Shout it from the rooftops. Let joy be unconfined and laughter relentless. HG’s pal, Stephanie Pierson, has a new book out: The Brisket Book–A Love Story With Recipes. Twelve lively chapters that tell you everything you want to know about delicious, life enhancing brisket. Barbecue. Your Bubbe’s brisket. Simple brisket. Complex brisket. How to cook it. What to eat with it. What to drink with it. What to do with leftovers (Tacos, anyone?). There’s Cuban brisket, Aquavit brisket, brisket in sweet and sour sauce (HG will pass on that one). The publisher is Andrews McMeel Publishing LLC.
The book has a cautionary note about the noble institution of marriage: “You know what marriage is like at the start–all briskets and blow jobs–then it’s downhill from there.”
HG does not wish anyone to infer from HG’s “Faux Pas” post that he harbors animosity toward Turkey. In fact, HG has long been an admirer of that country, its art, architecture and, of course, its cuisine. One of HG’s heroes is Mustafa Kemal Atatürk, first president of modern Turkey and creator of that secular state. Ataturk was the commander of the Turkish forces at Gallipoli, that misguided slaughter house of World War One where so many young soldiers from Australia, Britain, New Zealand, France, India and Newfoundland lost their lives. Obviously, the present day parallels are many.
In 1934, Ataturk unveiled a memorial to “Those heroes that shed their blood and lost their lives at Gallipoli.” The inscription reads: “You are now lying in the soil of a friendly country. Therefore, rest in peace. There is no difference between the Johnnies and the Mehmets to us where they lie side by side here in this country of ours. You, the mothers who sent their sons from faraway countries, wipe away your tears; your sons are now lying in our bosom and are in peace. After having lost their lives on this land they have become our sons as well.”
In case you HG followers hadn’t guessed, the post entitled “Oh My!” was written by SJ. This is a man who can taste and write and convey tastes in words. HG is proud and fortunate. When HG was a Broadway press agent (back in the dark ages) columnist Walter Winchell was the acknowledged media king. In that era before television, WW’s newspaper column and radio program reached millions, influenced government policy and made and broke careers. When HG sent his first contribution to the Winchell column, WW printed it and responded in a brief note: “Keep ’em coming, Keed–WW.”
SJ Here. Last night my good pal Jay brought over some Pepperoncini that a friend of his had smuggled over from Italy. Tightly packed in a jar of golden oil, the peppers were finger length and a glorious vision of home made craft. I slipped one of these bad boys out of the jar and chomped into it. Oh My. The flavor was like a great short story that unfolds in stages — the first bite, crisp and almost pickle like; then a whoosh of unctuous fat tingling with licorice undertones and finally a revelation of almost meaty flavors with an umami tang of woody mushrooms. Amazing.
I’ve never tasted anything like them and pestered Jay for more information. The following description of these glorious peppers is taken verbatim from the Pepper Smuggler himself:
“These Pepperoncini are cured in a broth called Salamoia, which is a brine consisting of Sicilian Lemon, onion, olive oil and finochietto (baby fennel seed). After soaking in the brine for several weeks, they are then placed into barrels with sea salt and cured for one year. This is where the maloactic fermentation takes place. The peppers are sliced lengthwise and the belly of a tuna is inserted prior to the curing.”
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.
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.”
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.
