Tag Archives: restaurants

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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Neckbones’ Rum Diary: The J.M Incident

4 Nov

After boarding the ferry in Dominica, I downed an extra-strength Dramamine. The weather was clear, the waters calm, yet I didn’t want to risk a bout of seasickness before arriving at my destination: the J.M Rum distillery in Martinique.

Keeping my eyes straight ahead and sitting upright, I ignored the young man next to me and the others around me who were retching into plastic bags given out by the ferry’s crew as the boat was pummeled mercilessly in the channel between the two islands, also known, as I found out later as the “Blue Vomit.”

The ferry on the seemingly tranquil “blue vomit.”

With Martinique in sight, I was a bit groggy and wobbly, but my stomach remained intact and, once I exited the ferry onto the streets of Fort-de-France, Martinique’s capital city, a taxi whisked me to the northeast tip of the island to a place known as Macouba. I knew we were close and as the taxi descended down a steep incline, the red copper-tin roofs came into view and I could see the steam from the stills rising from the distillery through the dense greenery of palm fronds.

The distillery in Macouba

As we pulled in front of the old distillery, I smelled the alcohol-tinged cane juice as it was being “cooked” in the stills. Taking a healthy whiff, the vapors immediately restored my equilibrium, still somewhat shaky from the Blue Vomit nightmare.

Passing barrels of rum and ignoring a tour of the facilities, I headed straight to the tasting room/gift shop. A sample of J.M’s velvety white rum improved my situation even further but it wasn’t until I sipped the brand’s  VSOP “rhum vieux”  that I knew I had finally found what I was seeking. The taste was something so pure; so delicately smooth that the horrors of the Blue Vomit were worth the ordeal just to sip this amber nectar.

Stills and barrels of rum

My mission complete, I bought a bottle and returned to Fort-de-France where the next day I was to board a plane to San Juan and then another back to New York.

Keeping my precious cargo close by in my carry on bag, I was instructed by security at the Martinique airport to put the rum in a clear plastic bag. I did as told and was granted access to the plane.

Rushing through San Juan’s Luis Munoz Marin International Airport to make my connection to JFK, I waited on line at security. When it was my turn to pass through the gates, an overzealous customs officer, and most likely a rum aficionado, spied my bottle of J.M.

“You can’t take that on,” he said gruffly.

“But it’s in a clear plastic bag,” I pleaded.

“You could go back and check it in,” he offered, obviously knowing I had no time to do so. “or…I’ll have to take it from you.”

I stared at him. He stared at me and then held out his hand. I had no choice. He took the bottle, hiding a satisfied grin behind his bogus official demeanor.

The shock hit me as I settled into my seat. I was trembling. Once we were in the air and I knew my prized possession was gone, tears came to my eyes.

“Why are you so sad,” the abuela  who was sitting next to me and on her way to visit her daughter and grandchildren in the Bronx,  asked. “Have you left a loved one behind?”

I turned to her, dabbed at my eyes and nodded.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Time will cure your sorrow. Watch the movie. It’s funny.”

I looked up at the small screen. It was something with Adam Sandler. I didn’t laugh.

Even the comedy of Adam Sandler could not penetrate my sorrow.

The wise abuela was right. Time did heal the deep wound of loss. When I first returned to New York, I frantically searched the many liquor stores looking for the J.M VSOP Rhum Vieux, but with no luck. I abandoned my search and resigned myself to settle for other “old” rums.

But then, one evening when dining at a cacophonous, yet delicious high end eatery downtown, my eyes were drawn to the offering of Rhum J.M VSOP on the restaurant’s cocktail menu. My heart pounded. I looked for my waiter and saw him at another table. I waved. I snapped my fingers. I rudely whistled. People were staring. I didn’t care.  I needed him now.

Seeing my frantic state, he rushed over. “I want that!” I pointed to the listing of the J.M VSOP on the menu.

I tried to control my excitement as I waited at my table. I tapped my foot. I chewed on my lower lip. I stroked my cell phone and then it arrived. The beautiful amber fluid, served with just a twist of lime. I sipped. It was exactly how I remembered it. “Where,” I asked my waiter, “can I buy this?”

Liquid gold

He said he would check with the beverage manager. He returned with the name of the liquor store on a business card. I knew the place. I checked my watch. It wouldn’t be open now. I would have to wait until the next day.

I slept little that night, got up early and headed to the store to wait until they opened. As soon as the gates were pulled and the doors unlocked, I rushed in and found the rum section. There it was. The price was astronomical, at least twice what I paid for in Martinique, but I didn’t care. I bought a bottle that came in decorative box.

The rum now sits in a glass cabinet. I have yet to open it. I tried one evening, but I couldn’t do it. If I opened it, I would begin to drink it and eventually, maybe in a month, maybe more, the bottle would be empty. The thought chilled me to the core.

I’ve come now to accept that I will never open it, yet I do not care. It is mine. I possess it. And no one can take it away again…

Mine. All mine.

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The Mysteries of 67th Road

1 Nov

Arzu
101-05 67th Rd. Queens Boulevard,
Rego Park

Eugene, when it is his turn to choose one of our eating destinations, takes his responsibility very seriously. He painstakingly researches what possible cuisine we have not yet experienced and, sometimes regardless of other factors, makes that his primary choice. In our most recent case, Eugene not only unearthed an obscure cuisine, he found one that was also in an indeterminable location making it a challenge for a GPS machine, Mapquest, Google maps, Yahoo maps, or any other electronic direction device. Was Arzu, the name of Eugene’s selection located in Flushing, Queens? Was it in Rego Park or Woodside? Was it on Queens Boulevard. . .67th Rd.  . .67th Ave. . .67th Place? No one really knew for sure.

After finally locating 67th Rd. . .but no Arzu, I found the restaurant tucked away on a side street on the opposite side of Queens Boulevard of where my Google Map had originally directed me. It helped that Eugene’s lean, dark, melancholic figure was standing outside of the restaurant or I would have missed it on my first go round. The others had not arrived, but Eugene and I went in.

Thinking Arzu was in Flushing, I assumed that the cuisine was regional Chinese, but inside, the patrons and staff looked like extras from the movie Borat. I asked Eugene if he knew what kind of food we would be eating. He just shrugged. “I don’t know. It’s something different,” he said with a shrug. He was as clueless about it as I was.

A quick glance at some of the grilled kebabs on long cutlass-like skewers that were appearing at other tables and I surmised that we would be dining on some variation of a “zikastan.” And after looking at the menu, which proclaimed Arzu as Kosher, the only hint of where the nation of origin for the food we were about to eat was the mention of Uyghur—as in “Uyghur hand-made Lagman (noodle soup with meat and vegetable.)”  The others in our group were late. I was hungry. I ordered a bowl.

Lagman soup

Just as I was about to begin slurping the “lagman,” my cell phone rang. It was Gerry. There was desperation in his voice. “Can you please just walk out of the restaurant and wave,” he pleaded.

I took the phone and went out of the restaurant, waved, but in the darkness of 67th Rd, there would be no way he could see me. I told him it was directly across Queens Boulevard (also known as the Boulevard of Death) from the Starbucks; a landmark Gerry quickly identified. A few moments later, Gerry, along with Mike from Yonkers and Zio filed in.

Neither Zio, Mike from Yonkers, nor Gerry were familiar with the cuisine of Uyghur nor did they know where that country might be located. It took a session with my son, the geography whiz to learn that Uyghur is in fact, the name of the peoples who populate East Turkistan bordered by China on the east and Kazakstan on the west. And, with the exception of the very smooth, slightly spicy soup, we soon learned that the food is as rough as, undoubtedly the terrain of that region.

I wonder if there is a 67th Road in the Uyghur Region?

Eugene’s very limited charm was having no effect on our waitress as he tried hard to get her to help us in making our choices from the undecipherable menu. She was able to figure how many orders of meat pies and steamed dumplings appetizers would be suitable for our party of five and brought them to us immediately.

After severing through the almost impenetrable crust of the pie, the indistinguishable chopped meat within tasted as if it had been sealed inside for months and was as equally tough as the crust; a small sample would have been more than enough of the meat pie.

The steamed dumpling platter included half stuffed with sweet pumpkin while the others contained the same mystery meat that was in the pies. No wonder most of the patrons at the restaurant knew to bring their own bottles of vodka. Now if Eugene provided us with no other information than that, his duty would have been more than fulfilled.

There wasn’t much to say about the shish kebabs. They were what they were: grilled meats on a skewer. The soup had helped satisfy me, but Zio wanted more and unashamedly scooped the remains of the meat pie onto his plate. “Yeah, I know its dog food, but I’m still hungry,” he said.

The others were, not surprisingly, feeling somewhat undernourished, but none dared return to the meat pie. Instead we tried the local “halvah” dessert; a tiny, pistachio-dusted diamond that surpassed anything else we ate that night along with Azrzu’s other dessert offering, a mound of dried Chinese noodles soaked in honey that, sadly, was the perfect complement to the unfortunate meat pie.

The mystery of the meat pie can be found buried within. Open at your own risk. 

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And the Answer is…

31 Oct

Everyone was curious about this jewelry store that doubles as an eating establishment, but no one could come up with the answer.

No, the jewelry is not edible

If you venture beyond the jewelry, you will find this

Those look like fresh baguettes.

And those baguettes are used to make this:

That looks suspiciously like a Vietnamese sandwich.

That‘s because it is a Vietnamese sandwich, otherwise known as a banh mi.  And this particular banh mi was bought at and devoured adjacent to the jewelry counter at the place below:

No one was able to recognized the very popular, Banh Mi Saigon, located at 198 Grand Street in Chinatown, http://www.banhmisaigonnyc.com. So until we play Name That Place, again here at Fried Neck Bones…and Some Home Fries, better luck next time.

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Name That Place

28 Oct

Nice looking stuff they have at this place. But the piquant stuff at this place that tastes even better than it looks, you can’t see in this picture.

No, the jewelry is not edible.

Come on, New York food fanatics, this one is so easy I’m not giving any hints.  If you know where this picture was taken, name it in the comment section below.  The answer will be revealed on Monday.

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Colombian Air in White Plains

25 Oct

Aires de Colombia
64 West Post Rd
White Plains, NY

Zio was behind the wheel, stuck in bumper to bumper traffic on First Avenue. He was muttering and cursing, though clearly not under his breath. We were on our way to White Plains in the middle of rush hour to a destination chosen by none other than the innocent seeming, though truly sadistic Gerry who has tormented us with restaurants in hard to reach and traffic congested locales such as Sheepshead Bay, Valhalla, Jersey City, and Fort Lee, to name just a few. Was his motive in choosing these hard to reach destinations to exact revenge on those of us who live in the New York City environs and take for granted how easy it is, via public transportation, to experience worldly culinary pleasures in the city as opposed to the suburbanite who, with a few exceptions, is a prisoner to his vehicle and must commute to find food nirvana. We weren’t sure, but as we inched along on First Avenue, the conspiracy theories were percolating rapidly.

Rick had already bowed out of this adventure;  a trip from the city to White Plains during rush hour and then back to his money pit in Atlantic Highlands New Jersey, much too stressful on his already commuting-frazzled nerves.

“This better not be like that mother f*****g mariachi place in Yonkers. I couldn’t even eat that s**t,” Zio spat, referring to Gerry’s ill fated Yonkers’ Mexican choice, Plaza Garibaldi.

The venom was flowing from Zio’s rotund frame. It got so bad we seriously considered pulling over and eating at nearby Patsy’s Pizzeria in East Harlem, or, if the traffic continued beyond the entrance to the Bruckner, driving to Hunt’s Point for one of Fratelli’s broccoli rabe “Grandma” pies.

With our intentions now clear, Zio seemed to calm down and once we were able to get onto the Bruckner, the traffic dissipated and we quickly decided to go back to our first option and head on to White Plains. Gerry and Eugene were waiting outside Aires de Colombia on a strip populated by a variety of Latin restaurants.

Trump infested downtown White Plains

Looking at the restaurant, I recalled that when I was living in White Plains, the location of Aires de Colombia was near a bar I frequented back when the drinking age was 18 and I was a bit younger called DePalo’s Dugout. At DePalo’s each night there was a half hour where beer was free. My high school friends and I took full advantage of the offer, taking turns going up to the bar until our table was overflowing with pitchers and almost enough beer to get us through the night.

Back when I was filling up on beer instead of rice, beans, and chicharrones, which I was planning to do at Aires de Colombia, there were no Latin restaurants on this stretch of Post Road. And driving into White Plains with its many gleaming glass towers, I noted that there were no Ritz Carlton’s or Trump Towers either in the disco days of my youth.

Gerry had already visited Aires de Colombia and was disappointed to say that the television near our table and above the bar had been removed. When he visited he was entertained by Colombian dancing girls on the screen which, according to Gerry, only enhanced the dining experience. The bartender who also served as our hostess and waitress spoke little English but enough to say that she had two English language menus while the rest were in Spanish. Neither did me any good because it was much too dark where we sat for me to read any language. The bar crowd was amused at our pathetic attempts to converse with our waitress, which, to me, was a good sign. Our group being a silly spectacle for the establishment’s regulars meant that we had hit upon a truly authentic destination, though the inebriated grin directed toward Gerry from one the bar’s patrons had him slightly unnerved.

Colombian deep fried pork belly

We began with the aforementioned chicharron, a long, deep fried until practically charred, piece of pork belly, the intense saltiness paired beautifully with the cold Aguila beer I was drinking. The chicharron was accompanied by an arepa, Colombian corn bread topped with a heavy sprinkling of cheese. While waiting for our beef empanadas, I excused myself to visit the restrooms. On the way, I passed the half door opening that led to the kitchen and noticed a woman with a head scarf scurrying between the stove and a table where she was rolling out dough for the empanadas. The sight was more than reassuring and I was confident that Aires de Colombia would not be like “that mother f*****g mariachi place in Yonkers.”

Colombian condiments

The empanadas that soon arrived at our table were as good as I’ve had anywhere and remarkably, tasted as if they were hand rolled by a Colombian woman in a head scarf. But the “starters” were not light fare and when they were followed by enormous platters of meat; beef with French fried potatoes and onions known as “lomo saltado,”  rolled, stuffed pork, steak, more chicharrones, and lengua (tongue) described as our waitress in her struggling English as “sweet tongue” and all of the meats accompanied by rice, beans, tostones, maduras, yucca, aquacate (avocado) and a hard, dry round “arepa” that was the only disappointment of the night, it soon became a struggle to eat. There was, apparently, a bottom to our collective bottomless pits. The one exception to all the meat was a platter of shrimp in a creamy garlic sauce that, though tasty, not quite worthy enough to veer from the meat side of the menu.

An empanada, an arepa and more chicharrones.

The dishes soon were cleared except those in front of Mike from Yonkers who was still picking at the “sweet” tongue. The rest of us were glassy-eyed and dazed by the cholesterol onslaught.

“100 crunches every morning,” Eugene droned, patting his ridiculously flat stomach. “And no more junk for breakfast. Fruit. Granola. Oatmeal. .. ” The arrival of our check spared us from having to listen to Eugene anymore and after tallying it up, the result put us a bit above our $20 food budget.  No one complained that we had gone over budget. The hardship of getting to Aires de Colombia was temporarily forgotten in our food-induced stupor.  We gathered our things and went outside to listen a bit to the very noticeable silence on the deserted White Plains’ street before getting in our respective vehicles and driving home.

Unfortunately, we missed the great Oscar D’Leon’s performance at Prophecy.

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Egg Rolls and Adobo by Candlelight

18 Oct

Philippu
21-01 21st Street
Astoria

Hobbling from a knee injury, I made the trek from the N train stop at Broadway in Astoria down to 21st Street. Turning right, I could see Gerry and Zio waiting in front of a White Castle.  And before I could even comment on Gerry’s new salt and pepper, heavier on the salt, goatee, Zio approached me anxiously.

“They have real tablecloths,” Zio said, his shame evident on the expression of his face. Could he possibly have erred so badly by choosing a place that might actually be a little too classy for the riff raff that was our group?

“Yeah, and from what I saw, they might even have candles on the tables,” Gerry added.

Linen table clothes and stemmed water glasses

Trying to ease Zio’s embarrassment, I reminded him that I noticed crispy deep fried pigs’ knuckles on the online menu he forwarded to me. That made him feel a little better and we walked the next block to Philippu the Filipino restaurant with the linen tablecloths and candles.

Eugene and Mike from Yonkers were already seated in the spacious, sparkling, mostly barren restaurant. The big flat panel television was on and tuned to a Filipino news network. Rick walked in a few minutes later and, with the exception of a few other diners, we had the restaurant to ourselves.

“I think this might be the cleanest place we’ve been in,” Eugene remarked innocently. “Did you see the bathroom?”

“Yeah, yeah,” Zio buried his head in the menu, trying to ignore Eugene and hide his disgrace.

And, despite the tablecloths, plasma television and clean bathrooms, the menu offered tremendous promise with items such as sizzling sisig (minced pork relish on a sizzling plate), dinuguan (pork and beef blood cooked in vinegar) and bopis (pork lungs and heart sautéed in tomatoes, chilies and onions). Yet with all the exotic choices, the best we could decide on was the grilled pork belly, sautéed taro leaves in coconut sauce, kare kare (oxtails in peanut sauce), chicken adobo, and deep fried sweet and sour fish.

Zio was a bit concerned that we neglected the appetizers.  We didn’t really; it was just that at Philippu, what was offered as appetizers were a challenge including a mix of the conventional; buffalo-style chicken nuggets, mozzarella sticks, and shrimp tempura, along with an assortment of Filipino-style egg rolls. We choose a sampling of the egg rolls and when the first one arrived in a soft, chow-fun like wrap, stuffed with a variety of vegetables, Eugene observed that it tasted like an egg roll with chop suey inside. At first it seemed like one of Eugene’s typically nonsensical statements, but after a few bites, we were in agreement—the vegetable stuffing was clearly reminiscent of cafeteria Chinese.

“Chop suey” stuffed egg rolls

The next selection was pretty much like the first but with a hard, crispy fried exterior like that of a fried Vietnamese spring roll with that same “chop suey” stuffing. The final selection was a platter filled with tiny, firecracker-sized fried egg rolls stuffed with something that was pretty much unidentifiable; maybe minced pork—maybe mushroom. I couldn’t tell and because the egg rolls were so dry only an abundance of the accompanying vinegary dipping sauce could rescue them.

Thankfully our entrees arrived promptly and the waiter could clear what was left of the unfortunate egg rolls. My first taste of the entrees was of the grilled pork belly; a piece of tender pork surrounded by a thick roll of fat in a slightly sweet, brown barbecue sauce. The chicken adobo was tender and swimming in a soy-vinegar mixture while the oxtails of the kare kare came in a big bowl of peanut sauce with string beans and greens. Lastly, the green taro leaves arrived, sautéed in mild coconut sauce.

Mild seemed to be the operative word at Philippu. The food had flavor, but lacked the edge, or bite that would make it really standout. The only foreign taste was the presence of very bitter, bitter melon that was hidden in a shrimp and vegetable noodle dish. It was as if the sterility of the restaurant contributed to the blandness of the food. Whether that blandness was perceived or actually a reality was hard to tell.

Kare Kare

For Philippu, there were no raves, bathroom cleanliness excepted, and there were no complaints. Our lack of enthusiasm was evident when no one had any desire for any of the dessert options.  But, despite our uncharacteristically mellow mood, all that remained was the fat from the pork belly and one, unpicked oxtail that even Mike from Yonkers deemed not worth the effort.

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Bronx Broccoli Rabe From a Brother From Corona

11 Oct

Fratelli Pizza Café
404 Hunts Point Ave
Bronx

It was a clear Tuesday evening as I, accompanied by Zio, headed toward the Hunts Point Market where the Fratelli Pizza Café, our destination for the night, was located.  Traffic was backed up on the Willets Avenue Bridge, most heading north towards the Major Deegan and Yankee Stadium where the Yankees were about to begin their game. We were heading east and once we found ourselves under Bruckner Boulevard, the traffic completely vanished leaving us, literally, the lone vehicle on the road. The spooky feeling became almost post-apocalyptic as we turned onto Leggett Avenue, passing chop shops and auto glass and tire repair shops, the road still practically barren.

Turning onto Hunts Point Avenue, there was a bit of activity around an adult entertainment establishment called Mr. Wedge and soon after Hunts Point Avenue became a one way street, we located our destination. We could hear a pounding bass beat coming from the Hunts Point Triangle, another adult entertainment establishment located right next to the Fratelli Pizza Café.*  A few of the “entertainers” and their clients were sitting in a make-shift café outside of the club sipping beers from a bottle and eying Zio and I curiously.

Pre or post pizza entertainment at Mr. Wedge.

The pizzeria was small, just a few tables and, since it was part of the “triangle” at the end of Hunts Point Ave, narrow with an entrance on the other side of the building. There were a variety of pizzas on display behind the counter that looked old and tired, including one, to my horror, with pineapple. Despite my best efforts to disguise it, there was no doubt that my disappointment was obvious. The proprietor, noting the look on my face asked if he could help us. I told him we were waiting for others.

The pineapple and bacon slice

I chose Fratelli’s because I had heard that they were famous for their broccoli rabe pizza as well as their sautéed version, made fresh and supplied by the nearby Hunts Point Market. Scanning the drab offerings behind the counter, there was no sign of what I and many Italian-Americans consider absolutely essential comfort food. Broccoli rabe’s appeal, with its bittersweet flavor, especially combined with garlic, olive oil, and crushed red pepper, goes directly to my nerve center immediately stirring a rare combination of feelings including but not limited to pure pleasure, child-like happiness and a primal sense of contentment.

I asked the proprietor, who introduced himself as “Joe,” if broccoli rabe was available. He assured me that it was. I inquired how he prepared it on the pizza. He showed me a square pie, adorned only with tomato sauce where cheese and broccoli rabe would be added he called a “Grandma.”

While we were conversing, one of the tightly-clothed “entertainers” entered from next door, and ordered a hero. I noticed a picture of Sinatra and the rest of the Rat Pack taped onto the plastic counter along with a small photograph of  writer,  television personality, and former chef, Anthony Bourdain.

“Bourdain says we have the best garlic knots he’s ever had,” Joe proclaimed proudly adding that a segment on Fratelli’s broccoli rabe was filmed by Bourdain and his crew for his Travel Channel program, No Reservations.

Tony and two of the “brothers.” Joe on his far left.

Rick arrived soon after, and giving the high-heeled entertainer wide berth, also examined the pies on display, taking time, I noticed, to dwell on the unfortunate pineapple slice.

Our group, collectively, could be considered pizza snobs. We had been to many of the Tri-State area’s greats; Patsy’s in Harlem, Totonno’s in Coney Island, Grimaldi’s near the Brooklyn Bridge, Sal’s in Mamaroneck, and, of course, the remarkable DiFara, so our standards were high. Maybe we were expecting too much from a 24-hour pizzeria situated next to a strip joint.

Joe took me around to the other entrance to show me the accolades Fratelli’s received from the Village Voice including “Best Broccoli Rabe.” Eugene and Gerry, Mike from Yonkers being conspicuously absent, arrived and we told Joe to go ahead with making a Grandma pie with broccoli rabe.

“Are you connected with the Fratelli’s on Eastchester Road,” Eugene asked Joe.

Joe shook his head.

“The Fratelli’s in New Rochelle?”

Again, Joe responded in the negative. “There are a lot of Fratelli’s around. I’m from Corona.”

We told Joe from Corona to go ahead and make us a Grandma pie with broccoli rabe, a plate of sautéed broccoli rabe, and some of those Bourdain-praised garlic knots. While we waited, Joe brought us out the Fratelli’s version of an amuse bouche of what he called a “Christina” pie.

“This is also one of my most popular,” he said. The “Christina” was a square pie with tomato sauce, fresh tomatoes and topped with fresh mozzarella. The display version he showed me was not impressive, but after reheating was, remarkably, brought back to delicious life; the crust nicely charred, the tomatoes flavorful and the cheese still fresh. Maybe our first visual impressions were wrong.

The Grandma pie minus the broccoli rabe.

The Grandma pie came out, steam flowing from the huge square pie overflowing with broccoli rabe. A few moments later, Joe brought out a aluminum take-out dish with the sautéed broccoli rabe and a plate of garlic knots.

“What you do,” Joe from Corona explained. “is slit open the garlic knots and slather some of that broccoli rabe inside making a kinda garlic knots broccoli rabe sandwich.”

We took his advice and the tender, perfectly sautéed broccoli rabe worked magnificently with the “best garlic knots ever.” Our enthusiasm was evident in the way we were devouring mounds of the greens with absolutely no worries about potential next day consequences from all that roughage.

“When the woman from Channel 7 was here,” Joe said, casually dropping another television plug for his establishment, “she asked how I made the broccoli rabe. I said that’ if I told her, I would have to kill her.’ I can’t believe she actually used that.”

After a few forced chuckles, we resumed eating, Two slices of the Grandma pie remained along with a few of the dregs of the sautéed broccoli rabe and a couple of garlic knots. “I’m done,” Zio groaned.

Bronx broccoli rabe

I couldn’t eat anymore nor could Rick. Gerry and Eugene, sitting at another table shrugged, their eyes on the remains.

“Well if they’re not gonna eat it. . . .”  Eugene said as he and Gerry scooped up the last two Grandma slices without any hesitation.

From behind the counter, Joe lifted up a tray that held a  Sicilian pie and showed it to us. “I make my Sicilian differently than other places. I put the cheese under the sauce. People come from all over for it.”

We nodded. He no longer had to work us. We were convinced.

*The “Hunt’s Point Triangle” has since our last visit, closed and Fratelli’s has expanded, taking over the entertainers dance space.

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OWS Recession Special

7 Oct

Not to worry millionaires, if  a tax increase creates a hardship for you, head uptown where if you buy a soda and a bag of chips you are entitled to complimentary use of the rest room facilities.

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And the Answer is…

3 Oct

The Stage Restaurant at 128 Second Avenue just off St. Mark’s Place, where you can indulge in a special of four pierogies, a cup of soup, and two slices of buttered challah bread for $5.99.

Soup

plus

Pierogies

=$5.99

One reader was close, naming the B&H Dairy across the street. But close only counts in horseshoes. Better luck next time when we once again play Name That Place.

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