Sunday New York Times had a “Food and Drink” issue. Some good stuff from Michael Pollan and Mark Bittman. And a few nasty/dopey items. Christopher Buckley did a short essay: “What’s The Golden Rule of a Business Lunch?” He used this as a springboard to dis Ed Berberian’s Balkan Armenian Restaurant, an ethnic gem that shut its doors some years ago. Buckley seems to have inherited all of his late father’s (the conservative/reactionary William F.) snarkiness and has coupled it with an uneducated palate (probably honed at a white bread prep school). The Balkan Armenian (on E.27th near Lexington) was the type of small, affordable. family restaurant that made Manhattan so delightful for residents and tourists. It had a wonderful pastry appetizer (cheese borek), stuffed vine leaves, Armenian chopped eggplant, the best lamb (not mutton, as Buckley stated) kebabs, rice pilaf. All tasty treats. And, the desserts? Heaven. An HG favorite was Ekmek Kadayiff with Kaymak. This was a sweet, but not too, pastry topped with the Armenian version of English clotted cream. HG tastes it in his dreams. HG took BSK there on their second date (March 1963) and BSK sure knew she wasn’t in Ohio anymore.
The other goof by the Times was perpetrated by the usually perceptive movie critic, A.O.Scott. He called “Ratatouille” the best food movie ever made. Could he have been kidding? While Ratatouille was sly and knowingly funny about French cuisine and the shadowy world of restaurant kitchens — it is in no way the best. Anyone who loves film and food knows the best “food” movie ever made is the Japanese-language “Tampopo.” Mixing humor, eroticism and a satirical riff on “Shane” and other Hollywood westerns, Tampopo will have you lusting for Ramen, dreaming about oyster diving girls and speculating on the reality of fresh, Japanese wild boar sausages. It is a paean to the joys of eating, to the joys of movies and to the joy of life.
Good news for all lovers of Asian cuisine. SJ has agreed to do regular posts on great eating in Chinatown, Sunset Park, Flushing (and maybe some other Queens neighborhoods). SJ has a fine tuned palate and turns out rollicking prose. Get your chopsticks ready, let SJ be your guide and enjoy.
Baseball playoffs. World Series. Pro football. Sports and autumn colors are in the air. HG has heard rumors of much improved food at various stadiums. Upscale stuff. Old fogey HG is suspicious. Still believes the best stadium food is the traditional hot dog. A great one was served at the late, lamented Polo Grounds. The Polo Grounds was located in Manhattan’s upper Harlem neighborhood, West 155th Street (Coogan’s Bluff). It was a lovable, rickety place filled with history. It was the home of the New York Football Giants and Baseball Giants. It was where Bobby Thompson of the Giants hit his home run off Ralph Branca of the Brooklyn Dodgers — “The Shot Heard Round The World” — that put the Giants in the World Series. HG had many great Polo Grounds experiences watching Mel Ott, Emlen Tunnel and many other heroic figures.
The busy men’s bathroom had an attendant — Old Sam. HG never forgot his chant: “No matter how you shake and dance the last drop always falls in your
pants. After you’ve had your little pee, don’t forget to remember me — Old Sam.”
Back to the sun drenched HG/BSK New Mexico paradise. Adding to the splendor of mesas and cliffs are the trees in all their Fall glory — a resplendent golden shimmer. The Santa Fe Farmers Market remains lively, colorful, eccentric. The air is filled with the smell of roasting chilies. The best little chilies in the world — Shishitos and Patrons — sizzle in pans so customers can sample. Shisitos are skinny (and can back some heat). Patrons are plump, succulent and mild. HG and BSK sampled Patrons in Madrid (where they are a staple at bars and bistros) and became instant converts. Also at the market: ripe tomatoes; tiny fingerling potatoes; green onions; leeks and other good things.
No corn. Few apples. These autumn glories seem to have been knocked out by the destructive forest fires that plagued New Mexico this summer. Lots of music at the market including a guitar and bass fiddle duo that played and sang the best version of an HG country favorite — “Dixie Cannonball.”
And, the people crowding the market? As diverse and outrageous as ever. A reasonable sampling of former movie stars — now properly matured. As a sage Hollywood observer once reported: “At a certain age there is a choice. Santa Fe or Forest Lawn.”
SJ here and a disappointed one at that. After my great joy in returning to Nom Wah (see the earlier Now Wah posting) I decided to try out another reincarnated old favorite — 456 Shanghai Cuisine which has been getting superb write-ups (including a great New York Times review). I headed off to eat there with visions of extraordinary soup dumpling gallivanting through my cerebral cortex. No such luck! Soup Dumplings were somewhat bland and lacking in that funky tang of crab roe; they were undersized and honestly not soupy enough as if the chef were a miserly curmudgeon trying to save a few bucks on broth and dough. Finally, they weren’t properly heated temperature wise. Which is a bit criminal in my mind. Soup Dumplings need to be blazing! Salt and Pepper shell on shrimp were fine, yet lacking in that spicy umph that would have made me take notice and — not to sound too much like Groucho Marx — the portion size was a bit small for the price tag. Spicy Double Sauteed Pork was neither spicy nor did it have any of the velvety tenderness that one would associate with something that has been “double” sauteed — what the hell is double sauteed anyway? Maybe that one is my fault for ordering something so sloppily named. The final insult came with the Shanghai Won Ton Soup. This should have been an easy one. Alas, nothing about the Won Ton was Shanghainese and the broth tasted of bouillon cubes with a healthy dash of MSG. BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!!!!!
Maybe all this is due to the hype? 456 Shanghai just reopened and it has been swamped with people drawn by great reviews and nostalgia. Maybe the kitchen just couldn’t keep up with the demand? Could be! Could also be that hype is hype and next time I want some fine Chinese chow, you’ll find me in the totally amazing Food Court at the New World Mall in Flushing!
Brunch at the Toronto home of Nir B., the renowned photographer, and Wendy W., the recently retired big time TV journalist. A beautiful old house lovingly remodeled from designs by Nir (a pal for 40 years; yet never suspected he harbored such architectural talent). Big windows bring the rear garden right into the home and saturate the space with such light that you feel miles from urban noise and angst. Lots of wonderful art and photography on the walls.
Nir and Wendy provided a true international feast. A smoked salmon frittata, guacamole, baba ganoush and made-from-scratch hummus. And you know what? If you want really great hummus, let an Israeli like Nir make it — hummus redefined! Dipped Wendy’s biscotti in Nir’s home made red wine. A wonderful meal with civilized, talented loving friends.
Returning to Santa Fe in slow, mellow stages. HG and BSK spent the night at the perfect Sandman hotel at the Toronto Airport. Beautiful design. Efficient front desk. Great price (a penthouse suite for $109). Tired and hungry HG/BSK dined at Moxie’s, the hotel restaurant. Had low expectations. Big surprise. A splendid roast chicken with a goat cheese and thyme emulsion. Top flight stuffed baked potatoes and French fries. Fresh broccoli done right. Knocked off a tasty bottle of Argentine Malbec. Breakfast was super lattes and warm bran muffins. Good stuff.
Nom Wah Teahouse — the birthplace of my dumpling obsession and the oldest Dim Sum restaurant in New York City (serving since 1920!). Back in the 70s HG and I would often spend an early afternoon there hailing the Dim Sum carts and loading up our table with varieties of dumplings, folded rice crepes and buns while studiously avoiding those scary dishes of chicken feet. We would eat and drink tea until our stacked plates began to sway like skyscrapers in the wind. Back then your check was determined by the amount (and type) of plates left on the table, and crafty HG would often “joke” with the surly waiters by “hiding” the majority of plates on his lap. A practice guaranteed to cause great embarrassment to your children. It was the spot where I first used my barely learned chopstick skills to SLOWLY convey a slippery Har Gow (shrimp dumpling) to my waiting lips. Suffice it to say that Nom Wah is responsible for making the rattle of a loaded Dim Sum cart the most hunger inducing sound that I know of.
So it was with great joy (and some real trepidation) that I read in HG’s earlier posting (“Nom Wah. A Great Tradition”) that Nom Wah had re-opened with new ownership and a revamped menu. I could not wait to try it so I gathered up Exquisite Maiko, Mr. Haru and my sister, Victoria (the Restaurateur!) — a hard-hitting posse of Dim Sum lovers if there ever was one — and headed off to the Bloody Angle of Doyers Street.
It was with real relief that we walked in and found Nom Wah to be essentially unchanged. Relief because it is just a wonderful space — a 1930s luncheon spot with red checked table clothes, coat hangers at every table and the warm patina of age. The new owner is the nephew of the previous owner and his love for the restaurant allowed him to somehow do the impossible — renovate and clean the space without changing a thing. The result is that Nom Wah verily hums with joy — It is old fashioned without seeming nostalgic or forced; it is packed with tourists, but absolutely genuine. It is in the details: the mismatched plates and tea cups that have been in service for decades, the tray of condiments (duck sauce, worcestershire sauce, Chinese mustard) that no new dim sum palace would allow on a table, the dappled surface of the mirrors, the tiny bathroom sink with hot & cold faucets. What has changed is only positive. Gone are the surly wait staff and gone are the rickety dim sum carts. In their place are made-to-order dim sum and a group of people (owner included) who just seemed happy to see you, happy that you decided to come into a restaurant that they themselves seem to love.
So…the food? Well, it is totally fine. The Egg Roll is clean and not greasy. The Steamed Pork bun was fluffy and generously stuffed with sweet & savory meat; the Har Gow were silken skinned and the shrimp snapped with freshness. The rice rolls were okay; and I happily gnawed on some steamed spare ribs. There were some menu nods to modernity with notations for “gluten-free” items, some clearly marked vegetarian and kosher options and a quite wonderful “new style” dumpling stuffed with snow pea leaves and shrimp. Without a doubt, I’ve had better dim sum in Sunset Park and out in Flushing and even at Dim Sum Go Go a few blocks away. But, for the two un-rushed hours me and my wonderful family sat in Nom Wah, talking, eating and laughing at Victoria’s stories about throwing dumplings at her first Nom Wah visit, there was simply no other place — no other restaurant! — that I would have rather been. It is an absolute testament to the great job that Nom Wah’s new owners are doing that this old standard has been reborn as a restaurant that I can’t wait to get back to.
As HG and BSK prepare to leave their oceanfront Prince Edward Island home they gaze upon the limitless sea, the silent rocky beach, the blazing sunset. Serenity. Quiet. Isolation. Beauty. A dramatic contrast to the shores of New York’s Rockaway where HG spent his youthful summers. Rockaway was, and remains, a crowded barrier beach filled with a million (literally) sweaty New Yorkers seeking relief from the sweltering city. Every inch of the beach was filled with hairy (for the most part) men, robust (and busty) women, screaming children and hyperactive teenagers involved in the timeless mating dance. Every inch of the sandy beach was occupied. Armenian families roasted lamb in pits dug into the beach; Italians set up folding tables to hold mounds of sausage, peppers and onions; the Irish settled in with ham and cheese sandwiches plus growlers (tin pails) of tap beer from
boardwalk bars.
Little HG tasted everything. Life on the beach was noisy, friendly, communal. In this sweaty environment there were few anatomical secrets. And, of course, there was the Atlantic Ocean. HG was an active swimmer, body surfer and splasher of nubile young women.Saddest day of the year was Labor Day. Fun was over and the first day of school loomed ahead.
Many years ago HG sat astride a big bucket perched on a raft floating in the Atlantic Ocean off the coast of Fire Island — the barrier beach heralded in fact, fiction and gay (in all senses of the word) memories. Two companions were armed with nets and they were energetically capturing blue shell crabs swimming busily in the waters. HG assisted in scooping the crustaceans into the bucket and in the process was nipped by the little devils. In fact, HG’s arms and legs were very bloody. Didn’t hurt too much but looked frightening — like the pig blood scene in Brian De Palma’s “Carrie”. Some 150 crabs were boiled and, annoyingly after all that work, there was little to eat. Not worth the bloody effort.
For a crab feast HG could get his stomach around, HG focused on New York’s Chinatown where the Phoenix Garden, Wing Fat and a number of other eateries did great things with crab (including an intriguing dish known as “Crab with Fried Milk”).
However, the best dish of all was BSK’s crab cakes, crisp and moist. Held together by her own amalgam of mayonnaise, Dijon mustard, lemon juice and a few — very few — bread crumbs.
The Balkan Armenian (on E.27th near Lexington) was the type of small, affordable. family restaurant that made Manhattan so delightful for residents and tourists. It had a wonderful pastry appetizer (cheese borek), stuffed vine leaves, Armenian chopped eggplant, the best lamb (not mutton, as Buckley stated) kebabs, rice pilaf. All tasty treats. 
And, the desserts? Heaven. An HG favorite was Ekmek Kadayiff with Kaymak. This was a sweet, but not too, pastry topped with the Armenian version of English clotted cream. HG tastes it in his dreams. HG took BSK there on their second date (March 1963) and BSK sure knew she wasn’t in Ohio anymore.
