Tag Archives: humor

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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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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A Certifiable Czech

13 Dec

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.

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The Jamaican Beef Patty Gospels

9 Dec

As seen in the People’s Choice Kitchen.

And the beef patties were good too.

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Biryani Joy

6 Dec

Rawal Ravail
641 Lydig Avenue
Bronx

A little bit of Pakistan in the Bronx

The din from the uptown/downtown 2 and 5 trains on the elevated tracks above White Plains Road was really nothing more than background noise to the constant cacophony that resonated in the frantic Morris Park section of the Bronx where Gerry had summoned us. It was our third straight session in that borough proving that the Bronx could hold its own with Queens and Brooklyn in ethnic food diversity. This time we were to sample Pakistani food; strictly Halal; meaning no pork and no alcohol.

Located next to the Islamabad Deli, an uplifting message on the Rawal’s window read: “Everyone brings joy to this restaurant. Some when they enter and others when they leave. Thank you. Management.”

Forced joy is not one of my strong points, but I told myself to at least make the effort. The lone person inside the restaurant—a young man wiping down a table—didn’t even notice me or my joy as I entered. Compared to the frenzy outside, even with the babble in Urdu coming from the gigantic flat screen television tuned to a Pakistani television station, inside it was calm.

The news from Pakistan was from what I could translate, not good.

No one else had yet arrived and due to a last minute work engagement where pork might be served and alcohol most definitely would be, Rick had already bowed out. Soon the others arrived including Eugene, who was daringly dressed in short pants.

Rawal’s only menus were of the take-out variety and we quickly discovered, pretty much useless. The dour owner begrudgingly had our group come with him to the steam table where he could explain what was available that day. There he pointed to each tray where there were various curries; chicken, goat, and kidney/liver, two vegetable dishes, three solitary small grilled fish, a tray of bright red chicken tikka, and another of chopped grilled chicken. He lifted up the rice containers; two biryanis and one with plain white basmati rice.

The process was more complicated than it should have been. To make things easier, we had him fix each of us a platter with a sampling of some of the dishes. And this he did with not a trace of joy.

Rawal Ravail’s steam blurred steam table.

Within a few minutes, a female server in traditional Pakistani dress, brought us a plate of lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, chilies, and a raita dressing. Soon, the man in charge returned, accompanied by his female helper with our individual plates and five, Frisbee-sized loaves of nan bread. Each curry, goat, chicken, and liver and kidney, were fiery. Even the channa (chick pea) and cabbage curry was hot. The only respite from the spice was the rice and bread. All the curries were delicious, but, with the exception of the unique texture of the kidney and liver, very much alike and, crowded on our platters, they bled together making them somewhat indistinguishable.

Channa and cabbage and…biryani

Despite the heat, we quickly devoured our plates with the exception of Mike from Yonkers who was deliberately picking at his liver and kidney, dabbing each forkful into the cooling raita. We tried to be patient and display some level of dining etiquette, but Eugene and I could wait no longer.

While Mike from Yonkers continued to maddeningly play with his liver, we headed toward the entrance of the restaurant where there was a display of sweets including a few that were alarmingly colorful. Among them was a tray of milk where blobs of dough bobbled, a pink rice pudding, an orange coconut pudding, and a carrot orange sweet along with a white, nut-filled sweet. Eugene took a bite of the latter and proclaimed it second only to the “lima bean dessert” we had years ago at a Filipino restaurant in Queens, as the worst dessert he ever tasted.

Dessert offerings.

Zio added that the carroty orange thing had a distinct cardboard taste. Everyone agreed that the orange coconut pudding was the best of the bunch, though Gerry had no complaints about any of them and what no one else would touch further, he piled in front of him to quickly finish off.

The tab; well below our group’s $20 per person allotment left plenty of leeway for a generous tip despite the lackadaisical service. And after handing over our cash to the owner, for the first time that evening a smile was apparent on his face. The message on the window, prophetic, for we indeed, upon our exit, brought joy to the restaurant.

Our tip left the staff of Rawal Ravail extremely joyous.

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The Fusion Files: Neighborhood Edition

2 Dec

I’m all for diversity, especially when it comes to food options. But what does it mean when a neighborhood famous for a certain type of food is now accepting of something new and totally different for that neighborhood? Is it a good thing; further evidence of New York’s welcoming melting pot? Or will those foreigners begin to deteriorate the formerly close-knit fabric of that neighborhood.

Case in point: Arthur Avenue in the Bronx, also known as the “Little Italy of the Bronx.”

Between shopping for soppressata at the Calabria Pork Store.

And scamorza at Calandra’s Cheese.

You can now, between these two stores on Arthur Avenue in the Bronx, dine on sushi and/or tacos instead of pizza and pasta fagioli.

I don’t know whether to throw up my hands and say “there goes the neighborhood,” or rush into Estrellita Poblana III and try their cecina azada con napales (grilled salted steak with cactus pads).

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Saltfish Season

18 Nov

I’m not sure why,  but the chill in the air  and the impending holiday season brings on a distinctive and maybe unnatural craving for the taste of saltfish. Also known to Italians as baccala,(a ditty to that Christmas Eve treat was published in these pages last year titled Baccala Blues )to those of Spanish background as bacalao, and to the Portuguese as bacalhau,  Saltfish is the West Indian name for what we know as salt cod.

Not the most appetizing to look at or, for some, to smell, but after the dry, salted fish is soaked to rehydrate it to a moist tenderness and then simmered,  a man can get very used to the taste.

“Very well I like the  taste
Though the smell, sometimes out of place
It hard to take, but make no mistake
I want you to know, it’s because it extra sweet it smelling so boy it’s

Saltfish”

The words above are from the great Calypsonian, Sparrow’s love song dedicated to saltfish’s wonderfulness named, appropriately, “Saltfish.” He does a much better job articulating the appeal of saltfish than I ever can, so I’ll let him do it for me.

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F(e)asting on Fuzhou Style Fish Stomach

15 Nov

Best Fuzhou Restaurant
71A Eldridge Street
Chinatown

I got the call from Zio a few hours before we were all to meet at Rick’s chosen destination, Best Fuzhou Restaurant. “How you doing,” I asked.

There was a pause, and then Zio replied, “Not good.”

It was his knee, he explained. He did something to it and had to see a doctor in Connecticut the next morning. “I’m not gonna make it tonight,” he said.  I didn’t ask how it happened; I assumed it was in the line of duty. In Zio’s case, that meant possibly squatting in a crawlspace in search of termites or carpenter ants.

It wasn’t until later, after our Best Fuzhou experience that I suspected Zio might have just used the knee as an excuse not to be subjected to what we just were. That maybe he read the Robert Sietsema review of the place from the Village Voice that Rick attached to his email. I didn’t. I never read reviews of restaurants until after I’ve dined there. I didn’t even open up the link. Maybe if I did I would have seen the review’s headline and sub heading “Enjoy the Fish Stomach at Best Fuzhou: A Lower East Side Fujianese also Kindly Peels Your Goose Feet.” That might have at least tipped me off as to what to expect. As it was, I went in pretty much clueless except that I knew we were meeting in Chinatown for a regional variation on Chinese.

Our goose feet were peeled and cooked…I think.

Did Zio know that the aforementioned goose feet were, yes, kindly peeled, but also as inedible as the cow foot he tried to eat at Salimata, our previous restaurant? Did he know that the colorfully named “do do frog’s leg” that caught Rick’s attention on the menu required surgical precision to remove what meat there was on the frog’s skinny legs? Or that the conch that accompanied the goose feet (or web as it was listed on the menu) was as equally tough to eat? I wasn’t sure.  But one had to wonder.

When I arrived at the harsh fluorescently-lit restaurant on the Lower East Side fringe of Chinatown, the Westchester boys, Gerry, Eugene, and Mike from Yonkers had already arrived. I told them the news about Zio and hesitated before sitting while one of the waitresses grabbed a mop and began clearing the table next to ours and the floor around it from spilled, smeared brown sauce, and stray, smashed noodles. Rick showed up soon after and even with just five, the table seemed crammed; Zio’s girth would have severely limited any elbow space between us.

With the many exotic dishes on the menu and Sietsema’s apparently glowing review—the waitress, who spoke almost no English, proudly showed us a copy of it—Best Fuzhou seemed a natural for our group. For his part though, Eugene was immediately skeptical. Maybe the menu was a little too exotic. Studying it carefully and bypassing fish head with bean curd, crispy jelly fish skin, duck kidney with cauliflower, goose intestine with tender leek, stir fried pig stomach and other intriguing options, he finally settled on the safe, hot and spicy fish fillet.

On the other end of the spectrum, for Gerry, the more exotic the better and he gambled on eel with black bean sauce which carried no price, only the dubious “S.P” (Seasonal Price) next to it meaning it would be more expensive than anything else on the menu. To her credit, our waitress, in her struggling English, was able to make clear that the price for the eel in black bean sauce that was evidently in season was $28. Gerry hesitated, but only for a moment, before nodding that it was okay despite overshooting the $20 food limit stated in our very loose food group bylaws.

I tried to find a happy medium; something a bit out of the ordinary, but not a stretch like, do do Frogs legs, Rick’s choice. So I settled on the clams with pan fried noodles. As it turned out, the rice noodles lightly fried and speckled with strips of clam was the only dish we all enthusiastically approved of.

water melon with fish stomach and unidentifiable red stuff

The same couldn’t be said for the Sietsema recommendation, water melon soup with fish stomach, which arrived in a big bowl and was gingerly distributed into little bowls by our waitress who also added dollops of a blood red liquid I assumed was chili oil. After sampling the soup with the mysterious red condiment, there was no spice kick—no discernible taste at all.  Red dye? Fish blood? As I write this I’m still not sure what it was. The clear soup had chunks of water melon, a white, bland vegetable nothing like the watermelon we know surrounded by bits of fish stomach reminiscent to the egg whites floating in the opaque broth. Eugene could only manage a few sips. Only Gerry dared attempt a second bowl. And from there it got worse.

Mike from Yonkers, speaking loudly so he could be heard above the constant parade of big black garbage bags dragged on a noisy dolly through the small restaurant and out to the street, proclaimed to all who might think to listen that he never ordered the goose web. But the proof was on the menu and, unfortunately on our table. Again, it was Gerry who was the only one who could make any headway of the truly impenetrable peeled goose foot. Eugene would not even attempt a nibble and when the do do frogs legs arrived in a thick brown sauce, he picked up the serving spoon, noticed a few mushrooms surrounding the skimpy frogs’ legs and then put the spoon back down with a disgusted grunt. For a man who portends to have a worldly appetite, Eugene has an unusual aversion to mushrooms.

Eel with black bean sauce: (s.p) Good luck.

The final dish to crowd our not very appetizing table was the “seasonal” eel. After clearing a few dishes, the waitress found a space for the platter in the middle of table positioned so the eel’s head and cold, dark beady eyes were staring menacingly at Eugene. A few bites of the tough, bone-riddled eel in black bean sauce were more than enough for me…and everyone else including Gerry. This particular “S.P” delicacy was definitely wasted on us. Thankfully, we filled up on what on the menu were described as oyster pancakes, but more like a slightly salty Chinese version of the deep fried Mexican churro.

“We’re not having dessert are we?” Eugene muttered once the plates were cleared from our table. Maybe Zio, if he was in attendance, would have insisted on trying the Fuzhou style eight treasure rice offered for dessert. For those of us who did attend, however, even eight treasures were not enough to entice us to try anything else Fuzhou style.

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The Many Pizzas of Sal’s

11 Nov

Here in New York there was an overblown controversy about who retained the rights to be known as Ray’s Pizza. The original Ray’s, at least I think it was original, was in Greenwich Village on 11th Street and wildly popular for the excessive amounts of cheese piled onto each slice rather than for its overall quality. So says I, the pizza snob.

Ray’s popularity spurred a flurry of Ray’s imitators, or so “Original Ray” claimed. Lawsuits were threatened and to avoid them, the numerous Ray’s throughout the city slightly tweaked their names.  “Famous Ray’s,” “World Famous Ray’s,” “Original Ray’s” “Ray Bari” were some of them. There was even one called “Not Ray’s Pizza.” Soon the controversy fizzled and recently the Original Ray’s closed ending “Ray’s” pizza(name) dominance in the city.

You know it’s over for Ray’s when the name is blocked out and no longer “of Greenwich Village.”

On a smaller scale, but higher in the pizza royalty chain, was the battle over the use of Patsy’s in connection to pizza. There was the original Patsy’s on First Avenue in East Harlem that still remains. And then there was Patsy Grimaldi’s in Brooklyn, just over the Brooklyn Bridge who was legally forced to drop the “Patsy’s” part of his actual name and became known as Grimaldi’s.  Patsy’s revival and the ensuing controversy led to a chain of Patsy’s designed to emulate the original, but none had that pizzeria’s magical ancient coal oven and, as a result, the pizza just wasn’t of the same quality.

The original Patsy’s.

It is now my pleasure to report that probably the most prolific pizza name of all has not sparked any controversy or legal action that I know of. That name is Sal’s.

Still, though, many Sal’s have found it necessary to inject something else to their name to differentiate themselves from the other Sal’s out there instead of just relying on their location and the distinction of their pizza.

There are many Sal’s in New York, but obviously only one New York Sal’s.

If Sal were to have a pizza making partner, Carmine is a natural.

Sal’s of Little Italy is no ordinary pizzeria, it’s a cafe.

Now why did they have to go and make Sal fat?

I’ve often wondered why a man named Sal would allow himself to be known as Sally.

Sal’s even made it into the movies.

But why no BROTHERS ON THE WALL??

I make no judgement on any of the other Sal’s pizzerias, but for me, there is only one Sal’s Pizzeria.

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Eating Guinea Fowl in a Guinean Place in Little Senegal

9 Nov

Salimata
2132 8th Avenue
New York, NY

The bustle around Salimata.

I must have passed Salimata, the restaurant chosen by Mike from Yonkers, hundreds of times and really never noticed it there, not very far from where I reside. Maybe it was because it was located in the shadow of the Masjid Aqsa Mosque, kind of a community center for the areas West African Muslims who populate the area known as Little Senegal and always bustling with activity. Or maybe I was unaware of its presence because it just blended in with the many small, family-run African restaurants in the area.

The Mosque next door.

Like Gerry who chooses based on how long it takes us to get to a place, or Eugene who looks for the untried, no matter if edible or not (see Arzu), Mike from Yonkers has an African thing going; his last two picks; Treichville and African American Marayway  both featured the cuisine of the countries of West Africa. Salimata’s represented Guinea, though all of us would be hard pressed to distinguish the subtle differences between the food of Guinea with that, for example, of Ghana or even, Guinea-Bissau. But getting to Salimata couldn’t be any easier for me so I certainly wasn’t complaining about his choice.

Greeting us outside the restaurant was a burly man dressed in what looked like the sweat suit version of the traditional African buba. He had a big sack open and filled with a haphazard assortment of shoes he was selling. “Take a look at my shoes,” he asked, holding the bag open. “What size are you?”

We told him we were going in to eat at Salimata now. Maybe later, someone unwisely said thinking he might be gone by the time we finished. He nodded approvingly at our dining choice that, we soon found out, also served as his base of operations.

The only table big enough to handle our  group of six was close to the front door and  the constant commotion of take out customers and taxi and livery cab drivers moving in and out, had us keeping our jackets on to stay warm. All of us were  pleased that now, after two absences, Rick had rejoined us, and taking a quick glance at the menu and without any hesitation he decided on the guinea fowl, a variation on either pigeon or chicken, depending on how you approached it.

Guinea fowl: The before picture.

The menu was ample, but as is the case with many of the small African restaurants, it’s hit or miss on what will be available when you happen to be at the restaurant. In our case, some of the West African classics like thu djeun (stewed fish), chicken yassa, and lafidi (rice with roasted goat meat) were done for the day.

Our waitress who was scuttling back and forth between taking table orders and returning to the take out counter in the back of the slim restaurant, instead just recited the few items that remained such as grilled chicken, grilled fish, and steak. That didn’t satisfy either Gerry or Zio who persisted, pressing her with some of the other menu items forcing her to squint at the menu.

Zio was adamant about the “bouillon avec fonio” also known as cow feet soup while Gerry was intrigued by the “suppa kandja” a mix of lamb and fish in an okra sauce. Keeping it simple for our harried waitress, Eugene and I opted for the grilled fish while Mike from Yonkers ordered the grilled chicken.

There were two television monitors at either end of the restaurant where the only decoration was a poster endorsing “Boubacar Bah for President.” The televisions were tuned to CNN and after our enormous platters arrived at our table, President Obama was shown making a speech. The volume on the televisions were turned up and all the Africans either eating or waiting for their take out orders, including the shoe salesman who was leaning against a wall gnawing on a chicken leg, watched raptly.

Guinea Fowl: The after picture

We, on the other hand, did not show as much respect, loudly commenting on how Rick’s guinea fowl looked pretty much identical to Mike from Yonkers’ grilled chicken and both just as dry, while the fish Eugene and I ordered, which we later learned was tilapia looked like they had spent their early years swimming in what probably was a tank in a Bronx farm, consuming a steroid-rich diet, they were both that big. Despite their enormous size, the fish, unlike the chicken, was moist, smothered in a light tomato sauce and served with a mound of cous cous and mustard-flavored grilled onions. Gerry’s dark green mashed okra concoction had a gamey, overly salted taste that one most definitely would need to acquire to appreciate and the hard gelatinous cow feet anchored in Zio’s soup had him throwing up his hands. “I just can’t eat it,” he said shaking his head in defeat.

Impenetrable cow foot soup.

The ridiculously inexpensive check for all the food consumed softened the few misses and by the time our platters were cleared and we made our way out of the restaurant, the shoe salesman had returned to his position.  He looked at us hopefully and gestured to his sack of shoes with one hand while holding the half-eaten chicken leg in the other. “So, are you ready to buy some shoes now?”

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