When HG is Named Food Dictator…

March 11th, 2012 § 0 comments § permalink

When HG is declared, by universal acclaim, Food Dictator of the USA, every Pizza Hut, McDonald’s, Arby’s, Taco Bell, etc. will be demolished.The only food chain left standing will be Chipotle: Fairly healthy, reasonably pleasant environment and their carnitas are pretty exceptional. All other fast fooderies are horror shows. Vicious food caricatures. What would replace them under the HG regime? Indian food (samosas, tandoori breads and curries). Souvlaki, Kebab, Shawirma and Felafel pita with tzatsiki, lettuce, onions and hot sauce is good and fast eating. Dim sum (Yes, making dim sum fresh is preferable but HG encountered lots of frozen dim sum in Vancouver, B.C. and it was very tasty). Hot dogs. (Yes, good quality, beef hot dogs with sauerkraut or Chicago style or covered in spicy chili or melted cheddar or Joisey style with fried onions, potatoes and peppers). Borscht. Schav — ice cold sorrel soup. Piroshkki, those flaky, meat filled Russian pastries, boiled potatoes and sour cream). Yes, that’s a bit of a stretch. But, while HG is fantasizing — how about a chain called Yiddishe Mama? It would serve only blintzes, knishes and guilt.

Paree-Burgers

March 8th, 2012 § 0 comments § permalink

According to my favorite Paris food blogger, John Talbott. the City of Light has become crazy for hamburgers. HG is sure Pareeburgers are terrible but then so are American burgers as dispensed by Mickey Dee, Wendy’s, etc. Fast food vileness.

HG has written about the one and only proper way to make a burger. HG is no snob. There are few better things than a good burger topped with a slice of sweet onion and a slice of summer ripe tomato (preferably a Jersey tomato). Accompany it with buttered corn on the cob and ice cold beer. Delicious!

Sadly, Americans — and now Parisians apparently — have degraded the hamburger with their love of ketchup. Yes, the noble burger is often drowned in great gobs of ketchup, as if grilled-to-perfection ground beef were but a transport for the red paste. Ketchup does not enhance the juicy, slightly fatty taste of a proper burger. It disguises that taste. HG is not in favor of disguises. Only one HG ever liked was The Lone Ranger’s cunning little mask.

Joisey: A Food Heaven

March 7th, 2012 § 2 comments § permalink

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.

Homecoming

March 5th, 2012 § 0 comments § permalink

BSK came back to New Mexico last night after a five day visit to BSK’s mom in Florida. HG mused that life without BSK was like a dinner without salt and wine. So, celebration is in order tonight. BSK will roast a rack of lamb. BSK follows the counsel of the late Leon Lianides, the Greek gentleman who ran and owned the wonderful Coach House Restaurant in Greenwich Village (Mario Batali’s Babbo Restaurant now occupies the space). Lianides said that every scrap of fat must be removed from the rack. He felt that lamb fat injured the flavor of the chops. He was right. BSK rubs the rack with garlic, dusts it with chopped rosemary and brushes it with olive oil before popping it into the oven. BSK will cook the rack to a rosy pink and serve it with grilled Kumatoes (flavorful brown tomatoes from Mexico) and fingerling potatoes pan roasted with garlic, olive oil and lots of herbs. Appetizer will be a bit of baba ganoush. The wine will be The Velvet Devil, a robust red from Washington’s Walla Walla neighborhood. Drk chocolate ice cream for dessert. Ah, life takes on a glow when BSK is present.

The Age of the Great NY Cafeterias

March 4th, 2012 § 32 comments § permalink

Fast food franchise junk, escalating real estate prices, changing customs. These all knocked out the great New York cafeterias that fed old schmoozers, loquacious intellectuals, cab drivers, garment center workers, students, artists — everybody, in fact. In terms of cuisine, the best was Dubrow’s. There were three: one in the garment center (this was where HG dined before Knicks games at Madison Square Garden); one on Eastern Parkway in Brooklyn (where HG dined after watching Joe Klein, Floyd Paterson, Joey Giardello and other fighters at the Eastern Parkway Arena); another branch on Brooklyn’s Kings Highway (too quiet and staid for HG). All were decorated in high, post-Depression, “modernist” style with plenty of mirrored walls and pale, glistening wood. The garment center Dubrow’s (on Seventh Avenue in the 30’s) was a madhouse during weekday lunch hours. The wonder was how the cloak-and-suiters and skilled workers could eat so much and talk so much at the same time. The Eastern Parkway Dubrow’s was favored by Jewish bookmakers, horse players, gamblers, loan sharks and the last remnants of Brownsville’s Murder Inc. and associated Lepke mob. These were guys who favored expensive hats, sharp suits (by Brooklyn’s Abe Stark) and big cigars. A guy not wearing a suit, tie and hat was a “bum,” despised by all. By 1985 all the Dubrow’s were gone.

The Belmore Cafeteria on 28th Street and Park Avenue South (Fourth Avenue before the fancy name change) was a 24-hour-a-day place favored by cab drivers. Martin Scorcese’s movie “Taxi Driver” burnished its fame. The scenes between Robert DeNiro and Peter Boyle take place in front of The Belmore. Phil Siegel ran The Belmore for decades and never changed its motto: “New York’s Most Fabulous Restaurant.” Like Dubrow’s, it had plenty of Jewish and Eastern European specialties but there were many eclectic culinary surprises as well. It was always busy. At its peak, The Belmore fed some 5.000 New Yorkers every weekday. Siegel sold the cafeteria and its corner site in 1981 to developers of a “sliver” condo development.

A sad and quiet cafeteria was The Senate on Broadway and 96th. There were lots of tattoos there. No, not the multi-colored skin-scapes favored by today’s hipsters. These were the grim number tattoos of Holocaust survivors, men and women who conversed quietly over endless cups of tea. I.B. Singer, the Nobel Prize-winning Yiddish writer, was often there eating tuna salad (he also favored The Eclair,a middle European pastry shop and restaurant on W.72nd). Singer based many of his stories on the aged folks he met there — people whose stories bordered on the supernatural. There were two other groups at The Senate: junkies and hookers. The strung out junkies ate trays of the sweetest cakes they could find The hard working hookers favored more robust fare. They ate fast. Their demanding business agents didn’t like them taking too much time off.

The cafeterias of New York have vanished. Mickey Dee and the landlords have won.

The Belmore circa 1976

240 Union. At Sea.

March 2nd, 2012 § 0 comments § permalink

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.

If You Can’t Eat It, Hum It!

February 29th, 2012 § 2 comments § permalink

“Shrimpers and rice are very nice. Hold tight. Hold tight. Hold tight. Hold tight. Foo-doo-racka-sacka. I want some seafood Mama.” Yes, the inimitable Fats Waller sang the great Sidney Bechet masterpiece, “Hold Tight (Want Some Seafaood Mama) with brio. There are plenty of great food related songs because, well food and music go together like chicken and rice.

HG’s late, beloved father had a favorite performer on the Yiddish vaudeville and musical stage: Aaron Lebedoff (sometimes spelled “Lebedeff”). He was famous for his rendition of “Roumania, Roumania.” In this bravura piece, Aaron extolls the virtues of mamaliga (a Roumanian version of polenta), karnezelach (cigar shaped hamburgers containing abundant chopped onion and garlic) and Roumanian wine. The singer describes Roumania as “ah lahnd a zeeseh, ah shayneh” (a sweet and beautiful land). Forgotten is the fact that this “sweet” land was the site of the terrible Kishinev pogroms in which scores of Jews were murdered.

HG has always been bemused by the fact that once Jews arrived in the United States (The Goldeneh Medina) they looked back on the blood soaked Old Country with misty eyed nostalgia. “Odessa Mama,” “Beltz, Mein Shtetele Beltz,” are just two of scores of immigrant songs celebrating various Old County cities and villages. Even HG’s normally clear eyed father could go on at length about the splendor of Odessa ice cream and the physical beauty of the Belarus countryside.

When HG accompanied his father to the Lower East Side to purchase little HG’s winter wardrobe of corduroy knickers and a heavy tweed mackinaw they often lunched at restaurants that advertised “Roumanian Broilings” in Yiddish and English signs. HG was (and is) very fond of the karnezelach and chicken fat fried potatoes he devoured there. Inevitably, the restaurant sound track had Lebedoff singing his signature song. There were many Roumanian restaurants on the Lower East Side. Only the schmaltz soaked Sammy’s survives. You can hear Lebedoff singing “Roumania, Roumania” on YouTube. Helluva performer. Helluva song.

Pete Hamill

February 27th, 2012 § 0 comments § permalink

If you enjoy HG’s teary-eyed musing about New York of yesteryear, you’ve got to read the masterpiece of this genre. HG refers to Pete Hammil’s 1987 article “The New York We’ve Lost” that appeared in New York Magazine. An amazing bit of writing that weaves an entire history of New York into only a few brilliantly written pages. These are the journalists who wrote well about the uniqueness of New York’s people and places: E.B. White, Joseph Mitchell, Jimmy Breslin, A.J. Liebling, Meyer Berger and Pete Hamill. Of them all, Hamill is HG’s favorite because of his eye for detail and wide range. Who else but Hamill could remember the Bushwicks and House of David baseball teams and the Brownsville gym where Al “Bummy” Davis trained under the eyes of Murder, Inc.?

Pete Hamill

More More Baltimore! An SJ Post.

February 26th, 2012 § 0 comments § permalink

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!

Petrale Sole. A Treat.

February 25th, 2012 § 0 comments § permalink

Of course, the most soulful sole is Dover sole. But, this should only be eaten — at a great price — in London (even though HG once had some splendid Dover sole at Legal Seafoods in Boston). Folks in the northeast can enjoy firm fleshed Atlantic Flounder filets. In Vancouver, HG developed a taste for sauteed brill, a sole-like Pacific flatfish. But, the closest thing to authentic Dover sole is Petrale sole from the waters off northern California. HG first had Petrale sole at the venerable Tadich Grill in San Francisco’s financial district. HG preceded the beautifully cooked fish with a few sloe gin fizzes, a delightful house specialty.

Petrale sole makes an occasional appearance at the Whole Foods fish counter. When that happens, HG pounces upon it. A quick dusting in flour. Swift saute. A generous topping of melted butter, capers and lemon juice. Finny perfection.

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