Is “recession” a new Zagat food category? Can anyone chime in on their number one recession eatery? Why do I feel like I’m missing out on something?
Tag Archives: New York City
The Chinatown Congee Wars: Part Two
24 JulGreat N.Y. Noodletown vs. Congee Village
With my trusty congee taster, Luigi, away on a fresh air fund break, I needed an aide to help me finalize the war I started a couple of weeks ago. I knew no other worthy accomplice than Zio. And he was more than ready for the task.
Great N.Y. Noodletown
28 ½ Bowery
On an overcast morning, I found him loitering next to Great N.Y. Noodletown on the Bowery in Chinatown. One of the elderly women that Luigi had observed were so prevalent in Chinatown (The Chinatown Congee Wars: Part One) was sitting next to where Zio was standing, selling umbrellas, a handkerchief covering her mouth. Was she ahead of the whooping cough curve, or was the precaution a leftover from the bird flu epidemic? Zio didn’t seem to mind the close proximity and as soon as I arrived, we went into the restaurant.
Neither Zio nor I were strangers to Great N.Y. Noodletown though when I visited it was not usually for congee. I do recall ordering the comforting porridge at least once, but my memory of it is dim. It must have made enough of an impression, however, for me to include it in this very serious challenge.
Using all our resolve, Zio and I tried not to peek at the salt baked shrimp, the roast pig on rice, the squid with flowering chives, the triple delight noodles and all the other Noodletown greatest hits found on the menu. Instead we focused on congee only.
Knowing how good the shrimp usually is at Noodletown, I ordered a bowl of shrimp congee. Zio, also sticking to seafood, went with the sliced fish.
Of course, I needed to also compare Noodletown’s “cruller” with Big Wong’s and Congee’s.
The Noodletown cruller
“What the…?” Zio gasped when the cruller appeared on our table.
“It goes with the congee,” I explained.
But he was skeptical. He broke off a piece and ate it. “It’s like a grease sponge,” he said, demonstrating by squeezing the cruller and showing me the oil slick on his finger.
“Yeah, that’s why it’s a perfect accompaniment to congee. The grease works as a foil to the starch of the congee,” was the justification I offered, though not with much conviction.
Our bowls arrived. The steam from them formed a cumulus-like cloud around Zio’s rotund face. “You can’t eat this for about ten minutes,” he said. “You’ll fry the inside of your mouth.”
“That’s what the cruller is for,” I said. “Dip it in, like a doughnut.”
Zio scoffed at the idea.
Less than ten minutes later we were sipping the brutally hot gruel. The thin, rice porridge was infused with the flavor of the shrimp. And the pieces of shrimp—I counted six in my bowl—were bigger than golf balls.
Golf ball-sized shrimp.
Zio soon had his head buried in his congee. Using his spoon like a skilled surgeon, he methodically brought the hot soup and pieces of sliced fish to his open mouth, taking it in masterfully.
I watched his performance for a moment and then said, “You might not want to finish it.”
He picked his head up. “Huh?”
“We’ve got another place to try after this,” I reminded him. “Save room. If you eat too much here, you won’t be able to give the other contestant a fair shake.”
He thought for a moment. “You’re right,” he said and put down his spoon.
Reluctantly, we had the bowls wrapped up; our waiter sliding on plastic gloves in front of us, and then pouring each bowl into a take out container.
Congee Village
207 Bowery
Though the congee at N.Y. Noodletown was light, I could feel the density of the two enormous shrimps I ate while walking up the Bowery to our next destination. I hoped the exercise would offer relief and lesson the load there. There was still more work to do.
For sticklers, Congee Village might not be considered a Chinatown restaurant. Located a few blocks north of Delancey Street, you could say the restaurant was technically in the Lower East Side. But Chinese-run restaurant supply and lighting stores populated the street northward, along with an abundance of signage in Chinese; enough to figure Congee Village within Chinatown’s expanding sprawl.
A full bar and a trickling waterfall greeted us as we entered the very ornate Congee Village. This was a complete departure from the grungy, yet refreshingly familiar confines just experienced at N.Y Noodletown.
A lovely waterfall greets you upon entrance to Congee Village.
We were given a table in the dark, burnished wood laden dining room complete with large, family-sized booths and a flat screen television tuned, at this hour, to NY1 news. There were tablecloths and wine glasses on the tables yet the napkins were of the thin, paper variety.
“What a tourist trap,” Zio muttered.
I looked around. The few tables that were occupied were with groups of Chinese couples and families, and unless they were out of town Chinese, I had to disagree.
“Looks like a local favorite to me,” I said.
The menu, tourist trap or not, was impressive. Despite the name of the restaurant, we had to flip through a number of colorful pages to find the congee. When we did, the prices, waterfall and full bar notwithstanding, were actually lower than N.Y. Noodletown’s.
Sticking to the seafood theme of the day, I ordered the “crab porridge,” while Zio this time choose squid. If there were crullers, I just didn’t have the courage to order them.
The bowls arrived and looked like what Luigi and I had at Congee; pots with long handles. Smaller bowls were given out making it easier to share.
Crab porridge
A whole, blue crab was in my bowl, chopped into a few pieces. Like the shrimp infused the congee at Noodletown, the crab definitely added flavor to the bowl here at Congee Village. The melding of the shellfish broth with the rice congee was a revelatory match. To eat the crab, however, I had to fish out the pieces and pick the shells apart with my fingers. It was messy work and the thin napkins weren’t helping. But the congee was so good, even Zio’s crude, distasteful remark about what my fingers looked like coated in crab shells and overcooked rice gruel didn’t deter from my enjoyment of it.
Zio fished a piece of squid out of his congee. It was scored with numerous criss cross patterns. He examined it. “Why do they get fancy with the squid,” he complained.
“Does it taste good?” I asked.
“Yeah, it’s fantastic,” Zio said.
“Then who cares.”
I sampled a piece and though it was tougher than I like, it too worked amazingly with the bland congee.
There would be no leftovers here. We could finish the congee and not worry about having to sample another. The crab remains were scattered across my small plate.
The remains of the crab.
“So what do you think?” I asked Zio.
“We really gotta pick a winner?” he whined.
I thought for a moment. I didn’t want to either. Each of the four congee joints had their merits. At Congee, I would stick with the pork and preserved egg while at Big Wong, how could I resist the roast pork congee? There was no denying that Noodletown’s shrimp congee was a one of a kind. And here, at Congee Village, I’ll forever swear by their crab porridge.
Yes, I know I’ve copped out. I couldn’t crown a champion. I’m just no good at these things—these numbered lists where you have to rank your favorites, whatever they may be. Congee preference is subjective. No matter how expert my opinion, I really can’t change someone else’s taste inclination. And in this case, one man’s congee just might be another man’s gruel.
The Hero of Mott Street
17 Jul
Parisi Bakery
198 Mott Street
Little Italy (also known as NoLita)
They call it a bakery, but in reality the bakery is a few blocks away on Elizabeth Street. This Parisi’s outpost specializes in magnificently-crafted heroes.
Heroes on the walls.
Maybe the pictures of Babe Ruth and other New York Yankees provide heroic inspiration.
Parisi’s meatball hero.
But finding hero nirvana is never easy and at Parisi’s there is the little problem of the line. The line begins to form just before noon and soon snakes out the door and onto Mott Street. I’ve many times preached my feelings about waiting on line for food. Unless times are very hard, don’t ever do it!
Even for this.
Parisi’s pepper and egg hero
There are ways to avoid the line quandary. It just takes a little planning. You’ll need to set your schedule around your visit to Parisi’s. Make that your priority for the day. Take a late breakfast or an early or very late lunch and you should be fine.
Tell me that’s not worth a schedule adjustment?
There is no seating at Parisi’s but who cares? You’ve got your hero. Don’t ask for more. Or maybe just a few loaves to take home.
The Chinatown Congee Wars: Part One
13 Jul
Congee vs. Big Wong
Some call it porridge. A more medieval term for it is gruel. In Chinatown it is known as congee; white rice boiled with water, lots of water, until it becomes a thick, hot cereal or soup, depending on what you do with it.
For many who live in Chinatown here in New York it is a breakfast staple. In the last few years, Congee’s popularity has burgeoned beyond Chinatown and now people like me travel to the congested, cramped, sometimes ripe streets of lower Manhattan to get their congee fix.
Congee lovers are often blindly loyal to their favorite places. Me, I keep an open mind. I have, however, narrowed down the crowded Chinatown field to four serious contenders to the congee crown and here, in two parts, using my vast background and experience in the art of overcooked rice, I will ultimately reveal the best congee in Chinatown.
This will not be like the murky college football system known as the BCS where the true champion is settled more by sports writers than by the deserving teams battling it out on the field. The results of the Chinatown Congee Wars will be unequivocal. There will be no talk radio controversy. No happy hour debates. That is unless you happen to disagree with my choice. In which case, you are entitled to your opinion, no matter how misguided it might be. And please, don’t hesitate to express yourself here. I welcome it.
For this first round, I was accompanied by one of my offspring; the 12-year-old, Luigi. Though he is a mere novice when it comes to the glories of congee, despite his youth, Luigi is a very accomplished eater. What he lacks in experience, he more than makes up for in exuberance. I had complete confidence that he would remain unbiased and not be swayed by perks such as complimentary hot tea or a plastic-wrapped fortune cookie. I was sure he would take his task seriously.
Congee
98 Bowery
Chinatown
Our first destination was the appropriately-named Congee.
Located on the Bowery, Congee, I knew was worthy of its name. When we arrived, just before the lunch time bustle, there was only a Chinese family with very young children at one of the other tables. The baby was making a racket in the otherwise quiet restaurant and I noticed, doing its best to decorate its pink, fat cheeks with spoonfuls of gruel.
I told Luigi we had to have the congee. If he wanted something else to offset it, he could, but to be careful and pace himself; we had another congee place to judge.
There were a number of interesting congee offerings including snail and pig’s liver, abalone and frog, and dried scallop and gingko nut, but I wanted to keep it relatively simple. I needed to judge the congee on its own merits without too many exotic ingredients, so I went with the sliced pork and preserved egg variation.
Luigi scoffed at my suggestion of the “healthy vegetarian” congee, instead choosing the beef. Along with it, we had an order of “fried dough,” the usual, bland but deep fried, accompaniment to the porridge.
The congee came out steaming in pots with wooden handles. We stirred, trying to cool it down not wanting to scald our tongues and the roofs of our mouths thus immediately nullifying either of us as legitimate judges.
The inside of my mouth, however, after years of impatiently ingesting hot pizza, soup, and other blistering foods, has developed a tough, asbestos-like coating. That hard shell made it easier for me to begin the congee tasting sooner than Luigi. What I tasted I liked. The congee was not overly heavy; the balance of liquid to rice tipping slightly to the liquid. But the pork with preserved egg added a nice hearty supplement.
Sliced pork and preserved egg congee.
Luigi struggled at first with the big pieces of beef; trying to cut through them with spoon and chopstick but to no avail. Using his sharpened incisors, he was able to gnaw the beef apart and enjoy, so he said, the rest of his congee, dipping the somewhat stale pieces of fried dough into the porridge and scooping it into his mouth.
The beef congee at Congee.
I wouldn’t have had any difficulty finishing off the bowl of congee, but we had another place to visit. Using about all the self control I could muster, I signaled for the waiter to bag up our leftovers, and we made our way to our next destination.
Big Wong King
67 Mott Street
Chinatown
I admit to being partial to Big Wong. It’s been one of my “go to” spots in Chinatown for a very long time. And whenever I go, it’s hard to resist the congee.
I noticed immediately that Big Wong, located in the heart of the tourist mecca of Chinatown on Mott Street, had higher prices for their congee. At Congee, the standard bowls we ordered were $3.95. At Big Wong, most were a dollar, maybe two higher. I knew I couldn’t let price influence my evaluation. The congee had to stand alone regardless of what it cost.
I ordered the roast pork while Luigi went with the chopped beef. Like at Congee, we also ordered the “fried dough.”
Big Wong’s fried dough or “crullers” ready to be dipped into congee.
“I’m worried that Chinatown will change soon,” Luigi professed to me.
“Why is that?” I asked him.
“There are a lot of old people here,” he said.
I nodded. There were. In fact, we were sharing a round table with three seniors.
“But there are young people too,” I said, gesturing to many who were also dining at Big Wong.
“I hope it doesn’t die,” he said. “I like Chinatown.”
Our bowls arrived. The steam was flowing from them. These were even hotter than what we got at Congee. My asbestos mouth would be no match for the boiling cauldron in front of me.
Hot congee at Big Wong.
The fried dough, a long, fresh cruller, kept us busy until the congee cooled down somewhat. When I could brave it, I took a spoonful. Mine was rich with roast, barbecued pork, the barbecue tinting the white of the soup turning it a bronze-like color. Luigi’s had crumbled ground beef. Both were sprinkled with cilantro adding a pleasant garnish to them.
I liked the congee at Big Wong better than what I experienced at Congee. It was heartier; more rice to water and stuffed with meat. Luigi disagreed. “Congee is better,” he said definitively.
“I don’t know, I like Big Wong’s even though it is a few more dollars.”
We were at a standstill. He favored one, while I the other. How would we resolve this?
“Well, the fried dough is better here, isn’t it?” I said.
He agreed, but we weren’t on this mission to judge fried dough.
Congees and a cruller
They say a tie is like kissing your sister? I never had a sister, so I wouldn’t know. Maybe Part Two of the Chinatown Congee Wars will help clear up the muddled picture I’ve created.
Until then, feel free to chime in with your own opinions though I will not be swayed in mine.
A Good Friend is Hard to Find
29 JunA New Good Friend is even harder.
I’m very happy I’ve found one.
The Sweetbread Tango
26 JunLa Esquina Criolla
94-67 Corona Ave,
Elmhurst
“How do you want your steak cooked,” the waitress asked in her heavy Spanish accent.
We were in Elmhurst at the corner of Corona Avenue and Junction Boulevard in what was advertised as an Argentinean/Uruguayan restaurant called La Esquina Criolla.
“That’s a first for our group,” Rick said after hearing the question from our waitress. And he was right. It was the first time in the ten plus years we had been convening that we were asked how we wanted anything cooked, much less a steak.
Did that mean our standards were changing? That now we were graduating to a different, higher quality of restaurant? I certainly hoped not and believed that the question before us was just a blip; an aberration in our continual journey to unearth diverse, ethnic eats within our frugal, even grubby, standards.
When I chose La Esquina Criolla, I knew I was treading on dangerous ground. That we would we probably be going over our $20 per person budget as well as dining at an established foodie destination where, what was confirmed later, wine was served in stemmed wine glasses. But that did not stop me. I went ahead with the choice anyway. Red meat was something our group rarely, if at all, dined on and I thought that for once we should have that experience despite the potential monetary risks. I believed this place, La Esquina Criolla would be our best bet to at least keep it close.
Red meat for sale.
“You’re in trouble with this one,” Gerry teased, glancing at the menu and the prices next to many of the “carnes a la parilla,” which ranged from $16 to $24.
“I have an allowance,” I said, trying to rationalize the stark reality spelled out in front of us. “Most of my other choices were so under our budget, that I’m entitled to go over here and still, really, come out no worse than even. It’s called a carryover balance.”
Eugene’s reading glasses were balanced on the tip of his nose. “Uh huh,” he nodded dubiously.
The raw meats we were soon to order were displayed behind the counter; La Esquina Criolla doubled as a butcher shop. There was flank steak, skirt steak, shell steak, blood sausage, known as morcilla, chorizo, kidney, sweetbreads, lamb, and short ribs.
Displayed behind the counter adjacent to the meats were a selection of empanadas; meat, chicken and spinach along with a few other appetizers; marinated eggplant, beef tongue, and hearts of palm to name a few.
Empanadas…and more empanadas.
While we decided what to order, we were brought toasted bread and slices of grilled sausage. We knew we had to be careful how we ordered, but the temptations were many. The empanadas, of course were a must. A “parrillada completa,” or combination of a variety of meats made sense, despite the $38 price (for two). With it we would get to sample skirt steak, short rib, sweetbread, tripe, kidney, black and Argentinean sausage. To that we added another skirt steak for two, a flank steak, and an appetizer of grilled provolone in oregano sauce.
The entrees all came with side orders; a dry potato salad, potato, beet and hard boiled egg, a bland mixed salad, and plantains.
While we ate the buttery-crusted empanadas served with the tableside tangy homemade chimichurri sauce, a procession of ancient tango ballads played.
An Argentinean condiment supreme.
“Why does this music make me think of monocle-wearing Nazis,” Zio pondered.
“You’re confused,” Gerry said to him. “Those were the Boys of Brazil you’re thinking of. Wrong country.”
“Didn’t they escape to Argentina also?”
“Sure, there are plenty of retired Nazis in Argentina,” Rick confirmed. “And they love that old school tango.”
“Yes, herr commandant, I have heard about the tango classes at the Russian front.”
Halting the conversation was the arrival of a sizable silver serving tray adorned with a selection of charred meats. This was the “parrillada completa” for two, but judging from the size of it, was more than enough for three or four, even if the three or four included the gluttons in our group.
The Parillada Completa for two, flanked by flank steak on the left and skirt steak on the right.
On separate smaller plates were the other meats; the flank steak and the skirt steak for two. Including what we got in the “parrillada completa,” if you did the math we had enough skirt steak for three, but who was counting?
The grilled provolone came as advertised, toasted on the outside, the cheese oozing from it when sliced and doused with oregano flavored olive oil. We sawed through the steaks, cooked as we ordered, medium rare; the juices flowing from them onto the platters.
Grilled Provolone
While we chewed, moving from one cut of meat to the other, some of us paused to cleanse our palates with gulps of the Argentinean beer, Quilmes; Zio instead choosing the toxic sludge that is diet Coke to accompany his meal.
A beer and a glass…with a stem.
It was about then when, to my astonishment I noticed Rick sipping red wine from the aforementioned stemmed glass. He shrugged when he saw that I had noticed. He didn’t have to qualify his choice in any way. It was the glass that was more of note than what was in it.
We were making very good progress; the meats on the platters were slowly vanishing.
“You want a beet?” Rick offered Zio from the platter of cold potato and beets.
Zio thought about it for a moment and then nodded. “Yeah, what the hell. Give me a beet.”
Soon all was gone with the exception of a shriveled piece of tripe and a “burnt end” of sweetbread that even Gerry would not touch.
A sweetbread burnt end.
Seeing that there really was nothing left in front of us, the waitress recited what was on the menu for dessert. Zio, who seemed to go silent after that last beet, perked up when he heard there was quince paste.
“I love quince paste,” he announced. “I had it the other day.”
“Bring us the check,” Eugene said, making the executive decision that there would be no dessert, as if we needed it after all that. No one, not even Zio and his penchant for quince paste, dared to stand up to Eugene’s resolve.
The check came. We waited silently as Eugene perused it. We knew we had done some major damage. I chewed on my knuckles in anticipation. My own self-imposed standards were on the line here.
“$30 each,” he said. I let out a sigh of moderate relief. We were over budget, but we had beer, some of us more than one, and even red wine—in a stemmed wine glass. That would account for at least $5. And of course our waitress deserved a generous tip for having to put up with us. It wasn’t as bad as it could have been.
The rough life on the pampas of Elmhurst.
We stumbled out of the restaurant. The tango music was still playing. I had a piece of parsley from the chimichurri sauce stuck between my teeth. There wasn’t much I could do; I would have to wait until I got home before I could attend to it.
Today’s Special(s)
22 JunA cold shower.
And an even colder refreshment.
The Iceman neareth
Tamarindo please.
Sweet relief!
And the Answer is…
18 JunOn Friday I presented you with the following photos:
Note the tiny yellow speck of rice I thought was a giveaway.
And where else would you find such a combination of condiments.
With those hints I challenged you to Name That Place.
I thought the hints were more than obvious, yet I only received a few correct responses identifying the place that has this unusual kitchen apparatus.
Where if you open one of those drawers, you will find this…
Yellow rice. Which is a staple of this place and used when eating this:
Rice and beans
As an accompaniment to this:
Picadillo
But that Chinese Zodiac paper place mat could confuse, as could the soy sauce above. Surely this is a Latin place with an Asian twist.
For forty plus years on the corner of 78th and Broadway, though remodeled several times, you can find this comidas china y criolla standby:
Le Caridad 78
Name That Place
15 JunThere were many times I would sit at the counter at the former incarnation of the place in question and stare at what you see in the following photo.
I’m sure there are other restaurant kitchens that have the same thing, whatever it’s called, but I had only seen it in use at this place and one of the reasons the restaurant was unique to me.
Perhaps one of you shared my curiosity and also wondered about the four-drawer compartment at this place. If so, you know the place and can reveal it without the following bonus photos.
Sure, hot sauce, ketchup, sugar, oil, vinegar, salt, pepper and soy sauce can be found in a million restaurants in New York. Or can they?
There is a subtle, or maybe not so subtle, hint on that Chinese zodiac place mat. And those are all the hints I can offer today without giving away the place’s identity.
I eagerly await your answers. As usual, leave them in the comment section below. The place with the mysterious stainless steel four-drawer compartment in the kitchen will be revealed on Monday.
A Night of Good Humor
13 Jun
The bells woke up me up. I could hear them from my open window coming from the street below. I was trying to sleep away the hot day. I forced myself out of bed. I had to get downstairs fast. I had to get to the bells.
I put on a dirty, ripped tee shirt and slid on my flip flops. I rushed out the door and started down the four flights to the street.
Mrs. Robbins was trudging up the steps. She was in a wrinkled house dress, holding an ice cream bar in one hand that was melting rapidly.
“You better hurry,” she said. “He’s selling out fast.” As she spoke she tried to catch the red cookie crumbs that were falling from the ice cream bar.
“You got strawberry shortcake?” I said.
“Always,” she replied. “And lucky I got there when I did. Those kids behind me are gonna be disappointed if they want their strawberry shortcake. And I know that geezer Baskin will blame me for eating the last one. Too bad, I say. Let him eat a toasted almond for a change. Nothing wrong with toasted almond. Or chocolate éclair. Now that’s a very fine ice cream bar.”
Mrs. Robbins could go on, but I had no time to listen. I ran down the stairs and out into the dusk. It was still brutally hot. I heard the bells, but they were fading. I wasn’t sure which direction to run.
A truck was slowly moving down the street and then stopped right in front of where I was standing. A man poked his head out. “I got ice cream here,” he said.
I stared at the rainbow colored ice cream cone painted on the side of the truck. “You want a Salty Pimp?” the man asked me, “or how about a Bea Arthur?”
I didn’t know what to say. And there were no bells.
Where you can get a “salty pimp.”
“Okay, maybe next time,” the man said as he drove the truck away.
I listened for the bells again. I could hear them faintly, but soon they were drowned out by something else. That song. It was coming from that other ice cream truck. I covered my ears. Stop it, I cried to myself. I can’t stand it!
The loud truck parked in front of me. The music blasted. The ice cream head smiled cruelly at me; the source of so many nightmares.
The stuff nightmares are made of.
I ran from it. Ran down the street as far away from the truck as I could get. The song faded. I turned down an alley. There it was. The old white truck. And I could hear the bells.
My flops flipped as I ran faster. I could see the man in the white suit and white hat by the side of the truck. There was a line of boys and girls waiting. I needed to get on that line. I shoved my hands into my pockets. And then I froze. “No,” I cried. “No! No! No!”
I forgot to take two bits for the ice cream. I sat down on a stoop and buried my head in my hands.
“What’s the matter, kid,” a gravely-voiced man asked me. “We all have bad days.”
I looked up. It was Carvel. The last guy I wanted to see.
“Forgot something, did ya?”
I didn’t want to hear it from him. Taunting me with his toasted coconut marshmallow sundae; his brown betty’s. Knowing how loyal I am to the other guy. That I would never betray him.”
Everybody likes ice cream
“Listen, kid, I remember that solid you did for me?”
“What?” I scowled. “What solid?”
“The time you helped me with the dry ice.”
I nodded. Yeah, I remembered. His truck broke down and I helped get his boxes of dry ice to his new store before all his ice cream melted.
“I never forget a solid,” he said.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a fifty cent piece and flipped it to me. “Go on now. Go get yourself an ice cream.
I looked at the coin and quickly ran down the street. The line of children was gone. The man in the white suit and hat was getting into the passenger seat of his truck. He was leaving, but before he did, I could hear him clang the bells.
I ran right up to him. My face was red, dripping with sweat. He smiled at me. “Just in time, sonny,” he said and then slowly climbed out. “Can’t say there is much left back there though. Not on a hot one like this.”
I walked with him to the side of the truck. He opened the freezer. A wisp of fog drifted from the open door. He reached in. “Hmmm, I thought I had some left,” he said as his hand searched the freezer.
My face contorted. The tears were close. I tried to control them from coming.
“Oh…wait…” He smiled again. “One more. But you’ll have to take whatever it is.”
“I’ll take it,” I said, nodding eagerly. “I don’t care.”
He pulled out the last remaining ice cream bar. My eyes opened wide. So did my mouth. The ice cream was wrapped in blue paper. I knew what it was. The one with the chocolate candy in the center. God is good, I thought.
“Well, well, from that look on your face, I guess it’s your lucky day, sonny boy,” he said.
I gave him the fifty cent piece. He slid it into his changer and then clicked out two dimes for me. I waited a moment.
He looked at me and shrugged. “Sorry, sonny, you ever hear of inflation? The cost of ice cream is going up. Get used to it.”
I didn’t know what he was talking about and really didn’t care. I pocketed the twenty cents and moved away from the truck with my ice cream.
He got back in, started the truck up, and as he drove away, pulled the string to the bells a few times.
I returned to the stoop where I had run into Carvel and sat down. I unwrapped the ice cream and slowly, methodically, started to work on the chocolate icing.
A thing of beauty.
The vanilla ice cream was revealed. I wanted to make it last before I got to the candy, but in the heat, I had to work faster than I liked. The tip of chocolate candy emerged. And then more until the chocolate candy center was totally exposed, clinging fragilely to the stick.
Eureka!
I started to lick it. I knew I had to be careful here. That it was delicate. But I was weak. I couldn’t resist. I took a bite, savoring the cold, rich chocolate. I wanted more and took another, bigger bite. Just as I did, the candy crumbled, pulling away from the stick. I frantically tried to catch it with my hand but only was able to rescue a tiny portion. The rest splattered on the dirty pavement.
I looked down at the glob of chocolate. An army of ants were on it immediately. I still held the stick. I licked it, making sure I cleaned whatever chocolate remained. I stood up, tossed the stick into the garbage.
The sun had gone down but my room was still stifling when I returned. I got back into bed. Tomorrow, they said, was going to be even hotter. I closed my eyes. I didn’t care. As long as I heard the bells.
Fried Neck Bones...and some home fries 