SJ here. As a dedicated hunter of all sorts of obscure, ethnic food treats, you learn to read the signs — the tells — of a great culinary experience: a line of taxicabs in front of Pakistani take-out, absolute unfamiliarity in English, a certain grittiness mixed with equal parts pride…the list goes on and I was fairly certain my ability to read those signs was infallible. Well, pride is a bitch. What comes up must go down, and so shall I share with you a cautionary tale of When Bad Food Happens To Good Food Hunters:
She had it all. No English. A mouth full of metal. Enthusiasm. A kitchen made up of various coolers and snap lid trays hauled around in a red shopping cart. I had noticed her for a week dishing out food for the Central American workers in the Chinese owned glass and vegetable wholesalers that line Broome Street. I finally decided to make my move and pick up whatever it was she was dishing out. She was thrilled. With what little Spanish I possess I came to understand that she had a chicken stew, with a kind of bean soup and a side of mashed eggplant; and a dish of baccala which did not look appetizing. Sure! I thought. $5 for this awesome meal served out of coolers in between glass cutting machines and a smiling Guatemalan wearing an shirt covered in hand drawn pentagrams and the names of Nordic Black Metal bands — AWESOME! As she dished out the food, I had dreams of writing posts in Chowhound about the brilliance of the meal and how those posts would cause food lovers to wait on line for this incredible street food experience and how one day my hero Robert Sietsema would feast on her chicken and then search me out to thank me for this incredible culinary find and how then we would become best friends and go to Flushing and eat banquets of dumplings together and…..and….and then I tasted my meal.
If it were disgusting, wretched, horrific even — I would have been happier! It would have been an experience I could boast about and say: Remember that time I had that crazy Central American special chicken that tasted of tires and old socks? Unfortunately the Broome Street chicken was just not good in the most boring way. The chicken was very dry and over-cooked. The stew itself had no strong flavors. The eggplant thing tasted of baby food and the bean soupy thing had no zing, no nothing!!!! For all its gritty surroundings and strong, ethnic profile, the meal was as bland as something served up in a hospital. My secret, ethnic food vending lady turned out to be a Midwestern housewife in disguise.
The signs had proved wrong. My arrogance was shattered. My friendship with Robert Sietsema never happened. It will take me some time to recover. Thanks Broome Street Chicken!
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