HUNGRY GERALD

Jaime “Jimmy” Rodriguez, Jr. made Puerto Rican food hip, and for a while, made West Fordham Road in The Bronx a dining destination for everyone from President Clinton to Derek Jeter to Fidel Castro. Jimmy’s Bronx Cafe opened in 1993 on the site of a former auto dealership, a short cab ride from Yankee Stadium. It was a smash. Derek Jeter had his birthday party at Jimmy’s and it was a hangout for Yankees and visiting teams. Jimmy hosted a dinner there for Fidel Castro in 1995 (there were 500 in attendance and Jimmy got a lot of criticism from Cuban emigres). Jimmy’s was vast. The food (specially the seafood) was wonderful. Great music (Tito Puente headed one of the bands). Fiery dancing. Everybody cool in the worlds of sports, show biz and politics visited Jimmy’s and Jimmy Rodriguez was honored by New York’s top business and civic organizations.

Jimmy expanded with a branch in Harlem, one on E. 57th Street in Manhattan and a sea food place on City Island in The Bronx. At their height, the Rodriguez restaurants were grossing $10,000,000 a year. The woes of over-expansion soon kicked in however and by 2004 they were all gone.

Bronx born Rodriguez (1963) got his start by joining his father selling seafood from the trunk of their car parked near an entrance to the Major Deegan Expressway. They made a chowder from the leftover seafood, added some Puerto Rican dishes and opened a stand on a Fordham Road corner which was followed by a 50-seat storefront joint, Marisco del Caribe. That operated for about 10 years before the ambitious young man opened Jimmy’s Bronx Cafe.

Well, Jimmy is back. There are four Jimmy’s restaurants now operating in the New York area (or are they?…given Jimmy’s volatility, be wise and call first). The restaurants are the two Don Coqui locations in Astoria and New Rochelle (both run by Jimmy’s daughters, Jaleene and Jewelle); the two Sofritos on E. 57th in Manhattan and in White Plains and Sazon on Reade Street in downtown Manhattan. Creole cooking and Jimmy Rodriguez — Olé!

Jimmy Rodriguez at Sofrito

If you want to clog your arteries in delicious fashion, visit The Cardiology Hall of Shame, also known as New Jersey. Start with some “Italian” hot dogs. Three of the specialists in this greasy treat are busy dives: Dickie Dee’s, Jimmy Buff’s and Charlie’s Famous. Basically, an “Italian” hot dog is a deep fried hot dog (size large) stuffed into a circle of spongy “pizza” bread (the better to absorb lots of fragrant effluents) and then topped with oily fried peppers, onions and potatoes. A nice shake of hot pepper flakes. Make sure you have plenty of napkins.

HG will not single out any pizza parlor in the Garden State because the independent Jersey pizza spots are, on the whole, succulent. You can’t go wrong. Also, lots of old fashioned pizza joints serve greasy eggplant and mozzarella sandwiches plus fennel sausages with peppers and onions.

The most famous, dramatic Jersey export, The Sopranos, emphasized food, Italian food. Needless to say, the vast vast majority of New Jersey’s Italian-American population is law abiding — but just as hungry as an angry Tony Soprano looking forward to a slice of “gabagool”. Every town in heavily populated Jersey has outstanding Italian restaurants. HG has written about the incomparable Stretch’s Chicken at the eccentric Belmont Tavern in Belleville. State of the art linguini with white clam sauce is at The Riviera on Rt. 46 in Clifton. HG had some profoundly unhealthy, soaringly yummy Fetuccine Alfredo (prepared on a gas burner tableside with gobs of butter, pours of heavy sweet cream, loads of freshly grated parmigiano reggiano) at a North Arlington restaurant whose name, alas, HG has forgotten. Another nameless restaurant in Cliffside Park (favored by “Sorprano” types) served HG a huge bowl of hare long stewed in red wine and garlic. HG happily ate it with an equally huge bowl of butter drenched ziti (combination was a bit more French than Italian). There is also some, comparatively, healthy Italian food in Jersey. HG and BSK often enjoyed mammoth bowls of steamed mussels and fried zucchini at a Sicilian restaurant, Angelo’s, in gritty Harrison.

But, New Jersey’s major claim to fame is its diners that dot every highway. Yes, some have disappeared (The Short Stop in Bloomfield of “Eggs In The Skillet” fame is now, drat, a Dunkin’ Donuts) but much remains. The Tick Tock on Rt. 3 and its motto “Eat Heavy” flourishes.

However, the best of all diners, The Claremont, which reigned majestically for years on a site at the Montclair/Verona border, is no more. It had an encyclopedic menu (dishes ranged from very good to transcendental) and divine cheesecake and pastries. Great for breakfast, lunch, dinner or after-movie coffee and dessert. At one point, the owners, in a fit of misguided hubris, decided not to leave well enough alone but to “modernize.” That was the death knell. Zealous decorators installed skylights of green and blue colored glass. The light made plates of food look like ghastly abstract impressionist paintings. At lunch, right after the “modernization”, BSK looked at white-haired and blue-eyed HG and their blonde-haired, blue-eyed dining companion. That infernal light, colored by the skylights, had turned their hair blue and green respectively. Their eyes glowed yellow like the Devil himself. The Claremont had survived some tough economic times but it couldn’t survive their decorators.

Denver’s 240 Union Restaurant (no, it isn’t actually in Denver but a few miles west in suburban Lakewood) is one of HG’s all time favorite dining spots. It has been run for many years by the warm and charming
Michael Coughlin, a man with a gift for hospitality and a talent for selecting the world’s best, modestly priced wines (at 240 Union, Michael has a list of 23 at 23 — 23 splendid wines for 23 bucks a botttle). Service at 240 is knowing and efficient. The bar turns out perfect martinis — dry as the Sahara and cold as a New York landlord’s heart. For a time during HG and BSKs Colorado business days, the restaurant functioned as their networking center where the business, political and cultural elite of western Colorado met for lunch every day. (HG’s downtown Denver spot for power dining was Palm Restaurant — HG’s
caricature adorned the wall over his favorite booth).

HG and BSK were in Denver this weekend for a memorial service for their dear friend, Betty Miller (please read the post: Betty Miller R.I.P. for more about this remarkable and valuable woman) and had two dinners at 240. As always, this landlocked restaurant in the middle of America manages to get fresh seafood and prepares it imaginatively. HG and BSK supped handsomely on perfect Pacific and Atlantic oysters on the half shell; Artic Char on a bed of corn and pea risotto; a whole, roasted striped bass with spinach and roast fingerling potatoes. A martini for HG. Prosecco for BSK. Fine wine from Chile for both. House made sorbets. A beautiful experience. Yes, you can go home again.

SJ here. Last week a photograph of mine of a Chesapeake Bay Oyster topped with a slice of hard boiled egg caused HG such a wave of food envy that he was prompted to write a post about it (see An HG Sin: Food Envy) Well, as much as I love HG, I love to fan the embers of his Food Envy into a roaring fire. Soo….let me tell you a little about that oyster…

Last week, myself, my wife — the aptly named Exquisite Maiko — and our son decided to forsake our beloved NYC for a weekend in Baltimore. The drive down took only about 3 hours and along the way we stopped in Wilmington, Delaware at the Charcoal Pit for absolutely great hamburgers and milkshakes.

The Charcoal Pit is a Road Food classic — been there since the 1950s and still as popular as ever. Places like this often become parodies of themselves, existing in the squinty light of nostalgia — but the Pit avoids that trap by neither seeming cutesy nor precious and instead just serving up good, well made classic food at very reasonable prices.

The last time I had been in Baltimore I went to Obryckis in Fells Point for crabs. They were dumped right on the table onto butcher’s paper, and hammer in hand I demolished a number of these wonderful crustaceans steamed in a heady black-pepper seasoning. I was excited to return and excited for Exquisite Maiko to taste such a regional specialty. Alas, Obryckis has closed (note to all restaurants who close and have websites: MAKE BEING CLOSED THE FOCUS OF YOUR WEBSITE!!!) so we had to find an alternative. Now, not being from Baltimore and not really knowing a lot about the city, it can be hard separating out the tourist crap from something both authentic and authentically good. So, reading between the lines of numerous blog postings and Best Of Baltimore lists, we decided on a spot called Canton Dockside who seemed to be the spot for year-round crabs. Well, we got there and guess what…NO CRABS! Why? Because Canton Dockside gets their crabs in the off-season from Louisiana and this being Mardi Gras week all the Louisiana Crabbers were either too drunk to ship crabs or they wanted to keep all crabs within the state for Mardi Gras. Either way, we were thwarted but soothed ourselves with great broiled crab cakes (light on the mayonnaise and breadcrumbs), plump shrimps steamed with Old Bay Seasoning and a rather horrifying pretzel like thing smeared in cheese and crab dip (the less said about that last dish, the better!).

I also made a new friend in the Baltimore beer known as National Bohemian Beer or Natty Boh.

Extremely cold and extremely yummy!

The next day, we woke up early to take in some real touristy stuff (Huge Aquarium! Dolphin Show!) and get hungry in preparation for my focus — The covered markets of Baltimore. Since 1763, Baltimore has maintained a group of municipally owned covered markets that serve specific neighborhoods. There are seven markets remaining in Baltimore and the largest is the Lexington Market located right in the heart of Down Town. I had heard tell of some serious food happening at this Lexington Market so off we went. Well…I absolutely fell in love. Lexington market is an urban institution — while tourists like myself might pass through, the market is unadorned, gritty and absolutely true to itself.

This is the spot for discount groceries, cheap cell phone plans, butchers that specialize in the rough bits (chitterlings, hog maws, ham hocks, pig ears, fat back and more), fish mongers and stall upon stall of prepared foods — many of which hawk the fact that they accept CDC vouchers and food stamps. So what were in these stalls? Well, oddly, the majority seem to have been taken over by Chinese and Koreans who are serving up a mixture of cheap Chinese and soul food staples — beef and broccoli alongside stewed chicken and dumplings not to mention the happy guy I saw munching away on a scoop-full of pork fried rice accompanied by a bowl of Chitterlings doused with hot sauce.

There is no pretensions of regional food-ways purity here at the Lexington. Its cheap and good? Yes! Lots of fried chicken spots with a heavy focus on the livers, backs and gizzards — not something you see at KFC! Many sandwich spots selling (I think) Baltimore produced smoked meats — courtesy of its Polish and German immigrants. And, fruit salad — big containers of very fresh and very cheap fruit salad. Interestingly, I noticed that you could use your food stamps to buy fruit salad, fruit smoothies and groceries, but not a lot of the heavier prepared foods — I am imagining that this was a bid by the Health Department to influence healthier eating standards. And all the way in back — pretty much a separate enclave all to itself is Faidley’s Seafood.

Faidley’s is a working seafood market hawking the rather impressive bounty of the Chesapeake Bay and other southern water-ways, but they also have a raw bar and a simple lunch counter serving up hot foods. Well, I sidled up to the raw bar — packed with working people simply gorging on oysters and clams and plastic cups of Natty Boh — and ordered myself a half dozen “Prime” oysters. The oyster man was astonishing; as fast and precise a shucker as I have ever witnessed even while keeping up a running commentary as to whether or not (based on his emotional speech at her funeral) Kevin Costner and Whitney Houston ever had sex (Yes! we raw bar denizens agreed). I was asked, as the plate of fat, shimmery bivalves appeared before me, if I wanted an egg with my oysters. An egg? Madness!!! Nope. Just hit me with some lemon and a touch of hot sauce and I am good. Well I slurped those six down and they were cold, briny, firm with a touch of cucumber snap that I just love. Ahhh…The joy of a good oyster. Well, as I let out a sated breath I glanced at my neighbor, who was there with his girl, drinking beers and preparing his oysters with a slice of hard-boiled egg!!! Yes! He had a hard-boiled egg slicer and was layering the egg slices on top of his oysters with horseradish and hot sauce. This guy looked like a serious Baltimorean, so I had to ask if the egg was the Baltimore style? Oh yes he said. So, I had to give it a shot — six more with a boiled egg. Well, they brought them over, I peeled the egg, used the slicer and got to work. My new friend guided me — “You got the horse radish first, then you got to hit it with the black pepper…yeah that’s it, don’t be scared of the black pepper! Then squeeze that lemon right on top and lay that egg right right up on there. Yeah! Hit it with the hot sauce now!” — and then I was ready.

Wow! Oh boy was this a good thing. Somehow, the smoothness of a boiled egg blends with the brine of the oyster and the bite of hose-radish to create something unique that doesn’t distract from the very oysterness of the experience. While I probably won’t be putting hard-boiled eggs on my beloved Prince Edward Island oysters, the whole experience, the specificity of the place, the very real connections that you can make with strangers when you express interest in a local specialty put a giant smile on my face and made those oysters amongst the most special I have ever eaten. Exquisite Maiko (very pregnant at this point and simmering with jealousy that she could not eat an oyster) took in some crab cakes from the counter and pronounced them unbeatable.

Faidley's Crab Cake

So, if you ever find yourself in Baltimore, ignore the Yelp and Google and Yahoo reviews that describe the Lexington Market as being scary and sketchy and filled with drug addicts and homeless people and march your way in and have a chilled Chesapeake Bay oyster topped with hard boiled egg on me. Thank me later and tell HG about it as soon as you can!

HG would be derelict in his culinary duty if he didn’t point out two bright spots in the dim haze of present-day Little Italy. Di Palo’s Fine Foods at 200 Grand. Just great. While best known as one of the great cheese stores in the world, Di Palo continues to expand into offering the best salume, prosciutto and everything else Italian. A wonderful landmark that continues to thrive. Don’t be discouraged by the lines. The staff is very efficient and knowledgeable. The other bright spot is Caffe Roma at 385 Broome. Open since 1891, this institution is still run by descendents of the original owners. Have some espresso and a cannoli (best in New York). Take home a pound of pignolia cookies. This is a great spot for dessert after a Chinatown meal with friends.

A little to the north of what is traditionally termed Little Italy — and now called NOLITA — a little renaissance seems to be brewing with restaurants re-interpreting traditional Italian American fare. The bright star of the bunch is Torrisi Italian Specialties and its sister sandwich and lunch spot, Parm NYC. Initially started as a higher end lunch and sandwich place, Torrisi has become (according to critics and other folk) one of the most exciting restaurants in New York. HG has yet to try, but certainly will be tempted on his next trip to NY. Also noted (by SJ) is the great pizzas being churned out by Rubirosa NYC on Mulberry Street.

When Hershele Zvi Freimann, HG’s late, beloved father, arrived in the United States in 1906, he immediately went to work in a Lower East Side sweatshop. Salary: $7 a week. He slept on a cutting table. Bathed in the public baths on Forsyth Street (fastidious HZF went every day). His principal meal of the day cost 12 cents. A schmaltz herring. A pumpernickel bread. A schooner of beer. Irving Howe, in his seminal book on the migration of East European Jews to the United States, World of Our Fathers: The Journey Of The East European Jews To America And The Life They Found And Made, notes that the pioneering labor union organizers plotted strategy over meals of herring and boiled potatoes.

HG honors these traditions of Labor and family. In years past, HG watched the Super Bowl while imbibing herring, boiled potatoes, raw onions and vodka straight from the freezer. This Super Sunday HG and BSK are invited to the home of friends so herring is off the menu, but BSK is curing some salmon — converting the fish into delicious, dill strewn gravlax. Even without the herring there will be abundant vodka so the day will be joyful even if the Giants lose.

In Europe, herring isn’t identified with Jewish cuisine. Most Paris brasseries have pickled herring on their menus (The best is at Stella and Le Vaudeville). At the excellent bistro, Chez Georges, The pickled herring is passed to customers in a big crock. Take as much as you want and seconds are given with a smile.

HG’s best herring memory: Raw herring filets in Amsterdam. Rolled the morsels in chopped, raw onion. HG threw his head back and downed them whole accompanied by Genever Gin and Dutch beer, of course.

A note to New York herring lovers: Russ & Daughters, the Lower East Side temple of smoked fish has these raw herrings in season as does the Grand Central Oyster Bar. Now, there’s the perfect meal. Raw Dutch herrings followed by the Oyster Bar’s wondrous Oyster Pan Roast. Precede it with some oysters and Long Island little neck clams on the half shell. A meal for sea lovers.

Vancouver, British Columbia is a city of majestic mountain and sea views; a glittering skyline; polyglot population and, alas, incessant rain for much of the year. It also has some of the best vegetables, fruit, meat and seafood in North America (they are all available plus exceptional cheese and charcuterie at the Public Market on Granville Island). There are some very good restaurants. No, despite enthusiastic local boosters, it’s not New York — Vancouver does not yet have the population mass or money to rival New York’s enthusiastic restaurant culture. There is great Asian food and a Chinatown with lots of cheap and satisfying eateries. It’s not New York’s Chinatown and it certainly isn’t Flushing, the dream destination for Asian food.

What Vancouver has is Vij’s Restaurant and Vij’s Rangoli. At these dining destinations Vikram Vij and his wife, Meeru Dhalwala, have created a cuisine that, while using spices and techniques from all over India, is unlike anything served in traditional Indian restaurants. There is no tandoori oven and there are tiny French, Italian and Chinese influences that bubble up in the cooking. Vij’s Restaurant is the more formal affair (though still very casual in the Vancouver style). Cornish
game hens, trout, pork belly — all locally sourced — are on the menu. A signature dish is “lamb popsicles,” tiny chops cut from the rack and served in a lush sauce that combines heat, cream and spice. Addictive. Only dinner is served and the restaurant opens at 5:30. A line forms outside the door at 5 and every seat is taken immediately when the doors open. No reservations. However, waiting is not a chore since there’s a lovely bar and gracious Vij is generous with a variety of spicy tidbits. Rangoli, located next door, is much simpler. Part market, part take away counter and part casual dining spot that’s open all day. The curries and stews are sublime. Take it from HG, Vij’s is worth a special trip to Canada.

HG’s mom served an exuberant bowl of chicken soup. The HG maternal soup contained a rich, homemade broth shimmering with the velvet haze of chicken fat, chunks of boiled chicken, noodles, matzo balls and (sometimes) kasha — plus slices of boiled carrots and onions. With some thick slices of challah this dish sure beat the hell out of the empty tummy blues.

Well, that soup met its match today at one of HG’s favorite dining spots, The Sopapilla Factory in Pojauque, NM. The manager told HG that the soup on the menu was just like his Madre used to make. Called Caldo Tilapena, this mighty dish (served in a virtual caldron) contained chicken broth mightily enhanced by aromatic, smokey, hot chipotle peppers. There was rice, chick peas, zucchini, carrots and at least a pound of gently poached chicken breast. For crunch, it was topped with crisp lengths of fried yellow and blue corn tortillas. And, for a voluptuous and cooling gustatory counter-weight, a half dozen slices of avocado were served alongside. No challah. But, a basket of warm sopapillas (Mexican popovers) with butter and honey. Ah, Mothers — whether Yiddishe or Hispanic — always know best.

One of HG’s favorite cookbooks is The Frankies Spuntino Kitchen Companion & Cooking Manual. SJ introduced HG and BSK to Frankies 457 Spuntino Restaurant on Smith Street in the Carroll Gardens neighborhood of Brooklyn. Wonderful, forthright Brooklyn/Italian food with an emphasis on lightness and natural flavors. Memorable salads. HG/BSK have used the Frankies recipe for romaine hearts with Caesar dressing with delicious results. It’s not a Caesar salad, just a tasty, simplified dressing that uses Hellmann’s Mayonnaise instead of raw eggs. No croutons. Good. HG despises them. HG shares the Frankies fondness for Hellmann’s. The cookbook notes that Nobu Matsushita, the great Japanese chef of Nobu fame, uses Hellmann’s in his signature shrimp and lobster dishes. Good enough for Nobu. Good enough for HG. Of course, if you are doing aioli or rouille, hand whipped, made from scratch mayo is essential. But, for sandwiches, cole slaw, potato salad and a multitude of other dishes Hellmann’s is the stuff. And, when it’s post-Thanksgiving and Christmas turkey sandwich time, haul out that other ornament of the supermarket — Heinz Ketchup. Mixed with Hellmann’s (and some optional, chopped sweet gherkins) the resulting Russian dressing makes even dry turkey breast very palatable.

New York Times had a story on the duck lunch at David Chang’s Ssam Bar and the “duckavore” dinner at Wong in the West Village. Duckalicious. The descriptions of the ducky delicacies were so riveting and appetizing that HG was tempted to leave for The Big Apple post haste. However, HG stayed put and ransacked his memory for tasty webbed foot treats.

Best duck dish ever was the braised duck with olives at the late Le Pavillon. Crisp and juicy, the abundant richness of duck fat cut by the sting of the olives. A runner up was the crackling Peking duck at the Peking Duck House in New York’s Chinatown. When in Paris, HG often indulges in the ubiquitous duck confit; however, the best HG has ever tasted came not from Paris, but was found behind the counter of Oyama, the great French-oriented charcuterie and cheese shop located in Vancouver’s Public Market on Granville Island. In Chinatown (both in New York and Vancouver), HG often does a simple (and cheap) lunch of barbecued duck and pork plus a bowl of rice and pot of tea.

During their ten years of residence on Manhattan’s Upper West Side, HG and BSK had a tradition of late Sunday dinner a deux (little ones safely snoozing). The duo devoured a rotisserie barbecued duck from the Bretton Woods Butcher on W. 86th Street accompanied by a salad of sliced orange, sweet onion and avocado. Then, a crusty baguette, runny brie. Two bottles of red wine. A nice way to close the weekend.

Yes, Sunday was a day of indulgence in HG and BSK’s rent controlled paradise. The day began with a breakfast of Zabar’s smoked salmon, sable, scallion cream cheese, bagels and bialys. The fat Sunday Times on the table. It was all worked off with long bike rides in Central Park. SJ strapped to HG’s back. Little Miss LR in a kiddie seat. Peaches, The Wonder Dog, racing along on a leash. Happy memories of food, fun and family — a ducky time, indeed.