Zio and I; Rick making quick work of them.

Grilled tilapia, cheeks still intact.

Whatever was left was easily finished with the accompanying warm nan bread. And though we ate like the gluttons we are, we wanted more. There were sweets and our host wanted us to sample some. Who were we to refuse?

He brought fried gulab jamun balls in syrup and two, pale sweet balls that had Zio scratching his thinning hair. “It’s a matzoh ball?” he said, staring at it curiously.

But it was more like a sweetened cottage cheese ball. And it and all the sweets helped take the fire out of our mouths.

Matzoh balls the Bengali way.

The almost indecipherable check was brought to us. Eugene squinted but was able to add it up, and when he told us what we owed for the feast we just devoured, I, and everyone else, couldn’t care less that the New York Times, among others, had scooped us.  Neerob, in Eugene’s words, was most definitely, “our kind of place.”

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The Fazool Trilogy: Part Two

30 Mar

Part Two of the Fazool Trilogy features a dish that I have never seen on a restaurant menu anywhere. And I wonder why? Thankfully, my grandmother, known in the family as “Nanny,”  introduced me to the tiny legume and the hearty, almost meat-like broth it made when cooked and then combined with broken bits of spaghetti.

When I would call to say I was coming over for lunch, she would say, “I’ll make lentichhie. Or ceci.” (Pasta e Ceci). The pasta part was a given.  She would serve a big bowl  with her homemade loaf bread and a salad; the lunch would fortify me easily until dinner.

As I have said, there were never any written recipes.  And back when I was younger, I didn’t really pay attention to what went into Nanny’s meals. It was the end result that was my only concern.

So now  I’ve tried my best to recreate her simple, Calabrese dishes. There always, however, seems to be something missing. I can never exactly duplicate what I remember. Still, I get close enough to continue trying.

Pasta e Lenticchie

1lb bag of dried lentils (Some use the fancy French lentils, but fancy was not in Nanny’s vocabulary;. She used, and so do I, the basic green, most inexpensive lentils).

1 onion-diced

2 garlic cloves-minced

½ teaspoon dried thyme

1 bay leaf

6-8 cups chicken broth or water, or a combination of both. (The more liquid, the soupier the dish, which, in this case, is not a bad thing. It just depends on your mood and taste).

1 cup plum tomatoes, chopped, juice retained.

½ lb of spaghetti, broken into 1 inch pieces (you can also use tubetti, ditalini, or small elbows)

4 tbs olive oil

Salt and pepper

Grated pecorino Romano or Parmesean  Reggiano.

1 secret ingredient (the picture of which, you will find below).*

Name that ingredient.

Rinse the lentils in cold water a few times to remove any dirt or grit.

In a Dutch oven, heat the olive oil.

Sauté the onions until soft; about five minutes over medium heat.

Add the garlic and thyme for another one to two minutes.

Toss in the lentils and sauté for about a minute.

Pour in the chicken broth/water and the tomatoes.

Add the bay leaf.

Salt and pepper to taste.

Bring to boil and then reduce to a simmer.

Cook for about 30-40 minutes, or until the lentils are soft, but not mushy.

You can add the spaghetti and cook it with the lentils, but I prefer to cook them separately.

So, in another pot, boil water and add the spaghetti pieces. Cook until al dente, drain, but reserve a few tablespoons of the cooking liquid.

Add the spaghetti pieces and the remains of the pasta cooking liquid to the lentils.

Stir, and cook for another minute or two.

Scoop into bowls.

Top with grated cheese and a little chopped parsely.

Enjoy with crusty bread and a salad

Pasta e lenticchie

*You correctly guessed the secret ingredient as a parmesean Reggiano rind. I  really don’t know what the rind adds to the dish; many include one when they make Sunday sauce and pasta e fagioli (Part Three of the Trilogy  to come).  If nothing else, the rind imparts a salty, aged flavor to the creation that maybe is just in our heads. Or maybe not. If you have one lying around, toss it in. It won’t hurt the dish.

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Adventures in Chow City: The First Decade

27 Mar

This past January, our group celebrated ten years of traveling New York City’s environs searching for mostly unheralded, inexpensive, usually ethnic eating establishments. To honor this very important anniversary, we hoped to gather at a place somewhat representative of the restaurants we had been visiting the past decade. We were looking for something maybe slightly more broadly appealing than a place where cow foot soup and goat belly were the signature dishes. And since this was supposed to be a special occasion, we also decided to invite spouses, partners, significant others; anyone our members wanted to bring along.

Gerry recommended an old time Italian place in Mount Vernon, just over the Bronx border, called the Lincoln Lounge. From his description; “good pizza—old school, family-style Italian in a run down neighborhood with a full bar,” the Lincoln Lounge sounded exactly what we were looking for.

It took numerous group emails to nail down a date when all could attend. And then things happened. A wife dropped out due to family obligations; a girlfriend couldn’t come because of a conflict until we got an email from Rick saying “Sounds like its turning stag. Should we just commit to no wimmin?”

We never did commit to it, but as it turned out, no “wimmin” were in attendance.

And on the appointed day, neither was Rick; a family emergency denying him our celebration.

To make up for the loss of Rick, we were graced with the presence of original member, Charlie, who left us in 2005 for the greener pastures of the Lehigh Valley in Pennsylvania.

It was a Friday night and the Lincoln Lounge was mobbed with large groups; the small bar two deep with “regulars,” including one uniformed policeman who ate at the bar with his bullet-proof vest on and gun holstered around his waist.

No room at the Lincoln Lounge bar.

After we were seated; cramped in a corner, we quickly ordered a sausage pizza and here the Lincoln Lounge did not disappoint. With its thin crust, sauce bursting with flavor, nicely charred crust topped with fresh sausage; the pie, as it turned out was the highlight of the meal.

Lincoln Lounge’s excellent pie.

The antipasto salad, a bowl of greens topped with provolone, sopressata, and olives and doused in a vinegary dressing was passable while the steamed clams in white wine and garlic, standard and more than acceptable.

The calamari pasta, however, along with the shrimp scampi were disappointments. Apparently, when the dishes at the Lincoln Lounge are advertised as family style, they don’t mean our gluttonous family.

The shrimp, of which here they most definitely count, were barely enough for each of us to get a taste. As it turned out, a taste was more than enough.

The modest amount of spaghetti adorned with a light tomato broth and tiny pieces of calamari was devoid of flavor.

Calamari compromised

Zio shook his head as he gazed at the miniature calamari.  “I like big fat calamari rings,” he said. “Not these little ones.”

“Was it really worth slaughtering baby squid for this?” I questioned indicating the “family-sized” platter.

“Yeah, it’s inhumane,” Gerry said as he speared one with his fork.

Thankfully, the pork chops with peppers and onions were good enough to almost redeem the travesty that was the squid and shrimp.

Pork chops with vinegar peppers and onions

While we cleaned our plates, Eugene began to, once again, muse on a trip to a Caribbean all-inclusive he was soon to embark on. “You know what I like to do,” he swooned. “Eat a big breakfast, stay at the beach until two, take a nap, and then eat dinner. You never have to leave the hotel.”

Trying desperately to divert the conversation back to why we were at the Lincoln Lounge, I was curious about our group’s memories of the past ten years.

“Remember the bean dessert,” Eugene barked out. “At the Filipino place in Queens. The worst!”

“Yeah and the cheap Polish place in Greenpoint,” Zio added. “I went back once.”

“What about that one in Chinatown. The place with fish stomach and goose feet,” Mike from Yonkers reminisced.

“Sheesh, that was inedible,” Eugene spat. “Even Gerry had a hard time eating it.”

And from there they all came back. The highlights and a few lowlights of our ten years.

Chow City’s Top Ten Moments (Good and Bad)

Presented in chronological order:

  1. Eugene’s bean drink revulsion The Beans of Halo Halo
  2. Cherriolies and Kvass Kvass and Vodka  
  3. Pan fried chicken and old school soul   Across 125th Street
  4. Eating ribs in a South Bronx backyard junkyard Southern (Bronx) BBQ
  5. Traversing mountains of snow to get to the great Tandoori Hut. Dining With Sikhs

    Tandoori Hut

  6. The rending padang at Upi Jaya  Spice Tsunami
  7. An after dinner espresso served on my lap. The Un American African Place
  8. Broccoli rabe pizza, the choice meal of strippers. Bronx Broccoli Rabe From a Brother From Corona

    Bronx broccoli rabe

  9. Fuzhou fish stomach and goose feet. F(e)asting on Fuzhou Style Fish Stomach
  10. Zio’s upper body massage apres fufu and four fingers. The Bistro that Serves Fufu and Four Fingers

And let us not forget those who are no longer with us.

R.I.P

La Fonda Boricua

LeWoro Dou Gou

La Pollada de Laura

Southbound Bar-B-Que

M&G Diner

Bay Shish Kebab

Uncle Sal’s Ribs and Brew

Malaysian Rasa Sayang

Zabb Queens

Florence’s Restaurant

Yamakaze

Spicy Mina

World of Taste Seafood and Deli

Treichville

M&G Diner circa 2010

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A Double(s) Dose of Roti on Liberty Avenue

20 Mar

Singh’s Roti Shop
131-18 Liberty Ave
Richmond Hill

“Is it Jamaica, or Richmond Hill,” Zio asked frantically over the phone while cruising up and down Liberty Avenue looking for Gerry’s pick, Singh’s Roti Shop.

“Richmond Hill,” I said.

“Jamaica or Richmond Hill?” Zio asked again, his hearing aid obviously not functioning up to speed.

“Richmond Hill,” I repeated.

“Okay, I’ll be there soon,” he said.

I was in front of Singh’s when Zio called, after haven taken a brief walk around, peering in at the nearby Guyanese and Caribbean restaurants, the Brown Betty,” and Sybil’s Bakery, where there was a line waiting for Sybil’s offerings. Whatever it was they were waiting for smelled delicious.

There are rotis (Guyanese style) to be had at the Brown Betty.

There was a small line at the brightly lit Singh’s as well, and Gerry and Mike from Yonkers were already in the bar area to the left. Gerry with a plastic cup filled with vodka and Mike from Yonkers with a bottle of Carib beer. Eugene was once again a scratch; his expertise as a timekeeper for a high school basketball game the priority on this particular night.

While I sipped my own Carib, I wandered over to the steam table and tried to get a look at the many dishes that were available. I had my camera and began to take a few pictures. This brought the attention of a man behind the counter who seemed to be in charge of Singh’s intricate operations.

“Take a picture of him,” the man said, pointing to an Asian man who was carrying what looked like a stir fry lo mein-like dish. “He’s the chef.”

I obliged and snapped the chef’s picture who posed without affectation.

The “chef.”

Mr. Singh, the man in charge, then asked what we wanted. Despite the long line to order, he had one of the female servers “take care of us.” Maybe it was the camera. Maybe it was because we were obviously not from the neighborhood. Whatever the reason, Mr. Singh was giving us V.I.P treatment including a sampling of some of the offerings.

The sampling included pepper chicken; a fried, breaded chicken reminiscent of sweet and sour chicken, but with a spice kick that took that Chinese/American classic to a higher level. There was also stewed pork with vegetables, and something else, Chinese-like, with green peppers and onions, we could not identify.

Sweet, sour and spicy.

Singh’s served Caribbean Chinese food along with, what I thought was Guyanese, but after being chastised by Singh, told were Trinidadian specialties.

The Roti, an Indian bread stuffed with whatever you wanted; goat, beef, chicken, potato, was, of course, Singh’s specialty as was something called doubles; kind of a roti sandwich, a layer of roti bread lathered with chick peas and various condiments, and then topped with another flat roti, making a “double.”

Singh’s Doubles.

While we were devouring the sample platter, Rick called to say he was at Sandy’s Roti Shop, also on Liberty Avenue, but in South Richmond Hill.

“It’s Singh’s, Roti Shop,” I said to him.

“Not Sandy’s?”

“Not Sandy’s,” I replied.

“I’ll be right there,” he said. And then I realized I heard those same words from Zio quite awhile ago. And he still wasn’t here.

“Where are you?” I asked over the phone.

“I’m embarrassed to say I got lost,” he murmured sheepishly.

I gave him the address again and told him what Singh’s looked like.

“I’ll be right there,” he sighed.

And within minutes both Zio and Rick arrived. The line had grown while we were waiting for them, and Mike from Yonkers was anxious to get going—fearing Singh’s food supply might run out. Though from what I could see, that was a very slight possibility.

My new friend Singh again summoned one of his workers to put together our platters. I had no idea what was in most of the trays and when I asked, the female server impatiently blurted out what they were as if, in the bustle of the place, I could hear and register what she was telling me from the other side of the counter. So I ended up just pointing to things, more of that Chinese pepper chicken, a few orders of “doubles,” some of the mixed fried rice and the rice and peas, a container of dark green mashed callaloo, and stewed pork.

The “Chinese” side of the steam table.

We plowed through the food effortlessly. All of it, despite the cafeteria-style, seemed fresh and flavorful, in particular, the unique “doubles,” which, at $1 each, a hefty bargain and enough to fortify even our gluttonous appetites. This Trinidadian street snack was no light appetizer and one remained on our table throughout the rest of our dinner; untouched and tightly wrapped in wax paper.

Despite the mounds of food, Rick was not quite fully satisfied. “I think we should try a few more things,” he said.

No one disagreed.

I went with  him to the West Indian/Indian side of the counter where there were curries displayed along with more exotic dishes like conch (spelled “counch” on the menu) goat, and, something we couldn’t identify our server said was “goat belly.”

If goat belly was anything like pork belly, we had to try it.

The “West Indian” side. Note the doubles being prepared in the background.

Rick brought the second round of platters to the table. The stewed goat curry was tender, the meat easily coming off the bone. The conch could have used a couple more hours boiling, but maybe “al dente” is the preferred Trinidadian way. The goat belly, however, upon closer inspection, was a challenge, even for us.

Zio got close to it and sniffed.

“It’s smells like an old bicycle seat,” he said, and then bravely took a forkful.

“It’s trippa!,” he exclaimed.

The goat belly was indeed, tripe. Gerry sampled some. He shook his head. Mike from Yonkers, tried to chew a piece. “Un uh,” he muttered as he forced it down.

Goat belly and “counch.”

Thankfully, Rick had ordered a few pieces of roti bread to help us quash the foul taste of the goat belly.

We were done…almost.

There were a few brightly-colored sweets I was interested in including one that was purple. “Sugar cake,” was what our server barked out when I asked her what it was.

Singh’s sweets’ sampler.

I brought a small sweets’  sampler back to our table; one of the sugar cakes and a bun. Gerry peered at the bun that was speckled with raisins and other candied fruits. “It looks dry,” he said.

He broke off a piece and chewed.  He nodded. “It is dry.”

The desserts pretty much went untouched. We were done. The line at Singh’s was much shorter now. The damage to our wallets was light and our own belly’s full. We couldn’t ask for anything more than that.  Except for Zio, who, before we walked out the door, grabbed the one untouched, still wrapped, “double,” and shoved it into his pocket.

I looked at him.

“What?” He said. “It’ll taste even better tomorrow.”

The End

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Today’s Special: Corned Beef and College Hoops

16 Mar

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.

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