Goodies First

Captain Luna's Seafood Bar & Crab Shanty

Owning a car in NYC is kind of decadent, but it also allows you to cram more non-decadence into shorter time frames. I don’t think I could stomach a Carroll Gardens-Howard Bay-City Island Saturday excursion on public transportation even though you see bus stops even when you feel like you’re in remote corners of the city. That’s just me, though, maybe I’m lacking an adventurous spirit.

Or maybe this is a simple case of taking the easy way out. Whenever I hear that phrase I think about tagging along during car-shopping missions along Northern Boulevard the summer of 2001. James wanted a standard transmission, which was proving tougher than finding Thai chiles in Carroll Gardens. A salesclerk confided in him, “We only sell automatics because Mexicans like taking the easy way out.”

What an odd sentiment, not the misguided racism, but the geographic confusion. This is New York, hardly a Mexican stronghold. Wouldn’t Puerto Ricans or Dominicans make more sense in that context? (In 2000 in NYC there were 799,588 Puerto Ricans, 532,647 Dominicans and a measly 183,792 Mexicans, though that last figure increased a dramatic 57.7% between 2000 and 2007. Watch out, car salesmen.) For what it’s worth, I only know how to drive an automatic.

First, I paid a visit to Captain Luna’s, a glorified bar overlooking Cross Bay that occupies a parking lot next to an FDNY station. It’s also a marina where you can rent boats, buy bait and tackle and charter fishing trips. No sea-lover, I was merely concerned with food and beer.

Coronas and Old Bay shrimp for me. I wasn’t expecting the butter (I’m not sure that’s actually what this was, which says more about me if I can’t tell the difference between margarine and real dairy) just shrimp in the style of Maryland crabs. I greatly prefer peel-and-eating to cracking-and-picking. The concept of crab is more fun than the actual practice.

Legs were the only part of the crab on the menu this particular Memorial Day weekend Saturday and plenty of patrons were gnawing on the red appendages. But blue crabs should become part of the regular rotation soon and I got an an email list to alert me when a fresh haul arrives.

The bar itself sits underneath a tent with additional umbrella topped tables on the adjoining pier. On a balmy Saturday afternoon visit there was a smattering of all sorts occupying the seats: a Hispanic family with kids, a Sheryl Crow-ish tanned woman wearing a cowboy hat who seemed more Austin than Queens who was accompanied by two non-descript men in t-shirts, bikers, most definitely not of the fixed gear variety (a POW/MIA flag is prominently displayed near a beer tap—not sure why I associate that with bikers) and a few twentysomethings, who couldn’t have traveled far to get there, like the two above who began kissing the second after I snapped my photo. 

I would’ve soaked up the un-New York-ness of the place over a few more beers if the Bronx hadn’t also been on my agenda. I didn’t do much exploring around City Island, that’ll have to wait for another time.

Instead, I popped into Crab Shanty. The first thing I noticed was that their signage employs the font Burnstown Dam, the same silly lettering I used for my old online diary, Project Me. Viva the '90s. The restaurant isn’t really beachy; even with the blue colored skylights (that cast a really odd glow on my photos) shingled awnings and weather vanes attempting to create an outdoors indoors illusion, you feel landlocked. Plus, the aisles are tighter than a coach cabin. The crab stained glass was kind of cute, though.

The meal starts with garlic bread and a handsome relish tray of both crunchy raw and spicy pickled vegetables. There is a clear Italian-seafood connection in the region. All of the crab places I’ve been to in the city and New Jersey also serve pasta, red sauce and the like.

Their raison d’etre is fried seafood, not my favorite genre, but I dived in with gusto. This mammoth plate housed fish, a soft-shell crab, random shrimp and a shitload of squid. I totally gave myself a stomachache after eating about half and cursed the idiocy of choosing fries as my side (other options included baked potato and linguine). Dinners also come with soup or salad and there was no resisting the iceberg with blue cheese dressing.

Smarter diners opt for crab legs. People are crazy for crab legs. Go to a Chinese buffet and watch the mayhem unfurl when a fresh batch is brought out in metal trays. Crab legs are more meat for less effort, the epitome of taking the easy way out. Instead, James wanted whole crabs, which garnered a warning from our waitress, “That’s a lot of work!”

The thing is, he’s used to Mid-Atlantic crabs, which are big and priced accordingly. Spendy with payoff. Most of what you find in NYC are piddly, exhausting to extract any goodness from but rarely set you back more than $29 for a pile. There's no harm done if you just like cracking crabs, though you might come away from dinner still hungry.

Captain Luna’s Seafood Bar * 158-35 Cross Bay Blvd., Howard Beach, NY

Crab Shanty * 361 City Island Ave., Bronx, NY

King Yum

I wish I had known I was going to be in Floral Park earlier in the day so I could’ve tried Keralan food for lunch. In fact, I wish I had known quite a few things before heading to the Queens/Long Island border early Saturday evening. One being that the movie theater I was looking for that was still playing Swedish teen vampire movie, Let the Right One In, (don't tell me Robert Pattinson is hotter than this kid with zero pigmentation and a pageboy) was housed in the lower arcade of a retirement community. Two, that Let the Right One In had been replaced with He’s Just Not That Into You.

Sure, there was a theater 30-minutes away in the East Village also showing the film but I was intrigued by what Northshore Towers Twin Cinemas far into the outerborough fringes could possibly be like. I was relishing the prospect of an empty house in a weirdo location and as the black-and-white checked finish flag appeared on the GPS device when I all I could see were three ‘60s era co-op towers looming in the middle of a field adjacent to the Grand Central Parkway, I became more intrigued.

While the Northshore Towers website paints the property as luxury residences, all I saw were walkers, canes and oxygen tanks. In the basement of the Beaumont building, you’ll find a gussied up diner filled with middle aged children dining with their parents, a grocery store for tenants only and a cinema with a hard ass security guard.

We were told we had to wait behind the velvet rope because the previous movie hadn’t let out yet. We were the only expectant patrons so I had time to scrutinize the Xeroxed movie schedule taped up on the glassed enclosure and was alarmed to see that Let the Right One In had been whited out and He’s Just Not That Into You had been scrawled on top in block letters. Argh. My plan was too good to be true. After asking the humorless gatekeeper which movie was actually playing, she went downstairs fetched the manager, a younger brunette version of the Crypt Keeper (god bless your soul, Geocities), who had no idea what we were talking about.

He was all, “Er, I just play what they send me.” It was finally determined that he had no idea what Let the Right One In was and that it was never sent. I have absolutely no idea how it ended up on Moviefone in the first place (the schedule on the theater’s website is currently for the week of March 6-12 so no clue there). A white haired couple had appeared by this point and after noting the painful romantic comedy, slowly shuffled away.

The only thing I could think of that would soften my disappointment was finally being able to pay a visit to old-school Americanized Cantonese King Yum in nearby Fresh Meadows. How would it stack up compared to Staten Island’s Jade Island, the only other restaurant of this ilk that I’m aware of?

The dining room was appropriately bambooed, thatched and set off with wooden tiki carvings. A karaoke cabana was set up against one wall. Tall burgundy vinyl menus with fantastical rum-based cocktails on the front page seemed like a good sign.

But all in all the food was as I’d expected it to be: merely average. James thought the space was dreary and that little things like the duck sauce to the spicy mustard tasted off or watered down.

The cuisine isn’t meant to be mind-blowing, which is why I focused on the pupu platter for two and only ordered one entrée, General Tso Chicken. Lo mein would’ve been appropriate but I didn’t want to go overboard.

Nostalgia doesn’t come with a twentieth century price tag. The prices were a little higher than I’d expected. Sure, you can do the column A column B combos, and maybe most diners do (the Queensy crowd didn’t strike me big spenders) but a la carte dishes were well into the teens and the pupu platter was $20.

I chose a zombie to go with my sterno-warmed treats. Maybe I haven’t been giving fruity drinks a fair shake because this wasn’t half-bad.

It could be an east coast west coast thing but I never had wontons with sweet orange duck sauce growing up. I don’t really get their appeal though I do like the crunch they add to hot and sour soup. The sauces of my youth were candy apple red sweet and sour and ketchup in a little circular dish that also contained a small dab of hot mustard. My first ever job was bussing tables at a restaurant a few blocks from my high school called Hunan Garden and I’d spent the first 15 minutes of my shift pouring sticky still warm sweet and sour sauce from a tea kettle into little plastic to go containers. Hot mustard was doled out sparingly, only to the half-way mark.

The pupu platter contained thick beef wedges on skewers and spare ribs, both dangerously sinewy and wanting to occupy the open space in the back of my lower right jaw where my wisdom tooth lived three days prior. Puffy hyper-battered fantail shrimp (they always remind me of fat miniature seals) were a must. The shrimp toast was oozing oil yet I still found the crispy mousse topped triangles irresistible. The foil wrapped chicken was odd. I think it was flavored with a shitload of curry powder, kind of bitter and yellow-tinged with a hint of crushed coriander. I heard a girl at an adjacent table refer to these as Thai chicken. Maybe the curry powder makes it so? Definitely not my favorite.

The general tso wasn’t breaded and crispy as anticipated. I know there’s a real version of this dish that’s not battered, I’ve made it myself, but when I go to a restaurant of this ilk I expect crispy nuggets. There's no denying the silver dome is classy, though.

Once the fruity cocktail floodgates had opened I felt no shame in ordering a pina colada. I’m not sure if it was my vicodin (this meal ended up being a huge mistake considering I was supposed to eating soft food only) or if they actually went heavy on the rum, but I started warming to King Yum after the second drink. I still prefer Jade Island. Even though it’s in the middle of a strip mall the kitschy establishment feels more like a hideaway.

There was no rectifying our thwarted Swedish teenage vampire flick. The least offensive movie playing after 9:30pm in the immediate vicinity was The Reader in Kew Gardens. I was at least hoping for some hot cougar action (ok, I actually take issue with anyone getting that label, but especially anyone under 40) but was faced with a bit more nazi schmaltz than I would’ve liked. Bizarrely, the couple in front of us left within the first 30 minutes, before the film even went south.

King Yum * 181-08 Union Turnpike, Fresh Meadows, NY

Stung by Jollibee

I honestly didn’t have high hopes for a Valentine’s Day treat involving Chickenjoy or spaghetti studded with frankfurters at Jollibee on opening day. In the Philippines the homegrown chain is way bigger than McDonald’s. There’s serious nostalgia at work (though not for me, obviously). I could see from blogs that the East Coast’s first branch in Woodside, Queens was tempting visitors from as far as Toronto. James’ Pinoy coworker was packing up his family and heading in from New Jersey’s outer reaches.

I wanted a piece of the action, but went in cautiously expecting a crowd. Sure enough, around 4pm there was a line composed of anxious customers wrapped around the block. We estimated at least a four hour wait. Ack. (Sorry about the oddly colored photos--I'm still getting used to my Christmas gift camera and forgot to change a setting because I rarely take outdoor pics.)

I could stand to wait a few weeks for the hype to die down. Remember how quickly Pollo Campero mania faded? After the initial ruckus, the Guatemalan fried chicken chain couldn’t even sustain enough business in Sunset Park to stay open (there’s still one in Corona, though).

So, we had an impromptu late lunch at Sripraphai instead. No waiting and no photos necessary since I order nearly the same thing every time (crispy watercress salad, crispy pork with chile and basil, drunken noodles and a curry—this time a super bony, more fiery than usual catfish version with apple eggplants).

Since no one gave me holiday candies I gifted myself with assorted mithai from Delhi Palace. These colorful sugar bombs will kill you, total diabetes in a box (seriously, everyone thinks that blacks and latinos are the kings of insulin resistance, but Indians have the highest rate of Type 2 diabetes in the city, which I only remember because the New York Times’ article on the topic last year, “Bedeviled by the Sugar Sickness” was illustrated with a photo of Delhi Palace)  but I love the creamy sweet assault on rare occasions.

I almost would’ve forgotten it was Valentine’s Day if I hadn’t been handed plastic wrapped flowers by a waitress at Sripraphai  just before she ran out. By the time we were done eating, the usual Saturday night hordes had amassed in the lobby and outside…and yep, there was still a massive queue at Jollibee. I’ll be back.

Urubamba

As I’ve often suspected, a Queens Under $25 review don’t mean shit. Initially, I was concerned about crowds (and worried that I’d look a mindless follower—I swear I suggested this place the previous week) but when I arrived with a group of six a little after 9pm three days after Urubamba made the Times, (possibly the first instance of a food blogger in this slot) there were only a handful of tables occupied. Sripraphai appears to be the only restaurant in that borough that can draw a genuine crowd from all parts of the city.

Urubamba is the bizarro Kampuchea. You order eight dishes and show up with three six-packs (Budweiser, Negro Modelo and St. Pauli Girl, oddly each female counterpart knew exactly which brew was chosen by their significant other. I easily pegged James for the St Pauli Girl) and only leave $20 lighter. It’s extremely rare that I am shocked over a bill being so low.

This Jackson Heights excursion was to meet up with a former Spanish class taker who’d recently bought a co-op in the neighborhood, a current classmate who still lives in South Brooklyn, and both women’s husbands. I’d like to believe that our Peruvian group dinner wasn’t as dorky as a high school Spanish class field trip (not that I would know first hand—I took French and we never left the building).

The roast chicken was awesome, which shouldn’t have been surprising since I’ve never had bad Peruvian pollo a la brasa (I still don’t understand why the West Village Pardo’s morphed into a cevicheria). The salty (soy sauce is the not-so-secret ingredient) crispy skin and juicy meat never fail to win diners over. Don't forget the green sauce.

The chicken combo came with everyone’s (ok, my) favorite junk food mashup, salchipapas.

As well as a pitcher of chicha morada, a scarlet cinnamony beverage that gets its pretty color from purple corn. Or maybe just a powered mix, who knows? I was recently informed that in Spain chicha means love handles, though I suspect this isn’t true in the Andes.

Ceviche ties with rotisserie chicken for best Peruvian specialty. This is the mixto with shrimp and octopus. I like the crunch offered by the dried corn kernels. Sometimes the chunky sweet potato rounds are overwhelming. I’m neutral on the white potatoes.

Tiradito is more purist, fish-only. These crudo preparations were lime juice tart and not terribly spicy. Despite the use of aji amarillo and rocoto peppers, Peruvian cuisine isn’t known for hot flavors.

A yuca rellena stuffed with ground beef and hardboiled eggs (they really love their hardboiled eggs) didn’t go far split into sixths.

No one got too excited about the papas a la huancainas, classic as it may be. The cold dish of yellow-sauced potatoes reminded me of a mild curry. I had no idea that the creamy texture was a result of pureed cheese, evaporated milk and Saltines. Strange, but good strange.

Still hungry, we debated getting a whole fried fish, which seemed to be popular but by the time we asked they were sold out of snapper. When asked for ideas, our waitress suggested the chicken, which was kind of like the potatoes. It appears that you can huancaina-up anything.

Arroz con mariscos, a paella-ish dish in a heavy pot, was the crowning glory.

Sorry, lovebirds. I wasn’t trying to capture you on film; you just happened to be the only patrons left in the restaurant.

Pre-dinner drinks combined with meal-time beers caused us to lose track of time. Normally, I’m a freak about being the last one in a restaurant or arriving near to closing, but you know, I’m trying to cut loose in 2009. Overstaying your welcome will get lights turned off on you, though.

Urubamba * 86-20 37th Ave., Jackson Heights, NY

Vesta Trattoria

We have a zillion Italian-American, Italian-Italian, wine bars, pizzerias and small plates joints in Carroll Gardens and environs so maybe I’m blasé. I wouldn’t think twice about Vesta Trattoria if it were on Smith Street.

But Astoria is a different matter. That part of Queens has never been my stomping grounds, so I’m not a good judge of the neighborhood. But from what I can tell, there doesn’t seem to be much going on way west on 20th Street. Maybe that’s one of the reasons why the brand new restaurant was filled beyond capacity on Saturday.

At least they understand the power of softening an hour wait with a free drink. I don’t know how many places, particularly small places catering to locals, seem hospitality deficient. You think that would be especially vital in the first few weeks when opinions are being formed.

The menu isn’t wide-ranging. There are a handful of starters, three pizzas, four pastas and on my visit, three entrees. I wasn’t taken by the standard sounding chicken, salmon or steak. Maybe they were prepared wonderfully, warm lentils and prune reduction doesn’t sound half bad, but they didn’t entice me with their simplicity.

Instead, I shared a lemony cracked wheat salad. I don’t always want something delicate and leafy when it’s freezing out so this fit the still light but more substantial bill. This is the type of thing that would be horribly dull if I made it myself, probably because I always underdress salads.

Pizzas are very crackery, which I like, though I know not all do. The margherita was a little tomato and basil sweet and not terribly cheesey.

Pastas come in cute individual casseroles, which struck me as something Gordon Ramsey would suggest to perk up business on Kitchen Nightmares. Not that any nightmares occurred here (well, sort of, if you consider being smooshed next to a furiously groping couple who insist on sitting side-by-side on a shared banquette, horrifying. I particularly liked it when James inadvertently got brushed by the grabbing hands an inch from his body).

Gnocchi with oyster mushrooms in a cream sauce more than compensated for the oddly light starters. This was hearty, though not relentlessly dense. The parmesan crumbs and meaty fungi kept the dish interesting.

“Sunday dinner style” lasagna, whatever that means. I did not sample this, and worried for a second, considering it was Saturday’s dinner.

I’m not clear what atmosphere they’re trying to cultivate, maybe it’s evolving. The Scorpions and Poison that were initially playing seemed a little off but I kind of got it and didn’t think it was completely ironic as the crowd leaned middle of the road. As the night wore on Vampire Weekend came on, as if one of the waiters had finally got a chance to play his mix.

This is the strange little artwork that I looked at during most of my meal. For no particular reason, it made me think of the “The Nightman Cometh” musical from It’s Always Sunny in Philadelphia’s season finale. I suppose that’s a good thing, not sure if it’s appetite stimulating, though.

If you feel compelled to pay a visit and intend to drive, beware the folly of Google maps. Type in 20-02 30th Ave. and it gives you 80-02. Drive there and you’ll end up in a residential neighborhood near La Guardia trying to figure out where you went wrong.

Vesta Trattoria * 21-02 30th Ave., Astoria, NY

Little Pepper

1/2 Sometimes thwarted plans don’t bother me. Saturday night I had intended to try Flushing’s Hot Pot City. All you can dunk hot pot with unlimited beer? A place after my own heart. But unfortunately it was no more, literally, a dry erase board at the bottom of the staircase read “no more hotpot.” And they hadn’t simply run out of soup--the second-floor space had morphed into a foodless bar.

Ah well, that left me with two nearby favorites: A Fan Ti or Little Pepper. When in doubt it’s always Sichuan. Plus, last time I attempted Little Pepper it was full and I had to settle for Spicy & Tasty (which isn’t really settling).

I’ve been enough times now that I was determined to try new things. However, the cumin lamb was a necessary repeat. I’m still not sure why it’s served in foil, the char-edged meat and onions are clearly the mark of high heat sautéing. Sometimes pools of orange oil are alarming, but not so with Sichuan food. You need that oil.

Also sitting in a wonderful pool of spicy oil was the largest serving of dan dan noodles I’ve ever seen. Normally, these pork-dotted coils come in a small vessel similar in size to a single rice serving. It’s hard to tell scale from the photo but this was practically a salad bowl, and I’m pretty sure they cost less than $5.

I don’t recall portions being so huge in the past. We only ate about a third of each of our dishes and had so much left over that the to-go containers were bulging. But I order with future meals in mind. I noticed the other twosome sitting near us only ordered one braised dish and a vegetable. That’s probably more normal.

I tried branching out and asked for the ox stomach in mashed garlic. That didn’t sound terribly appetizing but I figured it was just tripe, and I wanted to see what a cold appetizer would be like with mashed garlic rather than the usual chile oil. Sadly, it was a no go. Maybe next time. The one thing I noticed was that the tingly peppercorn effect was very muted in all of the dishes that normally would showcase it (these tendons, the noodles and lamb). Maybe it was just an old batch of Sichuan peppercorns—I have the same problem at home.

Cauliflower with smoked pork was one of two pale-on-pale white dishes. I was imagining a crispy, roasted vegetable, which is kind of silly because Chinese do not oven roast (hmm…and this amusing thread appeared right after I wrote this). No, this was a steamed, soupy dish with most of the flavor coming from the very smoky meat. It seemed kind of like an excuse to nibble fatty meat under the guise of eating your vegetables.

Venturing into the braised section of the menu was new for me.  I wasn’t ready for organs, so fish it was. Enough fish for six people. This was also a chile oil-free presentation. The flavor was delicate with a very mild flaky fish (I did not ask what kind). The secret to livening things up is to get a bit of the salty-hot pickled chiles in each mouthful. It’s the difference between a staid and tongue-searing. (9/13/08)

Zabb Thai

1/2 “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me” was all I could spit out while approaching Roosevelt Avenue. Even from a block away I was getting an unpleasant eyeful of at least 40 diners-to-be swarming the sidewalk in front of Sripraphai. Seriously?

I know the place’s popularity seems to grow exponentially each year and that you get what you’re asking for on a Saturday night even on a holiday weekend, but no, I wasn’t buying the insanity. It’s not Sripraphai’s problem that they’ve become such a success but I can’t tolerate the hour waiting thing even for my most favorite salad in the world (next to Resto’s crispy pig’s ear). I felt tired and defeated without even stepping into the fray.

Quick plan B: Zabb just down the road. No crowd, and in their favor they keep late night hours and are BYOB (which I didn’t realize until we’d already sat down). Curries aren’t their strength, as the focus is more Northern Thai, but fiery herby salads and stir-fries are good too.

Moo dad. I was thinking these would be crispy like skin-on pork belly in little chunks, but these pork strips were breaded and fried and served with chile sauce. This could’ve been heavy and greasy a la chicken fried steak but the coating was light and the meat was juicy. And I really liked that we got a full container of the sauce with our leftovers. I’m always disappointed when I bring home uneaten steak from Argentine parrillas and there’s no chimichurri included in the bag.

I always mean to order the catfish mango salad at Sripraphai but can never forgo the crispy watercress, it’s a catch 22. I love how the fish has been fried unrecognizably into fluff. I once made this at home a million years ago. Getting the catfish into this state wasn’t the hard part—it was shredding the mango properly. I need a tool like this. Crisp, salty and fatty hit with sweet fruit and rich cashews? I love that combination.

No, this duck salad wasn’t a replacement for my beloved awesomely rich duck, eggplant and bamboo shoot curry. The flavors were all there, maybe I just wanted those particular vegetables mixed with the poultry.

We weren’t asked about spice levels and forgot to make any mention. The chicken larb was the only dish that seemed too mild.

I have zero business sense but judging from the freak show in front of Sripraphai there is clearly a market for authentic Thai food for non-Thais. And even though there’s a glut of so-so Thai already in my neighborhood, that would be my target area. If I knew how to open a restaurant and import cooks from Thailand I would channel my inner Chodorow and make it happen.

Which reminds me, I’m 99% sure I’m going to Thailand later this year. I’d been planning on Malaysia but had my mind changed at the last minute. Why not Thailand? At least I that’s what I thought until all hell broke loose this week. But I went to Singapore during the SARS scare, particularly because the flight was dirt cheap. Maybe I can work this civil unrest thing to my financial advantage. Ha, there's always the free food for protesters angle. (8/30/08)

Poodam's

Poodam’s has reminded me once again of the lameness that is Brooklyn Thai food. Even an unassuming corner spot in that weird part of Astoria not far from the multiplex theater serves better food than any of the attention grabbers in Cobble Hill.

I’m almost certain that I’ve relayed this tale before but it clearly annoyed me enough that it’s still stuck in my craw more than a year after the fact. An extremely volatile, know-it-all former coworker with an MBA (who got fired shortly after I quit of free will) insisted that Joya in my neighborhood served the best Thai food she’d eaten in NYC. And I was like, “You’re nuts” which prompted the oh so sassy, “Have you even been to Thailand?” Uh, yeah I have, and then I thought she was crazier than I already did.

The Issan menu (they spell it e-san but I like it with an I) is what makes Poodam’s unique. When I see Northeastern Thai specialties, I stick to salads over curries.

I tend to imagine Thai sausage as grilled, stiff yet crumbly like this from a random Poodam’s diner. Yet whenever I order a salad with Thai sausage (which has only been twice, the other instance being at Lotus of Siam in Las Vegas) the style used is pale and boiled-seeming, more akin to weisswurst or bologna. I don’t mind these soft sliced links but it’s something to remember. Obviously, I enjoyed this rendition with tomatoes, red onions and a tart-hot dressing or else I would’ve remembered to have taken a photo before half of it was gone.

Normally, I prefer my duck a little fatty, crispy skin intact, but it also makes for a rich larb ingredient. Typically, there’s no added fat in a larb preparation (just broth) so a gamier meat than chicken works well. I’ve been known to make healthier larb at home with chicken breasts but that’s not something I’d want to eat in a restaurant.

The fried fish was more Chinesey in flavor though I can’t put my finger on what made it so. Maybe it’s soy instead of fish sauce? I’ve noticed this effect with certain basil and chile preparations. Whole, crispy bass is a treat.

Drunken noodles just because. If it were up to me, I wouldn’t order noodles with a Thai meal because they seem like a distracting thing unto itself.

My Poodam’s review for Nymag.com

Poodam’s * 44-19 Broadway, Astoria, NY

 

Lucky Mojo

3/4 Cajun, Tex-Mex, bbq and sushi? Sounds like kitchen nightmare waiting to happen. The cuisine at Lucky Mojo is about as convoluted as the restaurant’s history. This cavernous bi-level, barn-like space is the current incarnation of the now-shuttered Upper West Side Jacques-Imo’s, which was an offshoot of a popular New Orleans restaurant.

I liked my meal on a visit to Louisiana some time ago, never heard anything good about the NYC version and was even more scared of this Long Island City mishmash. It’s not the kind of place you go out of your way for, but if the urge for sushi and etoufee strikes while you’re at the Water Taxi Beach, Lucky Mojo is your place.

There’s a full on sushi bar upstairs, which churns out standard rolls in addition to specialties like this one using crawfish and Tabasco.

I was not weirded out by the shrimp and alligator cheesecake because it’s a Jacques-Imo’s signature that I’ve had before. It only sounds creepy because they call it a cheesecake, which it is--oh, and because alligator meat doesn’t sit well with some. The alligator is in sausage form and with all of the cream and spices you would have no idea you were eating a water reptile unless someone told you. No, this is not healthy food but split among four it was reasonable.

Bbq shrimp is another frighteningly rich New Orleans dish that has nothing to do with barbecue sauce or grilling. I’ve had a wonderful rendition of this buttery, Worcestershire and black pepper drenched treat, and this didn’t quite match. The rice was on the undercooked side, too. And they forgot my side of collard greens.

 

I did not taste this shrimp po boy.

Nor the catfish sandwich.

Vegetarian taco. What more needs to be said?

As we finished our meal, my dining companions and I began discussing a movie we were about to watch, The Great Happiness Space: Tale of an Osaka Love Thief, about gender reversal host bars where young Japanese women pay good money for the attention of hired men. The Japanese propensity for fantasy indulging and role-playing gave us a brilliant idea: Beta Kappa McPaddysteins.

This would be a faux frat house where Japanese girls would shell out big bucks for a simulated American-style date rape experience. Don’t worry, no sex would actually occur, this would be a professional establishment. First, our patrons would be serenaded by Dave Mathews and sloppily wooed by gentleman in cargo shorts, flip flops and baseball caps. Beer pong would be played and jello shots would be in abundance. Good clean fun, a little cosplay never hurt anyone.

Huh, and then our waiter broke up our genius business plan when he stopped by with a tray of shots. Did he overhear? Did he want in on the action? No way, mister, Beta Kappa McPaddysteins is all mine.

Read my less date rapey take on Lucky Mojo for Nymag.com

Lucky Mojo * Long Island City, NY

Ihawan

“Philippines Asks Fast Food Chains to Cut Rice Servings”

Clearly, I have starch on the brain because when I saw that headline I immediately thought, yeah, because they eat shitloads of rice and it’s totally unhealthy. But no, the article isn’t about Filipinos’ ravenous appetites for rice, it’s all about rising food costs (which I still can’t muster interest in—I’ll get back to you when I’m subsisting on tap water and shriveled potatoes).

My teenage-era best friend, who was yes, Filipino, would complain that rice servings were never large enough. She’d frequently order seconds. I witnessed this exact thing at Ihawan on Easter Sunday.

The place was packed and we did a good deal of waiting before eventually getting shuttled into this weirdo back room with a threesome and a big party (that brought their own plastic jugs of Ocean Spray cranberry juice, which seemed like a strange thing to byob). Everyone gets a big generous blob of rice, at least one cup’s worth, but the threesome asked for refills before meal’s end. I conscientiously nibbled at a third of my scoop and survived just fine.

Twelve lumpias sounds like a lot, but they’re tiny things fried and filled with ground pork. The orange sauce is sweet and a little too gloppy but that’s the way it is. Sometimes you’re just in the mood for a spring roll even if you know it will be merely adequate. I’ve always been partial to cha gio, but you can’t get pork cracklings at Vietnamese restaurants so there’s a trade off.

Ihawan is meaty---their slogan is “the best bbq in town”--so I knew better than to delve into any of the soupier classics like chicken adobo or even touch the pancit. Plus, you can find those practically anywhere in a two-block radius.

 

I don’t think you need me to tell you that this isn’t ribs and brisket barbecue. No mop sauces and spice rubs. It’s grilled meat, in this instance pork and chicken, that’s spent time soaking in sweet and garlicky liquid. The rice-crazed friend’s family used Dr. Pepper in their marinade. The end result is sticky, sugary, a little salty, and completely amazing with charred edges caramelized just so. It really kind of is made for rice.

You need the vinegary, pickled green papaya condiment, achara, to take the sweet edge off. But there are other things floating around in the little dish, too. I’ve always found the addition of raisins in Filipino food to be a fun Spanish appropriation that you just don’t see in the rest of Southeast Asia. The plumped dried grapes mix with shredded carrot and lots of minced garlic.

 

Lechon is a must always. I tend to order mine kawali, chopped up with good portions of meat, fat and crispy skin in each chunk. I’ve noticed on the blogs you see more pata, the whole foot, which is practically German and also a huge treat. Maybe I’m just dainty. Either way, it will slowly kill you.

The pork also calls for its own condiment, the simply named lechon sauce, which is savory, slightly tart and completely impossible to discern the individual ingredients from. I’m still surprised that the flavor comes from liver, vinegar and breadcrumbs. That’s ingenious.

 

Ok, at least one vegetable was in order. No one said it had to be a healthy vegetable. This is laing, which is akin to creamed spinach but uses taro leaves and coconut milk instead. A couple head-on shrimp get tossed in for good measure.

I’d read and saw ads for a new Ihawan branch in Long Island City that will serve sushi. This is bizarre, for one, because I don’t think of the slowly gentrifying barely-a-neighborhood demanding Filipino food (I honestly don’t think the average citizen has much knowledge about Pinoy cuisine, period) and two, sushi? But heck, if Lucky Mojo, also new in LIC, can serve Cajun, Tex-Mex, bbq and raw fish, why not Ihawan? Barbecue and sushi will be huge by mid-2008, or at least in a tiny sliver of western Queens. (3/23/08)

Read my much more concise review at Nymag.com

La Esquina Criolla

I would never claim to be an Argentine/Argentinean (either are acceptable—I can never decide which sounds better) food connoisseur but I do indulge in a mixed grill every now and then. And always in Queens.

However, La Esquina Criolla was new to me. I knew the name but I rarely get out to Corona. Neighboring Elmhurst and Jackson Heights, all the time, but I never go that extra bit east unless I’m going to Flushing.

 

I was joining an internet stranger and his friend for what I think is a semi-regular Friday night event. If I was old(er) I would say that I met them on the computer, nay, machine. That’s the thing about NYC, people who you correspond with every so often might actually live in your city, and quite possibly your neighborhood.

When I used to have print pen pals in Portland, which was considered a zine hotbed (along with Berkeley and Olympia) I rarely met up with anyone in person, and the few times I did it didn’t end too well. Freaks I didn’t know would find my phone number and call me from time to time, though. (Some of them were blind, manic, small town homosexuals into verbal slash fiction involving childstars…but that’s for another time.)

Nothing bad happened beyond a few tough pieces of beef. Food-related internet strangers are never killers; at most they might be weird or dorky (often the case with any obsession, culinary or not) and often they're completely normal. Actually, the worst food crazed stranger might be the hipster. I know they exist, I see their posts and comments. Not that these gents (and I’m thinking of men for some reason) and I cross paths. But I have some ideas about this hard to pin down and under exposed group. I suspect that they are involved with or attend “secret” supper clubs. They possibly  cultivate their own honey, make pickles or other artisanal products in a practice space or on a Bushwick rooftop. Hmm…I’d like to say something about Asian girlfriends but I don’t want to get a hater reputation. Can I say that they probably subscribe to Diner Journal and not offend anyone?

 

A meaty brown still life. Sure, you can stick with skirt steak or short ribs, but I like all the odd bits. Kidneys, sweetbreads, blood sausage and intestines (which always seem to be included despite not being listed on the menu) I can deal with. What I can’t handle are the regular pork sausages. Just like Jimmy Dean patties, they always give me a stomachache.

 

No olives, peanuts, and the like. When your freebie (at least I think this was on the house) is meat you know what you’re in for. I didn’t concern myself with distractions like empanadas. It's not always a good idea to delve into vegetables, pastas and salads at Argentine places anyway.

I did break my low-starch fast and shared a plate of yuca. I was pleased that they were cut small for maximum surface crispiness. I do love this root vegetable but only in this form--it's not as fun when it comes in a solid boiled chunk like a wet potato.

 

Everything can be improved with chimichurri. I realize it’s not difficult to make (garlic, parsley, vinegar and olive oil) but I picked up a bottled version last year and it just wasn’t the same.

Combo #4 is solid: skirt steak, short rib and sausage.

The lord was my shepherd even in the bathroom. I don't know that framed bible photos in the lavatory are exactly an Argentinean trademark.

Later that night, I discovered that intestines are a great low carb snack. I mean, once you get over the trauma of nibbling on a digestive tract. More so than kidneys which are super concentrated and organy, sweetbreads, which are kind of fluffy and sometimes bitter. Intestines are satisfyingly chewy, crispy if charred right, and just a little fatty. I’ve never gotten into popcorn (though I do like caramel corn), it’s just salty and boring,  but a little carton of innards would be the perfect accompaniment to a movie.

La Esquina Criolla * 94-67 Corona Ave., Corona, NY

Athens Tavern

I hate to admit that there’s a food I don’t like because I prefer to believe I’m open minded. But I have to say that I’m not crazy about rabbit. There, I said it.

It’s definitely not something I grew up with, but then neither are most meats beyond chicken, ham and ground beef. When I ordered rabbit two birthdays ago at Cookshop the taste weirded me out. I thought it was a fluke, though. Yet the same thing happened again with this creative Greek preparation employing cinnamon and bergamot. The sea of orange is mashed sweet potatoes.

I don’t have issues with offal or venison or heck, even horse. Game is fine but there’s something about rabbit that’s tangy and sharp, hitting my palate high and towards my throat almost like vomit. Literally like I threw up in my mouth a little. It’s definitely doesn’t taste like chicken.

Athens Tavern is interesting in that it doesn’t fall into either predominate NYC Greek category: Manhattan haute Hellenic and dully traditional fare in Astoria. Athens Tavern sits in said Queens neighborhood but it’s far more ambitious than grilled octopus and spanakopita.

 

We were given three dips from the appetizer menu gratis. No complaints there. From left to right: mavromatika, a black-eyed pea salad, melitzanosalata, garlicky eggplant mash served with barley rusks, taramosalata, a carp roe puree that I seriously couldn’t stop eating. I don’t understand how fish eggs, lemon juice and olive oil can be so good.

 

Kypriakes pittes gemistes me pikantiko kotopoulo is a mouthful. All you need to know that all those words equal curried chicken salad in crispy pitas. Kind of strange, actually. The English description made mention of pie, so I was hoping for something more flaky and pastry-like.

James ordered a whole grilled fish, possibly a porgy, but the photo was even blurrier than the ones I’ve included here.

 

We didn’t order dessert but were brought two anyway and glasses of Muscat. I wasn’t sure if this was hospitality or special treatment. Not that I do anything to warrant freebies. You might think that furtively scribbling notes or taking photos in a restaurant would draw attention, but it rarely does. I think New Yorkers are blasé.

 

Pineapple phyllo and rose flavored chocolate mousse were both very alluring but unnecessary since we’d already eaten our fill. Ok, since I let my rabbit hesitancy out of the bag, allow me another admission that will make me seem like a pickier eater than I am. I absolutely gag at the thought of eating flowers, and even flavors like violet, rose and orange blossom give me trouble.

In high school I occasionally smoked Jezebel cigarettes perfumed with rose and gardenia. I thought they were the coolest because they were pink and magenta with gold tips and matched my hair color. But they were so sweetly foul they’d induce instant nausea. This is how I feel about flowery desserts.

That is not how I feel about Athens Tavern, however, just rose water. Read my positive review on nymag.com.

Very strange…the day I finally got around to posting this (I wait until my listings get published, which can lag anywhere from a few weeks to many months from when I actually ate the meal) a bit shows up on Grub Street that the restaurant might be history. Well, I just typed all this nonsense so there’s no deleting it now.

Athens Tavern * 23-01 31st St., Astoria, NY

San Antonio Bakery #2

Yesterday was the only day I’ve gone to work in a week and that was a mistake I did not repeat today. Unfortunately, Monday I still felt like death and ended up having to leave early. I wasn’t even sure if I’d make it home.

I’ve always speculated about if you’re going to faint/barf/have heart failure in public is it better to be on the subway or the sidewalk. The conscientious person in me says the sidewalk and not just because of those if you’re sick, stay off the trains public service posters. I would much appreciate it if someone who was about to keel over (especially lady dieters) had enough wits to step off the train and spare me a tangled commute.

Last night my heart was beating so hard I thought I was going into cardiac arrest, I was gushing sweat so profusely that my jeans were wet and then my strenuous coughing fits caused me to start to peeing my already disgusting pants. Twenty-four hours later and I’m still dizzy, shaky and burning up. The remarkable thing is that still have a perfectly normal appetite. Frighteningly, I can always eat. If I were terminally ill I’d probably die obese.

And this weekend I plumped up with Chilean snacks. I’m not in Astoria that often so while reviewing perfectly nice Café Soleil, I kept thinking about San Antonio Bakery #2 on the next block. I could’ve left well enough alone. I was fortified enough by a black coffee and croissant for an afternoon showing of There Will be Blood, but I would be negligent if I didn’t stock up on dulce de leche treats for later.

 

Witness the alfajor. Alfajores mean many things to many people. Argentine versions are more like sandwich cookies. In Peru and Bolivia they use manjar blanco (a lighter caramel) as a filling. These Chilean goodies are substantial and consist of three thin cracker-like cookies slathered with dulce de leche and rolled in shredded coconut.

 

Similar flavors are brought together in wedges of panqueque, thin layers of sponge cake frosted with rich caramel. (This is an old photo that I swear I'd used in my previous San Antonio Bakery missive but it doesn't appear so.)

 

Empanadas are another one of those million of renditions foods. These Chilean pastries are big, doughy and baked. The crusts are stuffed with chopped beef, onions, hard boiled egg, raisins and one black olive. They’re heartier and more pie-like than the Caribbean-style turnovers more commonly found around NYC. (2/26/08)

Brunch Confessions: Time Cafe & Taco Chulo

For someone who couldn’t agree with this sentiment more, I’ve been doing an awful lot of brunching in the past week. I don’t know how I went from a few brunches a year to two in eight days. This does not bode well for 2008 and I’ll nip it in the bud pronto.

Last weekend I tried Astoria’s Time Café because I was assigned to review the restaurant. See? No say in the matter. I have no problem going to Astoria to dine, but I wouldn’t wake up early for the privilege. But the restaurant does seem like a welcome newish option for the neighborhood. Frankly, I was more interested in Issan Thai Poodam’s across the street.

My swiss cheese and tomato omelet didn’t blow me away but that’s the nature of brunch. It was satisfying. Who needs their mind blown before noon? Ok, 2pm. My egg dish plus vodka-heavy bloody mary and a basket of mini muffins was a fair deal for $12.

Today I ended up at Taco Chulo because I wanted to meet a friend’s half-sister visiting from Germany. It’s fun and informative to meet siblings of people you know. My sister will be here from England next month if anyone has the same curiosity. We are kind of opposites in that I’m brunette, brown-eyed while she’s blonde, blue-eyed, I love meat and she’s vegetarian (formerly vegan), she’s dog-crazy and I’m fond of cats, I hate nature and she’s outdoorsy, I generally loathe humans and she does social work. But other than those minor details, we’re very similar.

 

Huevos rancheros were ordered by four of my party of six, but I couldn’t resist the queso benedict. Who needs hollandaise when Velveeta sauce is more versatile. Swapping cornbread for english muffins was also not a bad idea. $5 two-for-one mimosas was an even better idea.

I promise to sleep in and only eat breakfast in the privacy of my home for the rest of the year. After all my boo hooing, I did get a small-squared waffle maker for Christmas.

Read my Time Cafe review for nymag.com

Time Café * 44-18 Broadway, Astoria, NY
Taco Chulo * 318 Grand St., Brooklyn, NY

Engeline's

Filipino food is a tough sell in America, though there’s no good reason why. I have a disproportionate fondness for it, which is probably due to my exposure to it during my formative teen years and  natural underdoggy bent.  I was thrilled when Memories of Philippine Kitchens, a hefty, memoir-ish  cookbook came out late 2006. I read a bit every night before bed (yet I’m having trouble soldering through Secret Ingredients—I’m really trying to overcome my New Yorker aversion). Maybe this weekend I'll actually tackle a few recipes.

I think the cuisine lacks the immediate punchiness of Thai food or the perceived lightness of Vietnamese. It’s kind of a Chinese-Spanish-Malay mishmash that doesn’t taste exactly like any of those three. You could even count a Mexican influence (by way of Spain) when you consider Filipino versions of menudo, flan, empanadas and tamales. I don't know who turned them on to Edam cheese, however, but it's totally a Pinoy Christmas thing.

The hot and sweet flavors that I truly love aren’t so prominent. Filipino fare plays with the bitter, sour and salty ends of the spectrum and many dishes are stewed to mellowness. Yet, I still really enjoy the food, so much so that a classic problem arose. Our two top could not support everything we ordered and we ended up having to move to a more accommodating table. I should just warn waiters upon being seated that we order for four. Unlike most fussy New Yorkers I've encountered, I like leftovers so it’s almost always planned into the equation.

 

Only a hater could have a problem with lechon's crispy skin and chewy flesh. This is the perfect pork preparation. I swear I’m going to attempt it one of these days. I would kind of be an awesome Super Bowl snack. But what sets the meat apart is the dipping sauce. I realize that vinegar, breadcrumbs and liver sounds disgusting, and I had no idea until fairly recently that those were the backbone of lechon sauce because the condiment just tastes wonderfully savory with a touch of sweetness. There must be umami at play because I want to put it on everything.

 

I usually avoid chicken adobo because I’m afraid it’ll be boring. How exciting can soy sauce, vinegar, garlic and bay leaf be? Pretty good, it turns out. Maybe my one attempt was just uninspiring because I used boneless, skinless chunks instead of chicken parts. The magic is in the skin and bones, I think.

 

Pinakbet is essentially vegetables like green beans, pumpkin, okra and bitter melon boiled to softness, but the flavor is robust. I only ordered this out of vegetable duty but was kind of blown away by the non-blandness. Ok, it doesn’t hurt that nuggets of lechon are hiding out in nooks and crannies.

 

Kare kare can be overwhelming with its peanut buttery sauce; I only picked out a few bites of oxtail before falling victim to too much richness. It’s not a bad idea to add dabs of bagoong, fermented shrimp paste served alongside (I didn’t capture the condiment in any photos). Salty and pungent for sure, but the creamy dish can take the shock.

 

I’m a sucker for crazily hued chiffon cake. I think this ube had some help from artificial dye, but purple is pretty. I'll try anything unusually blue, purple or green. And after staring at the front bakery case throughout our lunch I had to take something to go. The insides were a little mangled, though.

I keep it to one tight paragraph for a Nymag.com review.

Engeline’s * 58-28 Roosevelt Ave., Woodside, NY

Om Tibet

Om Tibet is no more. 9/08

I think I must be desensitized to little nuisances, which is hard to believe since I’m irked on at least an hourly basis. But Om Tibet seemed to push the limits of visiting family. I don’t think they were keen on trying Tibetan food in the first place. To be honest, I wasn’t sure that I was either. I imagined it would be bland and dull. And it really wasn’t.

  I became a little nervous when a craggy customer who looked like a Korean war vet came over to take our order because the waitress had gone out and he wasn’t sure when she’d get back. I’m still not sure what his connection to the restaurant was, but he was sitting with some Asian men who seemed to be staff.

He was gung ho on the momos, steamed dumplings, and I thought they were a must too. These beef filled ones were very much like pot stickers minus the browned bottoms.

 

Thenthuk, a simple beef noodle soup with daikon and spinach caused a mild stir because it came in one bowl. I didn’t expect it to be served individually and assumed it was meant for one, but whatever. I was the only one who touched it and ended up bringing most of it home for later. I did appreciate the hand pulled noodles, but it didn’t quell my fears about bland food.

 

Shamdae doesn’t look like much but the chicken curry spiced similarly to Indian food was a hit.

The “shapta special beef chilly” was the stand out dish for me. The strips of beef were coated in a fiery, dry cumin spiked sauce and stir fried with onions, tomatoes and jalapenos. It felt more Chinese than Indian and wasn’t really either. Maybe that’s Tibetan?

Minor Trouble also erupted when we were told they didn’t have coffee. Because I’m opinionated and judgmental about things that don’t matter, I’ve come to believe that drinking coffee with dinner is the province of alcoholics and/or Denny’s patrons. Maybe I’m sensitive to this practice because I was called on it many years ago by a smart assy boss.

 

But they did have bocha, a tea rendered salty and creamy by yak butter. Ok, gross. I was the only taker, and it really wasn’t as unappealing as it sounds. I seemed like less of a beverage and more of a fortifying broth.

I don’t see what’s wrong with taking parents to hole-in-the-walls. The only uh-oh moment came when a roach ran over the bill as I opened holder. Strangely, vermin bothers me less when it’s not in my house. James warned against going, but when he brings his mom to a typically upscale yet cramped Manhattan restaurant she’ll just embarrass him anyway by barking at the host, “I’m from Virginia; I’m used to space.”

It sounds like I’m being negative, which wasn’t the overall impression at all. I thought Om Tibet was likeable and it’s definitely worth a visit if you’re on the Jackson Heights/Elmhurst border (to confuse further, the zipcode is Woodside) and don’t feel like Thai, Indian or Latin American food. Burmese Café, a block from Om Tibet, used to fill this niche but they seem to have closed for good.

Read my whine-free review on nymag.com

Om Tibet * 40-05 73rd St., Woodside, NY

La Casa del Pollo Peruano

1/2  Not too long ago I was craving South American pollo a la brasa of any type. I ended up at one of the numerous Marios because it was on the later side and they were open. But slightly preferring Peruvian over Colombian, my original intention was nearby La Casa del Pollo. Now, I’ve had a chance to try both.

 
Awkward looking yet delicious half chicken

What I didn’t know was that this bustling restaurant was nearly half-Chinese. Sure, rotisserie chicken meals with rice and beans sit at the top of the oversized paper menu, but if you look at the combo options pork fried rice appears. Then, as you skim downward, chop suey, lo mein and sweet and sour pork appear too.

 

At least I was able to finally try lomo saltado, a true fusion dish of stir-fried beef, onions and tomatoes that I’m pretty sure contains soy sauce. It’s the neither Peruvian nor Chinese addition of french fries that’s kind of strange and compelling (I’m fascinated by non-American recipes, or heck American ones too, that call for fries. Maltese Bacon has a Vietnamese rendition that actually sounds edible).

Cheap and simple, Casa del Pollo is totally the kind of thing lacking in my immediate neighborhood. As much as people think Smith St. is the shit (culinarily speaking), that’s not really true and doesn’t help those in the hinterlands. I would gladly take roast chicken and soy sauced french fries over bad Chinese and mediocre pizza.

Read my nymag.com review.

La Casa del Pollo * Roosevelt Ave., Jackson Heights, NY

Spicy & Tasty

Apparently, I didn’t get my fill of Sichuan food in China because last weekend I couldn’t stop thinking about tracking more down. Little Pepper was my first choice, but it was full at 8:30 on a Saturday. We could’ve waited but it was a good opportunity to give Spicy & Tasty, just around the corner, a re-visit.

I think some prefer Little Pepper because it’s grittier and less English-friendly. Somehow that implies authentic. But still in a fluorescent and formica vein, S&T is hardly upscale. I find the food comparable, if slightly pricier. We scored the only open table for two.

I settled on beef tendons from the long list of cold appetizers. It turned out that they had exhausted their supply, but in a way I lucked out because they topped off the plate with tripe. Double whammy. And to their credit, they did ask first before substituting. I know not all Americans are as tripe-crazed as I am.

Cold dishes are made on demand at a bar in the front of the restaurant. And the balance of chiles and peppercorns is right on. You feel the heat and the numbing tingle, but it’s not so overwhelming that you lose flavor. And the fresh crunch of cilantro stems enlivens the thinly sliced meat.

Next time I’ll branch out and try fish but I wasn’t in the mood for the unknown. I knew that enhanced pork was up my alley and similar to a dish I’d recently eaten in Beijing. Essentially, it’s a stir-fry of fresh pork, leeks and chiles. Everything gets a caramely sear; the vegetables turn sweet and play off the chile hotness.

The translations explain little and make it difficult to know what you’re going to get. For instance, there’s lamb with red chile sauce, lamb with chile pepper and sliced lamb in sliced fresh hot pepper on the menu. I have no freaking idea how any of those differ. In fact, I can’t remember which one the above photo is though I suspect it’s lamb with chile pepper. The chile used was dried and ground and seemed to only show up in random bites of food. This was wonderfully gamey and oily, but I actually prefer a less saucy lamb like the cumin dusted version at Little Pepper.

I’ve tried making dry-cooked string beans before but they never quite turn out like this. These taste almost meaty and chopped preserved vegetables scattered throughout was an unexpected touch.

Lord, I can't believe my last visit was four years ago, and almost to the day. Is this what aging feels like? (11/17/07)

Heading through Flushing on the way back from a tough afternoon IKEA shopping on Long Island, I knew it was the perfect time to check out this restaurant I'd been hearing about. Since the car was literally bursting at the seams with enough cheap furniture to add up to $475, James was hesitant to park on the street. A parking garage was requisite or he said we couldn't stop for dinner. That was like a mean dad thing to say, and I wasn't so sure they would have indoor parking nearby. I was nervous. But luck was shining on us because there was a Sheraton on the same block as Spicy & Tasty with a parking garage. And this hotel experience was almost equal to the food.

I love hotels. Or more properly I love being in foreign cities, and as I recently discovered, Asian ones. It's so not "Lost in Translation." I mean mid-range hotels with stores and services in them, travel agents, random clothing stores, and the like. Our last day, a rainy Sunday in Singapore we strolled around the food court in the basement of the Meridian hotel. The food stalls were open, but there were also quiet halls on other levels with glass facades, darkened rooms and closed doors. Boutiques, graphic design firms, the only life being a room filled with teenage boys playing computer video games. It was fun and felt like you shouldn't be there since we weren't hotel guests (though it was all public space). The Sheraton LaGuardia (as it was called, though not all that near the airport) had the same feel, levels and stairs and businesses on the perimeter and a fancy, near deserted Japanese restaurant you look down on from above. It was like a mini-vacation wandering around, and accidental. We were just trying to figure out how to get from the basement garage to the main exit but went too high on the elevator and had to saunter down oddly positioned stairs, accompanied by the strains of soft music.

Spicy & Tasty continued the feel. I've never been to China, but I like to believe it felt very Chinese. Or Sichuan at least, as that is their thing. I wasn't blown away by the peppercorns as I expected to be. Maybe I was thinking Thai heat, not subtle buzzy Sichuan spicy, or maybe the food wasn't heavily spiced. It was certainly good, though. I go nuts for bamboo shoots in chile oil, and they were made all the more attractive by being prepared up front by a cold dish guy. There were all sorts of appetizers, jellyfish, sliced tendon, eggplant and more that I would've liked to try, but you can only eat so much with two people. I had to order the enhanced pork, if not for the name alone. I'm not sure what the enhancement was referring to--there was a copious amount of leek greens in the dish, which could be construed as enhancement (a few days later that green onion hepatitis outbreak began and like a good hypochondriac began wondering if leek greens were also a danger). James got the Szechuan lamb, which was like a rich, almost Indian spiced stew that came in a metal dish over a flame.

I left feeling uncharacteristically upbeat and actually looked forward to walking through the hotel lobby back to the car just for shits and giggles. The odd thing was that the elevator places you right inside the office where you pay and no one was around, but you could hear footsteps and clear-as-a-bell voices from the garage where the cars initially drive in. The place was miked, for what reason I'm not sure, but it was kind of creepy. We were quiet as mice when we got back into the car just to be safe. Of course all they'd hear us saying was how great the food at Spicy & Tasty was. (11/14/03)

Spicy & Tasty * 39-07 Prince St., Flushing, NY

Brasil Coffee House

1/2 So, I grew up in the freaking coffee capital of the US (or is that Seattle? I get confused. Maybe Portland is the nation’s microbrew capital, though I swear on some horrible Food Network show I was trying not to pay attention to said that Denver had that honor) but all I drink is black drip coffee. Even though I choose to drink sucky coffee cart coffee, I can tell when coffee doesn’t suck.

I wouldn’t be opposed to drinking Brasil Coffee House’s product if one existed anywhere near me. And almost more importantly, their yuca cakes, croquettes and cheesey pan de queijo are way more exciting than muffins (but then, I’m muffin averse). By the way, that's not a muffin on the right--it's a springy, coconut-topped yuca cake that just happens to be in a muffin wrapper.

Read my review on Nymag.com

Brasil Coffee House * 48-19 Vernon Blvd., Long Island City, NY

Sripraphai

I don’t usually mention Sripraphai re-visits because they’re frequent and my ordering style is repetitive. I’m only bringing this meal up because I’d never attempted take out before and was highly impressed by the thoughtful packaging.

I always come back from vacation dying for whatever food wasn’t where I just was, even if the cuisine I did eat was remarkable and even if I was only away for a few days. It’s not even like there’s tons of “real” Cuban food in NYC anyway. But the first business-lined intersection we hit after exiting the BQE from the airport en route to Sripraphai was Roosevelt and 69th, with El Sitio staring right at us across the road. No! No more Cuban food.

On Monday, our last night in Miami, I gave in decided to visit the pool. (Said pool at left, and don't worry, there's no way in hell I'm exposing myself online in a bathing suit.) At 4:30, it was well-past prime tanning time and the area wasn’t overwhelmingly crowded. Based on their reading material, a majority of the bathers and layabouts remaining were German and Eastern European. As the sun was about to set, an Asian couple showed up. The female, kind of plain and in a Louis Vuitton logoed bikini and khaki fishing hat that she kept on even in the water, her male counterpart, slightly sourpussy and portly. I knew I wasn’t in Brooklyn or else he would’ve been a skinny white dude with glasses. I enjoyed their conversation.

Hat girl: I want Cuban food for dinner.
Portly guy: No more Cuban food, it’s not good for you.
Hat girl: [sulking] I’m going to eat Cuban food for breakfast, lunch and dinner.
Portly guy: No.
Hat girl: Now I want ice cream.

And she got it, too. No one else in the pool area looked like food had touched their lips all afternoon. But leave it to an Asian girl to bring a substantial bowl of ice cream into the pool, squat on the shallow end stairs and chow down. Meanwhile, the only other person eating anything in the vicinity was a black woman with a bizarrely ample backside and thighs thicker than this girl’s waist, eating an apple.

That’s what’s wrong with this world. Skinny girls gobbling ice cream with abandon and hefty gals nibbling fruit. I want to know what goes on behind closed doors, you know, food anthropology. Would the ice cream eater really go on to polish off a massive plate of rice, beans and lechon? Would the fruit snacker eat salad with dressing on the side for dinner? Is there such a thing as a “good” metabolism or is a calorie a calorie? In some ways I’m hoping the former because maybe this essence could be captured and manufactured. Why are we wasting time on cancer and AIDS research when it could be medically possible to eat like a pig and remain lithe as a gazelle? Now I sound like a Cathy. Ack.

crispy watercress salad, dry and wet

So, I went overboard with my ordering at Sripraphai and got drunken noodles with chicken, crispy pork with chile and basil, duck curry with eggplant and bamboo shoots, and the crispy watercress salad that I had originally decided against because I figured the crispy bits would rapidly turn to sog by the time we got around to eating them (we’d recently eaten lunch and were picking up dinner to eat like five hours into the future). But I love the salad so much that I ran the risk. However, they package up the wet parts separately from the crunchy stuff. So smart, like a McDLT yet successful.

crispy watercress salad united as one

While waiting, I had time to peruse the shelves and refrigerated cases unimpeded because the restaurant was nearly empty, which is a rare thing. I decided on a container of four rectangular rice-based sweets that I don’t recall being combined together before, and num prek ta deng (their spelling, I always want to say nam prik). They have a slew of nam priks to choose from. I picked this one because it contained shrimp and sugar and I like my searing heat with a touch of sweetness and fishiness.

(My latest short-lived regimen has been the nam prik diet where I bring a cup of jasmine rice to work topped with a generous blob of chile paste. This lunch yesterday nearly killed me. I love insanely hot food but the proportion of paste to rice was askew and I literally burned my tongue and roof of my mouth. Of course, that didn’t stop me from finishing my painful meal.)

I was trying to think of an excuse for brining home enough food for three meals (other than sheer gluttony, of course). Well, September 4 is kind of my anniversary and that’s a good enough reason as any. Kind of, because dating anniversaries don’t seem to count and kind of because James barely acknowledges it anyway and insists that it’s somewhere in October. Yet since eight years is more substantial than many marriages (at least any that I’m acquainted with) and I’m not terribly marriage minded, it counts. (9/4/07)

Pollos a la Brasa Mario

Rotisserie chicken can go in so many directions. And frequently that direction is boring (don’t even get me started on recipes that require a store-bought chicken, have you use the meat and throw away the skin). Yet, somehow on Saturday night it was decided that Latin-style chicken should be dinner.

I’m kind of partial to Peruvian renditions mainly because I like the punchy green sauce that often accompanies it. But maybe I’m just thinking of Pio Pio (I don’t think Pardo’s has it). The September Latino Gourmet has a recipe for Peruvian but they don’t make any mention of an aji salsa on the side (I’m so not crazy about the Epicurious re-design. The new recipes haven’t even been put online yet). The soy sauce in the marinade is an interesting cross-cultural addition, though. Fried rice, a.k.a. chaufa, is also a regional anomaly.

Due to a series of uninteresting circumstances, we ended up on a Jackson Heights block with three options: Casa de Pollo Peruano (too packed), Gusty Chicken (closed) and Pollos a la Brasa Mario. I’d been by the multi-level 24-hour Colombian joint with a bird mascot (maybe they all have bird mascots) a million times and had never stopped in. It was the perfect occasion.

I was always under the impression that Mario was kind of fast foodish and chicken heavy (perhaps, that’s more Frisby, the new game in town.). The formica booths and laminated picture menus imply so, but many of the entrees are substantial and over $20 (in my experience, Colombian portions are intimidatingly huge).

Sure, Rayuela has a live olive tree, but Mario has a sprawling fake orange tree and framed posters of cartoon animals eating the cuisine. My favorite was the Sylvester the Cat rip-off with an arepa and strip of chicharon. There was also a horse grilling something indiscernible.

It was Saturday night and crocks of seafood stew and teeming multi-meat platters graced many a table. But we came with a simple mission and stuck by it. Whole chicken. I wanted yuca frita, James ordered frijoles grande, which were way too grande and studded with a few bones so you knew you were in for ham-hockiness. White rice is standard but I prefer my Latin starches rooty and fried.

As accompaniments, you’re given a puree of green chile, thick and more scoopable than a usual salsa verde and a squirt bottle of what seemed like Thousand Island dressing minus the relish chunks. The two mixed together made a nice, visually repulsive dipping sauce for the yuca.

Mario is as good as a brightly lit rotisserie chicken restaurant might be, though it’ll likely be some time before I ever get around to a re-visit. There are so many contenders (what with all those Korean fried chickens crying for my attention) in the global poultry game that it’s impossible to stick with any one eatery or style.

Pollos a la Brasa Mario * 81-01 Roosevelt Ave., Jackson Heights, NY

Happy Family

1/2 I’d never partaken in steamboat, shabu shabu, hot pot, Chinese fondue, whatever you want to call it, until recently (though I’ve broth-swirled a little Canadian horsemeat). Flushing’s Happy Family a.k.a. Little Lamb (a cartoon sheep with a shirt collar appears on various signage) proved to be a great jumping off point. Actually, it’s a little more advanced than amateur; we had some procedural ordering confusion.

In my day, Mongolian was simply suburban code for a pile of stuff cooked before your eyes. Here it’s all d.i.y. You pick your broth from red, white or green. The latter is herbal and I wasn’t feeling the urge. But you can also go yin-yang and choose two broths kept separate in a huge metal pot inset in your table. White=creamy soymilk. Red=hot as hell. There are all sorts of oddities floating in the liquids like a whole nutmeg kernel, jujubes (Asian dates) and a metal tea bobber filled with mystery herbs and chiles (opening it would’ve solved the mystery but I didn’t want to unleash any unnecessary fury).

The tricky part was how to acquire dipping material because you pick the hot pot by meat i.e. lamb hot pot or fish head hot pot, but there are also pages and pages of a la carte items like chicken, taro, and innards. We picked beef hot pot because it seemed neutral and it came with a plate of bean curd, greens, rice vermicelli, dried mushrooms, hard-boiled egg, bean sprouts and lots of other crunchy things. We eventually got our waiter to bring shrimp and pork-stuffed fish balls to supplement our thinly sliced beef. Practically anything could be improved by the hot pot treatment, but whatever you do abide the menu’s plea “please don’t bring other products into the store to cook (including beverages and liquors).”

Because we’re gluttons, we also got grilled lamb skewers to start. Cumin was definitely present but I was surprised at the chile level of the spice rub. This was my kind of food. I have a high tolerance for heat (though I’m not sure when I acquired this. I’ve always liked spicy food but I was just thinking about a birthday dinner in my early twenties where my mom took me out to Bangkok Kitchen in Portland and the tom kha gai was so punishingly hot that we couldn’t slog through it. Now, wiser and older, Portland Thai food seems pretty tame though I’ve never returned to Bangkok Kitchen for comparison. Were we NW wusses and I’ve toughened up or have my taste buds dulled from years of smoking? I only sparingly indulge anymore, f.y.i.) and even so there was a tongue-burning that persisted throughout the meal. Combined with the heat and steam emanating from the hot pot itself (and a few drinks—though no soju for me), sweating was nearly unavoidable. And as you might imagine, as the broth bubbles and cooks down the resulting concentrated soup is intense. It was nice to be able to alternate between the fiery and sweet chambers of stock.

Even though the hot-potted treats don’t really require them, there is an eighteen-slot condiment bar in the back of the long room that’s just kind of fun to poke around. Black beans, chopped garlic, sugar and soy sauce all kind of make sense, but if you’re feeling wild you can also take a scoop of pure MSG. Ah…sweet, sweet glutimates.

My “real” review for nymag.com

Almost completely irrelevant asides (you have been warned):

Hot-potting has become a euphemism in my household for what gastro-intestinal unpleasantness occurs about twelve hours later. There was a lot of hot-potting going on last week in Mexico City that has yet to cease. But I never realized how funny hot-potting was until I heard it referred to by someone who had no idea what hot pot was.

I met up with a former coworker a few weeks ago to get the dirt on who’d been fired, humiliated and so on. But I became intrigued when she started describing my replacement, a young Chinese-born go-getter with an apparent penchant for hot-potting. It seems that the girl whoops it up all over Flushing, indulging in hot pot with wild abandon, comes into work late, and then complains, “I have terrible cramp…very strong period” as an excuse. No one seems to think that these cramps are liquor induced except for my friend who now refers to binge drinking as hot-potting. But she’s suspicious, mean-spirited and astute like me so I’m inclined to believe the hangover theory.

Once the former coworker walked into the women’s bathroom to find the new me laying on the ratty entryway couch moaning in pain with her boyfriend at her side rubbing her head. Frightening (though not so much as the pair of abandoned shit and blood stained panties once left in front of a sink on the floor by god only knows. P.R. is a classy profession).

Hot-potting has become a great catch all phrase for everything unseemly. This former coworker (and no-nonsense dyke) also shared my love of the word hot pad, the self-given nickname of my butch Girl Scout camp counselor who resembled an obese John Denver. I don’t even want to imagine what hot-padding is.

Happy Family * 36-35 Main St., Flushing, NY

A Fan Ti

One of our waitresses matter-of-factly asking James “Is she your wife?” baffled me all evening. I’ve learned that there’s a certain ESL bluntness that seems particularly acute with Chinese to English and it doesn’t bother me. I’m never sure if lack of subtlety is a translation thing or if it’s cultural. It was easier to shake our heads and say yes rather than explain, “Well, actually it’s kind of complicated. We’re actually just dating but we’ve been together for nearly eight years which is longer than anyone I know has been married, but we’re just boyfriend and girlfriend.” We were the only ones speaking English so maybe she was attempting to chitchat to make us feel welcome? Or was it that I didn’t seem like his wife, and we make an odd couple? I like James’s version, that it was her way of asking if he was available.

The other waitress didn’t speak English at all and I do appreciate that she brought us Chinese menus, though I think it was more a case of her not really thinking it through as opposed to concerted non-pandering. After a few seconds she was mildly scolded by the lady boss and made to bring us English menus without our saying anything.

At least the English menu wasn’t lacking any of the oddities that we didn’t order anyway. I have no fear of offal but it’s no fun eating it alone. The first thing listed is lamb testicles and a bowl of eyeballs bobbing around in liquid is also for the taking. We compromised and stayed on the tame side.

Despite sounding like an American bastardization, I had to order the kung pao, which is called simply lamb in hot pepper sauce. It’s peanut crazy and full of startling ma la sensations. Going double lamby, we also had the salt and pepper lamb, which comes spice-crusted (cumin-heavy) on the bone with a little saucer of crushed Sichuan peppercorns and salt for dipping. We barely used half and our mouths were numb by the end of the meal.

This is the type of place where it’s not like you’re blending in anyway so why bother trying. I was initially afraid of looking barbaric by using my fingers to pick at the bits left on the bone of our salt and pepper lamb. I then noticed others were flat out gnawing on the thing. I should be so shameless.

I would’ve ordered something with bean curd but soybeans and well as organs don’t fare well with this not-my-husband dining companion. To squeeze a vegetable in, I tried the eggplant, which I’m sure was oil laden to make the flesh so silky. It was nothing like you’d get from corner takeout (last night I ordered pork with eggplant from our local not-so-great place Ting Hua [not to be confused with Wing Hua a few blocks up and definitely not to be mixed up with Me and My Eggroll in between the two] and I was given pork egg foo young instead. Bizarre, I haven’t had that since I was a kid) there’s a sweetness and also a chile spiciness, not just garlic, and somehow it stayed steaming hot for a full twenty minutes.

I love places like this, i.e. Little Pepper and Happy Family, which I haven't posted yet. Maybe it’s all the chiles and peppercorns but I always end up with a good feeling, even a sense of well being (seriously) when I eat Northern Chinese food.

My nymag.com review (nitpickers, it contains a to-be-corrected inaccuracy not of my doing)

A Fan Ti * 136-80 41st Ave., Flushing, NY

King 5 Noodle House

1/2 You might think noodles were the main attraction, based on King 5’s name but I’m not sure that that’s the case. Taiwanese breakfast (sweet or salty soymilk and doughy things like you tiao and those bings that seemed to have taken Manhattan last year) is a draw but getting to Flushing in the a.m. is just not happening for me.

Instead, I stopped in for takeout spicy beef noodle soup and then got stymied by their three entrees for $19.95 special because there were so many choices. The heaving bag I ultimately took to go had to have weighed over ten pounds. The beef noodle soup didn’t suffer too much from the journey home because they package the noodles and broth separately, a nice touch. I was thinking along pho lines but the stock is deep brown and much richer. Completely un-delicate, spicy and stew-y like cold weather fare.

I had been looking for something called three cup chicken but didn’t see it on the menu, though it’s possible that it went by another name. Chicken with chestnuts sufficed. That sounds potentially bland but was anything but. I forget how good hacked up skin-on, bone-in chicken can be because I never cook it at home (where there’s just a sad bag of Costco chicken breasts in the freezer). This was my favorite of the three dishes I tried. I find that Taiwanese food is strong in the right ways: pungent, oily, salty and spicy but not so much as Sichuan.

I had to try intestines because they popped up in more than one place on the menu. The ma la rendition wasn’t Sichuan peppercorny in the least. In fact, they were totally done E3 style (shorthand in my household for Thai stir fry with chile and basil). Another surprise was the form. I imagined thin, lengthy organs like I’d recently eaten with Argentinean parrillada but they were girthy and sliced lengthwise and had more of a tripe quality. I like innards so all was well, but I hate to admit that I don’t know what animal they came from.

Beef with green chiles were totally green chiles with beef, in a good way. This would be a great lunch with a big bowl of rice. I’d certainly rather have this dish over sushi or Subway sandwiches.

Refrigerated takeout containers aren't the most appetizing but I’m just not motivated to set up elaborate shots. Even though my words are no great shakes, I'm even shakier when it comes to stellar photo snapping. I admire, yet am stymied by food blogs with over the top photography. I was just going to stereotype and say that it seems to be an Asian thing but thought better of it (I don’t want to get the reputation for culture generalizing—I’ve already pointed out that macaron mania also seems to be Asian-centric) then was like how can something be a stereotype if it’s true and are stereotypes so bad if the attributes are positive?

There’s just a different aesthetic going on. Seriously, so not my realm: Chez Pim, Chubby Hubby, Kuidaore, Nordljus. And those are just ones that immediately sprang to mind. Of course, I’m sure I could easily find four Asian-run food blogs with horrific photography if I tried but I don’t want to cause any trouble (at least publicly—I’m going to go look for some ugly pictures this very second and keep them all to myself).

My succinct and objective take on King 5 for nymag.com

King 5 Noodle House * 39-07 Prince St., Flushing, NY

Xtasis

Hot dogs, whether simple or overstuffed, mystery meat or all beef, make me queasy. Even so, I’m fascinated by what Colombians do to fast food staples. On a recent accidental foray onto Northern Boulevard I noticed that Mazorca had closed and that Xtasis had expanded from a rinky-dink storefront into a glowing, acid pink eatery triple the size.

They do a similar thing as La Perrada de Chalo but actually have fewer choices. Where Perrada goes wild with random styles like the Iraqui and Mexicana, Xtasis offers a handful of choices including Hawaiiana (ham, crushed potato chips, pineapple sauce, white cheese), something translated Super Cowboy and the Super Xtasis with hard boiled egg, bacon, thousand island dressing, avocado, chips and I’m not even sure what else. I love all edibles Hawaiian so that was it for me.

But on a burger, which are equally popular as the massive perros mixtos. I’ll admit that it’s not the best burger ever. The flavors aren’t terribly cohesive, the meat is barely perceptible in the condiment strata and it’s next to impossible to fit in your mouth. Normally, I like a toasted bun but in this presentation it induces crumbling. But it is fun, assuming gut bombing is your idea of a good time.

One peculiarity is that beef burgers are not only offered but chicken too. Oh, and that they have two sinks sitting prominently in the dining area (vaguely discernable in photo on the left). It's not like there isn't a bathroom sink, so are they implying that the food is so messy that extra wash stations are warranted?

You can also try snacky things that tend to involve wieners, eggs and yuca. If it hadn’t been so chilly and stormy, I might’ve tried a cholado, shaved ice and fruit concoctions that sometimes get drizzled with condensed milk. They seem nearly Asian but not as wacky as halo-halo.

Xtasis * 82-12 Northern Blvd., Jackson Heights, NY

Boca Juniors

1/2 Ok, I thought the scantily clad waitresses/tiki bar combo at Listo el Pollo was surreal but Boca Juniors is downright nutty. I’ve driven (well, been the passenger) past this color crayon bright corner a million times on the way to Target, and only recently did I get the urge to pay a visit.

You know with Argentine (or Argentinean—both are correct and it drives me crazy that there’s no definitive term) restaurants that you’re going to be eating meat and lots of it. With that in mind, you have to be in the mood and I’m only up for a serious parrillada maybe every couple months. My last foray was Buenos Aires in the East Village back when it was icy out. Now it’s warm enough for a new South American carnivorous adventure.

Well, it turned out the food, while surprisingly good, is hardly the focal point. It helps if you know that Boca Juniors are a wildly popular Argentine soccer team and that this is essentially a theme steakhouse. They’ve taken the team’s blue and yellow color scheme to new levels and every square inch of the restaurant including the plates, napkins, walls, carpets as well as the waitstaffs’ shiny track suits. I was most impressed by the mulleted visage, which I’m guessing belongs to a prominent player (I don’t even know my Mets and Yankees so recognition was futile) etched into the windows.

We felt we needed to squeeze some vegetables into our meal so we went with potatoes and eggplant, laced with mayonnaise and olive oil respectively. Healthy. Berenjena y ensalada rusa, to be precise. The Italian influence I’m aware of, the Russian bit not so much though “Russian salads” seem to make an appearance in widely diverse cuisine.

I’m the only one who’ll eat blood sausage and strangely, I’m not fond of regular pork sausage. So, both dark tubes are mine and James gets the other two. I couldn’t even finish a whole one, though. You don’t always get intestines so that was a chewy surprise. After eating a couple of those, a few bites of sweetbreads and the strip of steak, I was done in. Just a steak would’ve been fine but I like picking at the odd bits, just not enough to order an entire plate of them. I made a slightly overpowering chimichurri the following night to eat the leftovers with. I was trying to be light-handed with the olive oil but the garlic does need tempering.

I didn’t realize the panqueque would be crepes, despite the word pancake implying as much. The layer cake from San Antonio Bakery (I know, Chilean not Argentine) is called pancake and filled with dulce de leche and that’s what I was thinking of. But the crepes were pretty amazing because they were also sprinkled with granulated sugar and broiled, creating a crispy crème brule style effect.

We were about to leave when the lights dimmed and most employees began gathering in the back near the bar with enormous blue and yellow umbrellas. I was like oh, it must be a birthday. Then the giant blue and yellow umbrellas came out. WTF? Staccato music was flipped on that could only be described as a fight song. With the exception of one diner who looked angry and disgusted by the disruption, many were clapping or waving napkins. Umbrella twirlers began parading between the tables, half-size soccer balls were given to kids. For pointless noise and excitement (yet, sadly no ice cream—though they did have a dessert called Don Pedro, which I think was something icy topped with brandy) it certainly beats Farrell’s. Plus, you can’t eat intestines at Farrell’s.

Boca Juniors * 8108 Queens Blvd., Elmhurst, NY

Taqueria Coatzingo

This is one of those unassuming places that I thought for sure I’d mentioned before, so I’d just rattle off a mini update. It looks like I’ve never said a peep about Coatzingo, though. Allow me a few words.

Many say the specials are the way to go. I believe that but could only snack because I knew I’d have to eat dinner in the Bronx in a few hours (Joe’s Place, for which photos only will have to suffice). My between meal time would only last as long as I could kill time at the Riverdale Target (which I was imagining could be no worse than the most busted in the universe downtown Brooklyn location—it was about on par and possibly worse, all the large sizes were gone because 85% of the shoppers were also XL and beyond. I did get asked my advice on a high school graduation dress, which was cute but seemed a little casual for such a ceremony, then I remembered that I’d worn knee-high motorcycle boots to mine because I thought I was badass, so cheerily agreed, “yes, that would be a great graduation dress.”)

I did write down a few specials listed on the clear plastic encased stands on each table (actually, not our table, which didn’t seem intentional. Not to over personalize everything, but very frequently I also seem to get the only table that’s either missing a candle or has one that’s burned down to a nub). They’re not in English like the regular menu and a few stumped me. Pansa blanca and pansa negra, I think are like blood pudding. Huazontles, I had no idea, but it seems that they are a wild green similar to broccoli. I understood mushroom quesadillas and tripe tacos (which I ordered without realizing they were a special). There were about five other dishes to pick from.

I always order three tacos when I really only need two. I went right to left, and luckily, the first, tripa, was best. My hunger had waned by the time I got to the poor al pastor and it didn’t get my full attention (though, of course I ate the whole thing because I hate wasting food even if it’s $2 food that I get reimbursed for). I’ve never had a tripe taco, not because I’m grossed out but because I figured it would be boiled and boring. It wasn’t. Honestly, I’m not sure how it was prepared but the strips were meaty, gelatinous and crisp. Lots of variety in a little package. I normally like carnitas the most, for the same qualities I found in the tripe. Their rendition was as good as any.

If you're wondering what that tangle of lettuce, salsa verde, cream and carne asada is, it's a huarache, like the shoe but not. Capezios, jellies, pointy flats (god forbid, Docs) are all back or coming back, so why not the huarache?

All was fine until two “Stellas” (named for a neighbor who’s incredibly demanding, frequently wronged, disproportionately assertive) came in and made a fuss about wanting taco salad. The waitress did speak English so it wasn’t a language barrier causing confusion, though the women seemed to think that was the case. Despite our big mess of a melting pot, cultural sensitivity isn’t one NYC’s strengths. And I swear I heard some snippet about, “you don’t have to discriminate against us.” Wha? How is not having a taco salad on a menu offending anyone?

While in Hong Kong I ate at a former speakeasy Sichuan restaurant Da Ping Huo. You needed reservations, it was mildly sequestered, omakase-style ordering, and intimate (we were actually the only two diners the entire evening). While we were dining this large British family walked in off the streets and threw a fit because there weren’t any menus. It started getting very uncomfortable as they began harassing the waiter like they’d never heard of something so absurd as a restaurant without a list of dishes and prices. Finally, they left in a huff. I felt bad for the staff because they barely spoke English and then they felt bad and began apologizing to us for having to witness the situation. Sheesh, you’re the one who is ignorant so why are you making everyone around you feel like shit?

Anyway, I didn’t leave Coatzingo feeling like shit. Perhaps, just a little full. I also must note that they must be doing good business. Sure, it was filled to capacity our entire meal, but the mark of making it is their new-to-me glossy, technicolor take out menu. Thankfully, they kept the mustachioed corn ear with a sombrero logo. I like to imagine that if he had a catchy name like he should it would be Maizstro (pronounced like maestro). Anthropomorphic pitchmen aren’t so in anymore, maybe he could start a revival.

Taqueria Coatzingo * 76-05 Roosevelt Ave., Jackson Heights, NY

Listo el Pollo

1/2 I would be talking out of my ass if I called Listo el Pollo the Colombian Hooters because I’ve never been to a Hooters. But I’d like to imagine that this Jackson Heights oddity is better than a Hooters. They’ve mastered out the ok food, made better than ok by young waitresses in skimpy attire approach. That might’ve been enough in its own right, but the restaurant also appears to be a former tiki lounge that was lightly, if at all, redecorated to reflect the Latin American cuisine.

I suppose it’s possible that bamboo, coconuts carved into monkey faces, palm trees and Sex on the Beach drinks (I was confused by a cocktail simply called Alexander—that’s like vodka and tomato juice being dubbed Mary) could be found in Colombia. On the other hand, there’s nothing Polynesian about the white, ruffly grandma curtains that make each booth feel like a private paradise. That must be the Colombian touch.

Really, the ladies’ costumes are more campy than sexy, sort of a pirate/dirndl hybrid (I witnessed something similar in Hua Hin, which I didn’t realize was a German expat stronghold and lots of the restaurants served muesli and sausages and had Thai waitresses gussied up in dirndls) composed of a short skirt and corseted top. I’m not one to be bold with photo taking so my only evidence is a stealth shot with a server in the background. Sure, there were some groups of guys there for the ogling but mostly the clientele is composed of families and couples.

In my limited but rapidly expanding Colombian food experience it seems that they truly are the masters of the large combo plate. I stuck with the roasted chicken and ordered a half when ¼ would’ve been sufficient. For $6 and change it was a bargain, coming with white rice, fat pink beans dotted with pork, and a boiled red potato (I was hoping for something starchy and fried) and a tough nugget of an arepa.

James got the whole bandeja shebang with steak, chicken, pork, yuca fries, plaintain, arepa. Maybe more, I can’t remember. We also got a little white pitcher of herbier than spicy salsa and salads with a selection of Kraft dressing packets. At least we had a choice between Italian, French and Ranch--at Honduras Maya we just got a plastic bottle of Kraft Italian, no options.

We also ordered Coronas, which came preparado, a new concept to me where they’re served in salt-rimmed glasses over ice with a slice of lime. It was no Alexander, but it sufficed.

Atmosphere can be half the battle with many restaurants, a poor one will piss me off for life even if the food is superior, while a fun one will elevate an otherwise ordinary meal. Listo el Pollo put me in an unexpectedly good mood for which I have to give them high marks. Plus, my inexpensive dinner provided me with lunch the following day.

Listo el Pollo * 8602 37th Ave., Jackson Heights, NY

East Buffet

I can’t say East Buffet without thinking Eve’s Buffet. That will likely only mean anything to Portland, Oregon old-timers, skuzzy pre-90’s folks, not the current uber-indie inhabitants. Before there was Meyer Café (which could be defunct now for all I know) there was Eve’s, a dowdy little coffee shop inside Fred Meyer (the best NW grocery store ever).

Unsurprisingly, the word east also brings up Easter, which might be why I’ve been twice on that non-essential holiday (as well as on my thirtieth birthday, which was totally essential). Last year I cooked a fresh ham. This year I was burnt out; persistent eating enabled by strangers seemed the thing to do.

I had been holding off on E.B. because it’s the kind of place my mom would love, not in an ironic way, and she’s visiting in June (my mom’s been to NYC twice in the nine years I’ve lived here and I’ve gone home as many times. I don’t think that’s weird but practically everyone I know sees their parents multiple times annually). She took me to her local Chinese Buffet, Treasure Island, which was fine by Beaverton standards, but it’s no Flushing. Really, what does it matter if I go again a few months?

At 5pm on Sunday (opening hour for dinner) the vast rooms weren’t even close to crowded. They were only using one half of the restaurant. Saturdays can be a mob scene and you often get caught in the middle of wedding parties and events. I don’t mind mayhem but pile ups occur when a fresh item is brought from the kitchen. Crab legs in particular, bring out the glutton in people. I don’t think they’re worth the effort (especially if E.B. decided to start enforcing their 1 ½ hour dining maximum rule) but they seem to be the unanimous favorite. Every table had more than one plate piled high with the orange, spindly appendages. They used to serve hacked up lobster tails in a brown garlic sauce and making it to the tray before it was decimated was worse than a rush hour not letting people off the subway before shoving on scene. I’m sure cost, not a call to manners led to the crustaceans’ removal, though.

James decided that we’d need to eat five plates of food to bring the cost per plate down to a reasonable level ($27 per person). That was pretty ambitious. By my third plate, I was kind of done in but a fourth had to be forced to get a dessert course. To say that there is a lot of food is an understatement. Even with four plates, I probably only sampled 10% of what was on offer.

Two stand alone stations are devoted to warm food. There’s one for cold, which I enjoy, despite ignoring the half filled with fruit, jello and dubious gelatinous treats, one which is black and jiggly that I’m guessing is grass jelly. The other half of this stall contains spicy, oily tendons, baby octopus, sliced organ meats, raw fish, seaweed salads and the like.

Behind the cold food is a sushi counter where you can pick and choose from a wide selection rolls and sashimi. I feel like this is a thing unto itself and usually abstain or just pick one or two items. I also never touch the soup or soft serve ice cream machine and try not to load up on noodles and definitely not rice.

Kind of the middle of the fray there is a carving display where peking duck is sliced on demand. In a double decadent whammy, there are also thick, meaty rectangles of roasted, crackly skinned pork. To the immediate left is a grilling area that turns out Korean ribs, skewers, scallion pancakes and other delights.

It’s strange how these photos make the plates look like they contain less food. They seemed much, much fuller at the time. Not to say that this is skimping.

I forgot about the no noodle/rice rule, so I only picked at the dull, slightly peppery noodles then got a little scared over the no wasting food or you’ll be charged rule. I picked up some random sliced cold meat, tendons and who knows what, wakame, shrimp, two little octopi and a battered fried sardine. I’m not sure what made the mini cephalopods bright red.

Seriously, this plate was a killer. I overdid it with meat, which can’t be discerned in that pile. Short ribs, roast pork, bbq pork, chicken, everything pretty fatty. As you can see there’s also a grilled eel nigiri, raw tuna slice, green beans, a fried bean curd blob with shrimp, that crazy dish of battered shrimp with walnuts and mayonnaise, and something white, translucent and topped with sesame seeds, kind of like konnyaku.

Peking duck was amazing but I should’ve gotten it earlier because I was feeling a little ill by the time I made my way to it and the pork wedges. New rule: rich food first. Forget about pacing. Like I said, sushi seems unnecessary but I couldn’t resist a couple pieces. I also picked up a few more tendons (I don’t know why I like cartilage so much) and a cereal covered prawn.

No, Asian desserts aren’t the big draw but I couldn’t leave empty handed. Clockwise from the lavender cup: taro pudding, caramel colored layer cake I thought would be peanut butter but was mocha, lotus seed pastry, a greasy mochi type ball that only attracted me because it was weirdly green and a cheesecake-ish square.

Now, I’ll have to fast the next few months to build up my stamina for another East Buffet excursion in June. Ok, fasting is not in my vocabulary. How about I just vow not to set foot in any all-you-can-eat joints for two months. (4/8/07)

This seemed like a good spot for a celebration. Apparently, two wedding parties thought the same thing. This was my most surreal visit to date, which might be appropriate for a 30th birthday. We were seated in a room next to a wedding party with bad '50s medleys, top 40 techno and glow sticks. In order to get to the food, we had to walk through their festivities. Not that I'm complaining, we got a show with our buffet. Well worth the Saturday night wait and $25. (7/27/02)

I don't even know where to begin with this one. If heaven were a giant all-you-can-eat restaurant, it would be patterned after East Buffet. From the sheer size (two floors), neon sparklers atop the building, and hostesses with walkie talkies, you know you're in for something larger than life.

I happened to go on Easter, but there's no need to wait for a special occasion to gorge yourself silly Chinese-style (I wonder if they actually have all-you-can-eat in China). Stations are brimming with items from accepted to the novel. One contained fruit, salads, and more jiggly gelatin-based items than a church picnic. There was also a sushi bar, a meat carving area with Peking duck and lamb with mint jelly (that I'm guessing was only there for Easter), and a tour of Asia's greatest hits space that confused me with satay, scallion pancakes, Korean bbq, tempura and live shrimp in tanks--were they supposed to cook them on demand? I was also baffled by the little shell balls that people piled on plates, sucked on and spit out. Snails, I'm guessing? One section had spicy shrimp and lobster tails that people were literally fighting for, yet in the same environs were odd old-school American treats like lobster thermidor. There was also an impressive dessert counter heavy on the colorful, coconut-laden, and ricey goodies.

Highlights included various dim sum, crab legs, that scary dish with prawns, walnut and mayonnaise that tastes really good even though it creeps me out, and sushi (I never knew it could be so filling--I suppose a giant plate of anything will use up stomach space). I ate so much I didn't even have room for any of the soups, congees, or Peking duck. My only letdown was their lack of turnip cakes, which I had expected to be there. But I was appeased a bit by their half-off bubble tea special.

Take note of intimidating handwritten list of rules in the lobby with a bit about time limits and getting a 20% charge for wasting food. What does that mean, wasting food? Who would do such a thing? I smuggled out a sesame ball and feared the worst, but sometimes you've got to take risks. (4/15/01)

East Buffet * 42-07 Main St., Flushing, NY

Chao Thai

1/2  Read my Nymag.com review.

Phew, I was finally able to squeeze in some non-Latin food (I was getting a little plaintained-out). Thai is my go-to happy cuisine (I really want to delve into Korean food because what I know of it I like but I just can’t figure out where to jump in. I need to find a place that wouldn’t be intimidating to newcomers but goes beyond basic kalbi and bibimbob) but there was no way I was going to attempt Sripraphai on a Friday night. I’d only been once before but recalled tiny Chao Thai having serious potential.

There was an empty table amongst the five or so on offer (unfortunately, it was closest to the frequently opened front door. Even though they had a space heater whirring, by the end of our meal we were practically frost bitten from our knees down) so it started well. It didn’t kill me but I was freaked out the vanilla scented Glade candle sitting in front of me, next to the napkin dispenser. James loves those artificial smelly things so I kept sticking it on his side of the table and he’d torment me my putting it back in its original spot. I find air fresheners to be headache-inducing, I’d much rather smell fried fish, cigarette smoke, wet dogs (ok, maybe not the canines) and the like. Luckily, this was low on the offensive scale. If it were one of those Thomas Kinkade monstrosities (two of which reside in my home), I might’ve lost my shit.

I was immediately agog over a dish on the specials list called Three Buddies Crispy Salad. They already had me at crispy because I can’t resist that fatty style of pork coming from any ethnicity. But buddies? That was the cutest thing I’d ever heard. I’m not sure what the three edible pals were exactly. The pig and the fish were the only two living components—could they be buddies with vegetables? The ingredients were fish maw, crispy pork, cashews, red onions and kind of Chinesey scallions and celery leaves. There weren’t expected herbs like mint of cilantro, though the dressing was explosively Thai with roughly chopped orange, green and red bird chiles peeping out from the pile of mysterious buddies.

A basil chile duck we ordered was also very Chinese in flavor, with a prominent star anise perfume. We had pad prik king with chicken (I got irked over James ordering a second poultry dish, but the other two items were my doing so I had to relent control, plus it was good).

It’s easy to forget about Chao Thai, and if you’re on that stretch of Whitney Avenue you might be tempted to try one of the two Indonesian restaurants across the street instead. But it’s worth a stop. The food is way better than typical Ameri-Thai, very close to Sripraphai’s caliber with a lot of different dishes. I gave it 2 1/2 shovels last time and I'm nearly inclined to bump that to 3 (if you haven't already noticed, my shovels tend to be fairly arbitrary). My only complaint would be no dessert case. Just like last time I picked up some galub jamun from Bappy Sweets up the street. Buddies and Bappy are a great combo. (2/23/07)

Tierras Colombianas

I’m not sure what it is with Colombians and excess (maybe it has more to do with my ordering style). Over the summer I became acquainted with potato chip, avocado, mayo, ham, bacon and tomato topped perros calientes. This weekend I met the bandeja campesina, an overflowing country plate. It makes me wonder whether a city platter would be heartier or more delicate.

I immediately liked Tierras Colombianas. The spacious all-booths set up and self-promoting paper placemats make me happy like a Latin Denny’s. Red foil paper and hearts were festively bedecking random surfaces. I particularly liked the cut out heart tucked beneath the wall art golden god like he’d crapped it out (ok, maybe he was just sitting on it). Romantic.

We ordered an arepa and chorizo appetizer despite anticipating massive entrees. Colombian arepas are smaller, paler and chewier than better-known Venezuelan versions. They don’t immediately give when cut with the side of a fork. The chorizo was tangy, green-speckled and herby and bursting with cumin. We ordered it to try a few bites, knowing it would likely end up in a doggie bag.

James’s bistec empanizado, breaded beef cutlet, which also appeared on at least half of other diners’ plates, was practically the size of a deflated football. But I got the whammy. There was nothing bucolic about the long crispy-fat strip of chicharron, thin grilled steak, maduros, white rice, soupy yellow-tinged beans, a third of an avocado, arepa and fried egg crowning the whole beautiful mess. A spoonful of genuinely spicy green salsa completed the picture.

Sure, the country plate is a couple meals in one, and that’s how I treated it. I skipped breakfast and made a late lunch and 1 am dinner out of it. Never mind that an ice cream sundae snuck in between those two feedings.

Tierras Colombianas * 8218 Roosevelt Ave., Jackson Heights, NY

Eddie's Sweet Shop

After naively purchasing a silky teal-and-white Proenza Schouler for Target dress and thinking it would fit (I barely met the junior sizing restrictions when I was of appropriate age), it was already evening in Elmhurst. We’d already eaten a lunch that would suffice for dinner so we needed a non-edible distraction and decided on finding a movie. (In ‘94 a friend and I determined that a great punishment for a bet loser would be having to watch Nell on the big screen alone [out of curiosity, we ended up seeing it in the theater together and while non-good it didn’t live up to our punishing preconceptions]. Norbit strikes me as the modern version of this torture. But who am I to haughtily judge the black man dressing as obese black woman genre? I am fascinated how a lady so large as Rasputia has no cellulite. The more I think about it, the more I need to see Norbit—maybe on Valentine’s Day. I don’t have any plans for Feb. 14 proper.)

Neither of us had seen The Departed (which was intentional in my case) and it was still lingering at the moderately artsy/cheap theater in Forest Hills. I couldn’t picture where it was but as we started heading up Metropolitan Avenue I realized where we were and instantly remembered that Eddie’s Sweet Shop is right across the street from the movies. And miraculously there was an open parking spot on the corner, putting us spitting distance from both establishments.

We had 45 minutes until the 8:15 pm show time and I figured anyone who would’ve wanted to see this movie had already seen it so no stress on snagging seats (I was wrong, the theater was quite full. We were also easily the two youngest viewers in the audience. And for the record, old people are just barely less vocal and distracting than the rowdy teens who dominate the Court Street multiplex near me). We totally had enough time to split a sundae.

Eddie’s hadn’t changed a bit since my first and most recent visit nearly six and a half years ago (reminders of the swift passing of time completely freak me out). It was still manned by wholesome looking teens, old-timey and trinket-filled. The number of soda fountains with counter stools and spindly curlicue chairs is rapidly dwindling. Modernly garish Coldstone Creamery has more appeal, I guess. They don't burst into song at Eddie's, though they do play an '80s radio station. I honestly don't know which is more wrong. 

I find it hard to slow down and enjoy things properly so I struggled to savor my surroundings and scoops of ice cream. Surprisingly, it was James that said, “I don’t think I’m appreciating this,” which was an odd observation. I tried to concentrate and take in our shared creamy butter pecan, coffee chip and overflowing hot fudge before it melted. It’s funny that my initial inclination was to order a butter pecan and butterscotch sundae  since apparently that’s what I ordered on my last visit (see, this blog is good for something, after all). The perfect accompaniment was a short glass of water. I didn’t even have to ask, the young waitress offered, “I like water with hot fudge.” True, ice water and hot fudge is a great combo.

It’s frightening to think that my next Eddie’s visit could be in another six and a half years (I’ll be freshly forty…jesus christ). Though since the next NYC Trader Joe’s is bizarrely planned for a spot just a few blocks away, I’ll likely be back before 2013. (2/10/07)

Malagueta

I was semi-secretly relived that when I arrived in Astoria around 8pm, the restaurant had run out of the Saturday-only feijoada. I felt a little bad because I’ve never tried the Brazilian national dish and not many places in NYC do it, instead they frequently opt for the rodizio-style parade of skewered meat until you’re ill approach (which reminds me of what I think was my second Valentine’s Day celebration with James when he took me to Churrascaria Plataforma, which seems more wrong now than it did at the time. I’ve grown picky with age—I used to be thrilled to be taken out anywhere. Valentine’s days never end up being terribly romantic, at least in my world, but all-you-can-eat grilled beef certainly doesn’t help matters). I’d eaten Argentine parillada the evening before and had used leftover skirt steak and sausage enhanced with an egg and potatoes for breakfast (eating light is a tough concept for me) so I was meated-out for the rest of the weekend.

At Malagueta, a warmer, cozier place than I’d expected, I tried the moqueca de camarao, a Bahian-style shrimp stew with palm oil, onions, peppers and coconut milk over rice. More Afro than Latino. I always thought dende was one of those sure to kill you fats but at least they were being authentic. Sometimes I hate it when restaurants use olive oil when it had no place in the cuisine. The dish was fairly light, slightly New Orleans-ish and thankfully free of grilled meat.

For an appetizer, I had fried cheese-rice balls with an orange dip that’s similar to what accompanies a Bloomin’ Onion. That’s a good thing but I felt a little guilty so I split them with James even though he had a green pea soup of his own. I’m not sure how Brazilian these fritters were, but Malagueta isn’t purist. They use the term continental to describe some of their cooking, but that phrase has such derogatory connotations. James’s pork loin with mashed potatoes and bacon vinaigrette wasn’t like bad hotel food.

Everyone around us was mad for the chocolate mousse, to the point where diners waiting for seats were saying, “I hope you save some chocolate mousse for us” to the waitresses. Strange. I’m not nuts for pudding-ish sweets, too soft in the mouth, no texture. But we got the mousse anyway and well, it tasted like rich chocolate. No complaints.

Malagueta * 25-35 36th Ave., Astoria, NY

La Vuelta

I’ll admit to Long Island City dining ignorance. I don’t feel too bad because there’s not a whole lot of it to be informed about. I suspect that will change as condos continue popping up in the area and new residents bring higher standards.

But I recently started reviewing restaurants for Latina.com. (Hey, why not? I just hope it’s not a conflict to post my own takes here. I mean, these aren’t terribly useful and tend to be more about me than anything. What I’m paid to do is short, sweet and service oriented. Totally different beasts.) I need to represent diversity in neighborhood, culinary style and price range. It’s going to be tricky covering ten a month (that’s a lot of rice and beans, papi) because I’m accustomed to eating Asian (I know, that’s about as broad as Latin American) whenever possible and I started watching my damn points last week (yes, Weight Watchers. It’s laughable, I realize. But heck, if I even managed to shed a measly half-pound a week, that’ll be 26 gone by Christmas. I’m a turtle not a hare.) and lord knows I can’t turn down free food.

I get the sense that La Vuelta does a brisk lunch and happy hour business and is trying to expand their reach. They recently started opening on Saturdays and will add Sundays next month. When we arrived around 8:30pm on a Saturday there were only two other tables occupied. It’s not surprising since the block is less than bustling.

The food is all over the place (geographically, not haphazardly) with Argentinean skirt steak, cubanos, empanadas, nachos, and the like. We tried empanaditas, four tiny cheese filled pastries with salsa and two larger pork style crescents with bbq sauce. Not bad. James had said skirt steak, which came with mashed potatoes and chimmichurri. I went for grilled shrimp with coconut rice and a jalapeno-pineapple mojo (don’t tell anyone, but I’m not crazy about a lot of Western rice dishes. Biryani and nasi lemak: uh-huh. Paella and risotto: eh). They weren’t able to make the advertised pisco sours (no pisco) but caipirinhas and rioja sufficed.

Everything was well seasoned and the service nice as can be, but it’s definitely a neighborhood restaurant. And L.I.C. could surely use a few more.

La Vuelta *10-43 44th Dr., Long Island City, NY

Burmese Cafe

*Dang, the word on the internets is that Burmese Cafe is over. I too, saw the gates down last weekend and worried. (11/16/07)

I can’t even begin to explain how misguided it was to try and peacefully shop at the Elmhurst Target the Friday before Christmas (and this was intended as an antidote to the always troubling Atlantic Center Target that had been attempted earlier in the day) so I’ll refrain. But at least I was able to squeeze in a new Roosevelt Avenue Asian restaurant into the migraine-inducing trip. Burmese Café appears to have taken over the corner spot that used to be Karihan ni Tata Bino.

My only experience with Burmese food includes two non-recent visits to Rangoon in Philadelphia and a late '90s undocumented delivery meal from Village Mingala in the East Village (strangely, Village Mingala is quite possibly the first restaurant I ever set foot in in NYC. I first visited in '94 and accompanied a friend to pick up a take out order for the artsy bisexual Indonesian girl who was letting us stay at her 11th St. and Ave. C walk-up). I recall things like night market noodles and thousand layer bread, rich dishes that hinted at India. Burmese Café is nothing like that.

Part of me doesn’t want to admit that their food wasn’t immediately accessible. Some cuisines jump out while others don’t. I find Thai and Sichuan food grabs my attention without even trying, and not just because of the spice. Also heat-driven and good-oily, Malaysian and Indonesian fall right behind. Burmese feels like it’s in the realm of Laotian or Cambodian, lesser known and kind of raw and sharp. Though I don’t think Myanmar shares much in common with the Philippines, the vinegary, bitter, pungent qualities I tasted in the dishes we ordered felt vaguely Filipino. The style could grow on me but I have to get to know it better.

Lephet Thoke

The tea leaf salad truly is a strange combo, hot, sour and crunchy all at once. It seemed to contain sesame seeds, sliced green chiles, bean sprouts, dried broad beans, peanuts, dried shrimp and tomato slices. James, who’s fairly open-minded food-wise said, “I hope it tastes better than it looks.” It did look a little swampy. Let’s just say I had plenty of leftovers for lunch the next day (it's better fresh because after a few hours the crunch turns to mush). I was thinking the leaves would be dry like you’d find in a teabag but they’re wet and fermented, very much like grape leaves for dolmas. I don't recall it being described as using green tea leaves, but that's the case.

Duck Soup

I thought it was strange that James ate this without complaint since it was way funkier than the tea leaf salad. It contained bitter greens that might’ve been mustard, odd bits of poultry and blobs of liver (which only I ate) in a sour broth. James compared this to something his mom might cook, unconsciously delving into a heavily boiled, vinegary Filipino repertoire that his Midwestern father isn’t fond of.

Beef Curry

Ok, I “got” this dish. It’s basically Burmese rendang, stiff chunks of meat stewed with coconut milk and aromatics until most of the liquid is absorbed. Like I was saying above about Malay-Indonesian food being good-oily. I’m not scared of the shiny orange pool that coats the bowl.

Burmese Café * 71-34 Roosevelt Ave., Jackson Heights, NY

Royal Indian Oasis

*as per comments below, Royal Indian Oasis has kicked the bucket. (3/25/08)

I have no idea when Indian Oasis added Royal to their name because it’s not like I get out to subway-less Queens so often and it’s not the kind of breaking news bloggers go nuts over. The décor, prices and “Close Tuesday” misuse on the takeout menu are all the same as my last visit nearly two years ago but I imagine the Royal addition would be new management flair.

All I really need to say is that kung pao potatoes are a peerless fusion treat. Neither forced nor fussy, this genius Indian-Chinese invention (Taj Mahal? Great Wall of China? Feh) plays to both cuisines’ strengths without getting silly. (And no, kung pao isn’t completely made up American but it might go by gong bao ji ding in China). When fresh from the kitchen, the potatoes are sweet, slightly crisp and genuinely spicy. Crunchy water chestnut slices and peanuts add texture. Potatoes seem made for this combination. Halved dried chiles coupled with fresh diagonally sliced green ones, generate a heat that surrounds your tongue and sticks around for a good ten minutes.

We also had sliced lamb chilli, Hakka style, which was a strong choice--same for the lollipop chicken called drums of heaven (left). The Hakka noodles weren't anything special. There’s nothing mediocre about Royal Indian Oasis. The food is a shade better than both Tangra Masalas and they don’t go completely overboard with the corn starch thickeners.

I do worry that they aren’t drawing enough customers. There was only one other couple when we came in and only one small group appeared before we left. Perhaps 9:30pm isn’t prime dining time in suburban Queens, but the sushi place with Bennihanna table side cooking, a few doors over, was hopping.

Royal Indian Oasis * 184-22 Horace Harding Expressway, Fresh Meadows, NY

Mie Jakarta

There’s certainly crossover amongst Indonesian, Malaysian and Singaporean cuisine though I’ve only experienced the latter two on their home turf. (As to the countries themselves, our teenage waiter keenly summarized “I hear Singapore’s mad clean” while chatting with a customer waiting for take out.) I think that’s why Indonesian strikes me as more esoteric. There are a buttload of islands (I’d say 17,508 qualifies for buttload status) besides Bali, and regional specialties abound.

Elmhurst is home to three restaurants: Upi Jaya and Minangasli are Padang in origin and Mie Jakarta, just a couple storefronts over from Minangasli, serves Sulawesi-style noodles (read about their rivalry if you have Times Select). I’ve now tried all of the above and I have to say that I was least crazy about Mie Jakarta. But that’s not to say the food is poor in any way because I'm prejudiced against poor egg noodles (I also generally steer clear of goulash and Eastern European fare that might contain said starch strips). I do think their use is an interesting remnant from Dutch colonialism, but in that vein I’d prefer a Malaysian prawn paste tea sandwich.

Other items are on the small menu, but the focus is the handful of variations on chicken noodle soup, mie ayam, which comes broken into two components. The larger bowl is filled with curly yellow noodles, greens, mushrooms, chicken chunks and the smaller vessel contains the broth. If you order mie ayam bakso, meatballs come floating in the broth and if you try mie ayam pangsit like I did that means you have three chicken filled wontons tucked along side the main ingredients.

Before I realized everyone else was eating their noodles interspersed with spoonfuls of broth, I dumped my liquid on top all at once. I must be missing the subtlety of the chew and sip approach. Maybe you don’t want the noodles getting too soggy?

I enjoyed the chewy-crisp contrast in texture (James had a problem with the fishballs and mystery meatballs accompanying his soup. Personally, I like the springiness of those items but that’s not a universal sentiment) and mild flavors, but I do prefer spicier Southeast Asian ricey-saucey or stir-fried noodle dishes. Of course, you can add chili sauce, which I did. Unfortunately, a previous diner didn’t screw on the cap and an orange stream splashed up James’s arm and caused him to declare that he didn’t like Mie Jakarta, which is pretty childish, if you ask me.

Despite our fall weather being completely incompatible with shaved ice dessert-drinks, I couldn’t resist ordering es campur. It wasn’t as brilliantly hued as some of these tropical concoctions but it did contain the requisite number of pleasingly disquieting tastes and mouth squishes that demand using both straw and spoon. There were chunks of jackfruit and various beans, peas, seeds, or who knows what, floating in the icy coconut milk. I noticed something made up sounding on the take out menu called es glamour, which I’m even more interested in after it failed to make an appearance on Google. 

Mie Jakarta * 86-20 Whitney Ave., Elmhurst, NY

Izalco

I've passed by Izalco countless times on our way to Sripraphai and incorrectly assumed that it was Mexican. It's tough because when I'm in the mood for Thai that's it. I'm hardly ever wavering between Latin American or Asian; when I leave the house I know what I want (and no, it's not always one of those two broad cuisines) and I can't deviate.

On this occasion I was specifically searching for Salvadoran food because other than the pupusas I sampled at the Red Hook ball fields last summer, I'm pretty naïve about Central American food and need to at least know enough to come up with a paragraph or two on the subject. There are actually quite a few Salvadoran restaurants in NYC. I picked this one because I was already nearby in Jackson Heights and had been thwarted in my quest for Uruguayan meat by the huge crowd waiting to get in.

I immediately liked Izalco's indoor-outdoor décor. Only the finest establishments erect interior awnings to evoke the sense that you're dining on a veranda instead of feet from elevated subway tracks. They went a step further and had distractions like a stuffed armadillo standing on the faux tile roof sticking out from the wall. A taxidermied deer head also sat above our table and an iguana and owl also made an appearance. I don't think that any of those animals play a role in Salvadoran cuisine, however.

I have a phobia about eating in places that are about to close and another about being the only diner. There was still nearly an hour left before Izalco's 11 pm shut down, but the one other table left minutes after we arrived and I started feeling the pressure despite our waitress being very helpful and open to questions. So, we didn't order anything extravagant (not that Salvadoran food seems particularly ostentatious) or labor intensive.

I got a sampler of the three types of pupusas: cheese, chicharrones and refried beans. The stuffed corn cakes come with curtido, a vinegary coleslaw-ish condiment that I really like. The pupusas are pretty heavy so a little crunch and tanginess is not a bad addition. You also get a red sauce that I think is basically pureed tomatoes, it's thin and not spicy in the least. James tried an enchilada, which is probably what we'd call a tostada. The base is a crunchy fried corn tortilla topped with shredded chicken and weirdo but not untasty things like chopped carrots, sliced hardboiled eggs and cucumbers. We also had two different Salvadoran beers, Suprema and El Salvador which were in a Budweiser league. That wasn't a bad thing. Something about this food, at least the few snacky items we ate, seemed like perfect drinking food and you don't need fine wine for that.

Izalco * 64-05 Roosevelt Ave., Woodside, Queens

El Chivito d'Oro

1/2 I really wanted Uruguayan food to be distinctly different from Argentinean so I could be more emphatic in my piece about unique Latin American food, but at least as far as grilled meat is concerned they're kind of interchangeable. There is an Uruguayan and Paraguayan bakery in Woodside but as far as sit down restaurants go, I'm fairly certain that Chivito d'Oro is the only Uruguayan restaurant in NYC.

For some unknown reason, 37th Avenue is home to a slew of parilladas. This strip also seems to have some rule about consistent awnings and storefront, many seem to have a '90s nearly suburban style. One block south on Roosevelt it's mish mash paradise, the signage is a mess and practically every Latin American cuisine you can think co-mingles with Thai, Filipino and Tibetan. 37th is steakhouses, but not in the Peter Luger dry aged vein. Mixed grills are the specialties and the bargain of $19.95 for a single serving ($27.99 for two) that easily feeds two (or three daintier eaters) isn't lost on patrons. On weekend, the foyer at Chivito is jam packed. We didn't even bother on a Saturday around 10pm and went to Izalco instead.

Due to the Italian influence on this part of South America, pastas are prevalent, but I'm barely a fan of even exquisitely prepared Italian food by Italians (I know, I'm a freak) so I've never ventured to that side of the menu. James wanted to be different and opted for a chicken dish, which isn't necessarily lighter than the red meat. His chicken francesa consisted of two pounded, breaded cutlets in a lemon sauce. I didn't taste it but with rice it could've nearly passed for Chinese food.

If you order the parillada, which you should, your carnivore's delight comes on a little tabletop grill warmed by candles. The contents include skirt steak, another kind of steak that I'm not sure about, morcilla (my Spanish tutor didn't think I knew what this was when recounting my meal the following week. Hey, I'm all about sangre, no fears here. The blood sausage is actually one of my favorite parts of the whole shebang), ribs, pork sausage and sweetbreads. They went easier on the organ meats than the Argentinean steakhouse I tried a few years back. My choice of starch was roasted potato wedges. I made it through about half of the items. The vinegary chimichurri is a must and cuts through the richness. Of course, it's oil-based and rich in and of itself. You can't think about calories in these situations. You might as well stay home and eat microwaved Amy's enchiladas, if you have food fears.

The clientele was a mix on our weeknight visit. There were plenty of Hispanic families, but there was also a table of Eastern Europeans who came after us, breezed through their meat and left before our last bites. There also wasn't a shortage of Queens-y types getting take out and reminding the counter guy not to forget the rolls (which are quite good and charred with grill marks).

I'm not schooled enough to recommend Chivito d'Oro over nearby favorites La Porteña or La Fusta or countless others, though I don't want to say they're interchangeable either. It's worth a jaunt on the 7 train to investigate, though.

El Chivito d'Oro * 84-02 37th Ave., Jackson Heights, NY

Mi Bolivia

It's hard to define an entire cuisine after a single meal. So, I won't. (But I will give an overview of Latin American cuisine  that's scarce in NYC.) Bolivian food is kind of meat and potatoes and thoroughly hearty. Must be the Andean air. Many of the dishes come with regular potatoes and chuños (a tiny freeze dried tuber) as well as hominy and rice. Lots of starch and chewiness. I had aji de lengua, tongue in a lightly spiced brown sauce. They also have a peanut soup, sopa de mani, that I've heard about but didn't try. Weekends are soupy at a lot of these places with changing menus of the day during the week.

Salteñas are a heftier empanada with a stewier filling of either chicken or beef. They're served with a green salsa that our waitress pointed out wasn't called salsa. Instead of the Spanish word they use yagua. At least that's what she wrote down for me, but after some sleuthing it seems like llajwa is the more commonly used term. Either way, it's nice with a salteña. There is one other Bolivian restaurant in NYC named Nostalgias (love the added S, like how McGriddles is singular) and I'd definitely be willing to give it a try.

Mi Bolivia * 44-10 48th Ave., Sunnyside, Queens

Tierras Centro Americanas

Other the Pollo Campero, there aren't any other Guatemalan restaurants in the city that I'm aware of. And it doesn't appear that Tierras Centro Americanas is going out of its way to get the word out (my editor had to call and plead for 15 minutes to convince the owner to allow us to send a photographer for an article on lesser known Latin American food…and then they didn't end up using a photo anyway). This place used to be called Xelaju and appears to have recently changed names. There's also a Salvadoran flag on the wall and pupusas on the menu, which might reflect new ownership. The clientele seemed heavily Guatemalan, though.

Unless you live in Eastern Queens, getting to this little storefront is a bit of a trek. And once you arrive, the scene might be mildly conflicting. On my visit the staff seemed very nervous and reluctant to approach us. I wasn't sure if it was the language barrier, if they thought I was going to deport them or what. I almost felt in need of one of those worry dolls. But the Sunday afternoon customers were insanely friendly. Nearly someone at every table wanted to help us order and make suggestions.

A large family suggested that I take a picture of who appeared to be the matriarch in a traditional dress. Unfortunately, I couldn't catch what it was called or the region it was from. A guy at the table on my other side confided that these handmade dresses can cost $1,000 and are for special occasions. Hey, why can't soup in Jamaica be a special occasion?

I was only able to sample a few items so I can't speak with expertise on Guatemalan food. It's not like Mexican but they do serve thick fresh corn tortillas with everything. It was recommended that I order a soup so I tried caldo de res, a hearty beef concoction that felt fortifying and healthy as it was teeming with vegetables like green beans, chayote, potatoes, yucca, carrots and cabbage. That would've been plenty, but I had to try the salpicon because it sounded so crazy and un-Hispanic. With chopped beef, cilantro, onion, lime juice and radishes served with rice it was suspiciously similar to Thai larb. It's not spicy and has the oddball radish, but it felt Asian. James lamed out and had tacos, which are probably what Americans would call flautas, little rolled up things.

Tierras is the kind of place where the jukebox will spontaneously blast Spanish death metal and then segue into a sappy ballad and Chinese women go table to table hawking bootleg dvds and customers actually buy them. One mom snatched up Snakes on a Plane (and a Sponge Bob disc) a day after opening in the theaters. That's so not Carroll Gardens and I totally appreciate that.

Tierras Centro Americanas * 87-52 168th St., Jamaica, NY

Where Subways Fear to Tread

The Sunday before last, I needed to kill time in Queens so I decided to check out Glendale’s mall-in-progress, The Shops at Atlas Park because I like going places where subways don't reach. I’d eaten lunch in Sunnyside and also had to eat dinner in Jackson Heights, but didn’t want to go all the way back home to Brooklyn to wait for my appetite to reappear (I have harbored fantasies about somehow being able to remove meals, without barfing, so you can immediately eat another).

I wouldn’t say I’m a mall connoisseur, but I do have my standards. And while I realize this shopping center isn’t fully realized, this one didn’t do much for me. Even though Atlas Park is brand new and ‘00s style, there’s something about it that reminded me of an old beat-up long gone Portland mall called Eastport Plaza. I took a bunch of photos of the raggedy half-empty collection of stores back in the pre-blogging, mid-‘90s but I’m sure what I did with them.

It had its hey day in the early ‘80s and was never much to look at even then. It was small (note that mall wasn’t in the name either) and had stores like Newberry (R.I.P.), Frederick’s of Hollywood, Doo-Da (a Spencer’s rip off) and Orange Julius. (I saw santa there when I was five or so and he said, “here’s a candy cane for your brother.” Hmm, I didn’t have a brother.) Now one of Portland’s only Wal-Marts (weird that both locations are on 82nd Ave.) is in the old space and they’ve completely remodeled the block into a strip mall, (is that website classy or what?) complete with an Izzy's, my favorite NW pizza buffet. I'd dare say it's the same clientele that was attracted to the old busted mall.

All that was open at Atlas Park was a J. Jill, an Amish Market (which I don’t think is Amish but merely a chain of overpriced midtown delis), California Pizza Kitchen and Stein Mart. I had been curious about Stein Mart because I’ve seen TV ads, but have never set foot in one (this is the only one in NYC). It felt like a pricier Marshalls, which is amusing because I used to think Marshalls was a more expensive Ross (which they don’t have in New York state). There’s nothing remarkable about Stein Mart unless you like decorating your home with 3-D wood cut-outs spelling inspirational words like “peace” and “family.”

The movie theater was also open and we did that thing that normally baffles me—just showing up with no plan and picking a movie on the spot. Little Miss Sunshine was the lesser of the cinematic evils on offer (I swear I’m not a snob, I just like movies with dialogue and regular kinds of characters where not a lot happens and you end up feeling kind of sad. I would like to see Half Nelson and Factotum in the immediate future). I will say that Regal Cinemas has insane customer service. Everyone’s cheerful and full of hellos and thank yous. No one talks, let alone yells, during the film. I was kind of scared. This is the anti-Court Street Stadium. Even the kid with a broom and dustpan who walked in front of our row during the movie whispered excuse me.

I wouldn’t mind paying The Shops at Atlas Park another visit in 15 years (oh my goodness, I just realized that would make me 49) and seeing if it has turned all ghostly and dilapidated like Eastport Plaza.

The Shops at Atlas Park * 8000 Cooper Ave., Glendale, NY

Perro Caliente

Don't be scared of the South American hot dog. My overstuffed wiener and bun induced stomach trauma from a few weeks ago is now far enough in the past that I can share some photos from my culinary experimenting. The actual article will likely appear in the New York Post in a Wednesday or two so I won't get wordy here. Ok, they ended up using my "Dog Days" piece in a larger summer food round-up.

Update 5/07: It looks like Mazorca has shuttered. I never go down Northern Blvd. so it's also news to me that Xtasis, across the street, has expanded into a pink neon palace.

Perro Mixto: ham, bacon, mayo, tomatoes, avocado, crushed potato chips

Hawaiiana: mayo, avocado, pineapple, potato chips, ham

Mazorca * 83-17 Northern Blvd. Jackson Heights, NY

Iraqui: mayo, hard boiled eggs, pineapple sauce, cheese

Mexicana: avocado, cheese, chiles, mayo

La Perrada de Chalo * 83-12 Northern Blvd., Jackson Heights, NY

El Completo: avocado, mayo, tomatoes, sauerkraut

JC & Family * 68-14 Roosevelt Ave. Woodside, NY

I forgot to take photos of the completo at my favorite place, San Antonio Bakery, but I did capture the beef empanada and dulce de leche layer cake.

San Antonio #2 * 36-20 Astoria Blvd. Astoria, NY

Pop Diner

I can't even recall what used to be in this spot, but when the new made to look old Googie-style diner showed up on that stretch of Queens Blvd. near Target, a few years back, it threw me off. So shiny, so colorful, and the Pop in the name made me think Pop on 4th Ave. and Pop Burger, but it couldn't possibly be affiliated. Elmhurst doesn't draw the same clientele as the East Village and Chelsea.

I finally decided to pay a visit and appease James who often expresses a desire to eat there when we drive by. I usually veto in favor of Sripraphai, but I'm learning to make concessions. I was under the impression that Pop might be tweaking diner classics with newfangled touches, but it's relatively traditional fare with a few Latin American and Asian leanings.

I didn’t go for the pernil or plantains, though. We shared an ok quesadilla. I love reubens and usually only have the opportunity to order them in diners. This was an unorthodox specimen, as it came open faced. That’s an important detail to omit from the menu description. It also was lacking Russian dressing. It tasted fine enough, but it wasn’t all that a reuben could be. Something about sandwiches splayed open across the plate just feels geriatric to me. I’m not ready for the old folks home yet.

Pop does excel with little touches. The coleslaw was actually good, I usually take a bite just to see and ended up eating most of my little paper cup full. And the fries were crisp rather than fat and soggy like diner fries can be. The desserts, a small selection including chocolate cake, cheesecake and lemon meringue pie, were very enticing in the rotating case near the door. Who knows if their flavor matched their looks, but I'd like to believe it did.

Pop Diner * 80-26 Queens Blvd., Elmhurst, NY

Hornado Ecuatoriano

I don't think I've ever met a plate of roast pork I didn't like. Lechon, hornado, whatever you call it. Rich, fatty meat and nice crme brulee-crisp skin topping. It's nothing fancy (and certainly nothing healthy) but it's one of my favorite things. Maybe it's because I've never been able to reproduce the moist-crunchy masterpiece at home. And it's for the best, or I'd be digging an early porcine grave.

When I end up on Roosevelt Ave., eating is a must. The tough question is Asian or Latin American? I could easily go either way, but my two top choices along that strip would be Thai or Filipino.

I never know if it's a language issue or if I'm just hard to understand, though I got what I came for. English isn't really spoken and most of the menu isn't translated, so you kind of have to know what you want (or speak Spanish, duh). James got all weird and randomly ordered arroz con pollo, which I wouldn't do at an Ecuadorian restaurant. The massive chewy yellow rice had bits of chicken strewn through out and a sweet fried plantain draped across the oval dish. He wasn't thrilled, but it's not my fault he ordered poorly.

Me, I had a nice heap of pork, generous pile of white hominy and two little arepas with a side salad that was tasty enough to not completely ignore. This food is filling to say the least. And they say Americans are corn crazy. I love hominy, maybe more than corn. It's chewy and more satisfying on the teeth you can really bite into it. I didn't get one of the fruity batidos that seemed to be on every table (there were a few pitchers of sangria being consumed, as well) though they did look refreshing.

Hornado Ecuatoriano * 76-18 Roosevelt Ave., Jackson Heights, NY

El Sitio

I was just about Cubano'd out at this point in my fake vs. real research. But El Sitio is a classic, I couldn't pass it up. Though I have physically passed by countless times and never stopped in. This is a perpetual problem with Roosevelt Ave.--too much choice and when it's a Latin-Asian toss-up, I almost always lean towards the Thai or Filipino options.

We sat in the restaurant half, which has personal jukeboxes at each table, fake ivy climbing the ceiling, and no cubano on the menu. Oops, I guess you're supposed to sit at the lunch counter for more casual fare. But I still got my sandwich, I had to. You get garlic bread while you wait and little croquettes the size of olives. Maybe you don't get those in the diner. James ordered a pork plate with yucca, and rice and beans, of course.

The sandwich was perfectly crisp with a soft melty interior. Swiss cheese, roast pork, ham, pickle and yellow mustard--all standard and all good. And very flat, it'd had the hell pressed out of it, which is a good thing. I hate it when everything's busting out.

El Sitio * 68-28 Roosevelt Ave., Woodside, NY

La Flor

1/2 I feel like La Flor is one of those Chowhound darlings (at least it was some years back) as was corroborated by the 95% white middle class clientele (myself included, I guess) that mysteriously was almost exclusively made up of pairs of 40-ish women. But I've never been in all of my years. If I find myself along these parts of Roosevelt Ave., I inevitably end up in an Asian establishment. And even this excursion was a fluke. We'd been shopping at Western Beef in Ridgewood and wanted a taco, which could've been satisfied en route back to South Brooklyn. But the pull deeper into Queens was too strong to resist.

I know, La Flor is more capable than a mere taqueria--the short ribs sounded tempting and the cheesecake and bread pudding filled dessert case taunted me all evening--but we just wanted tacos. I had to try the special al pastor ones since I'm crazy for pork and pineapple. I happened to be sitting right near the spit, so I could see the meat being shaved off. Clearly I wasn't the only al pastor fan, as a lot of slices were stripped off before mine made their way to my table. The tacos looked larger than average, the two corn tortillas seemed to be slightly bigger in circumference. Or maybe it was an illusion because of the generous amount of filling. The meat was crispy edged, sweet and earthy with hints of fruit. I could eat a pile of it. The two tacos came with a mesclun salad topped with fresh corn for $8.95, which seemed fair enough.

We shared a shrimp quesadilla that came red, white and green stripes of salsa and crema. Festive. And the filling wasn't overly cheesy, in fact there appeared to be mashed potato chunks mixed with the seafood and green onions.

Coupled with a glass of the ever popular Yellowtail Shiraz (no, not fancy, but not jug wine either), the early evening meal was a nice way to waste time while waiting for a severe downpour to pass over the elevated 7 tracks. I can see how this corner caf appeals to locals looking for variety. (2/4/06)

La Flor * 53-02 Roosevelt Ave., Woodside, Queens

Minangasli

Oh, this is one of those places that makes me wish I didn't live where I live. I'm pretty fond of my apartment, it's just the surroundings that I find less than satisfactory (weird, I know, since there are plenty of perfectly nice blogs devoted these environs). Minangasli should be my neighborhood restaurant, not Frankies 457 (which isn't even heinous) 0r I don't know, Marco Polo. But then, I could be biased since I'm no fan of Italian-American cuisine. Maybe I'm just partial to S.E. Asian food under $7 with nearby storefronts with names like Bappy Sweets (a bastardization of happy or does bappy mean something?). I would eat out every night and be even unhealthier and mushier than I am now, so it's for the best.

Minangasli was a must since I'm always on rendang alert. James was disappointed that the stewy meat wasn't as ubiquitous as he'd anticipated in Malaysia. The streets, pardon me, jalans, weren't paved with rendang, a beautiful image to imagine, nonetheless. I could be off, but I kind of saw it like a tourist going to Miami and distressing over the lack of cheesesteaks. I don' t know if Penang or Kuala Lumpur are exactly rendang hot beds. We certainly found the dish here and there, at a few street stalls, but it tended to show up more on the menus of Indonesian restaurants.

The ayam goreng sambal ijo, fried chicken smothered with a green chile paste was tastier than its simplicity would have you believe. The rendang was rich, slightly sweet, with deeper spices and less citrus than others I've tasted (including my own). It was a blessing that we were presented with only three large chunks or I would've been in serious caloric straits. (The portions are almost deceptively small, at first glance they seem slightly inadequate, but once you start eating you realize they're more than enough, it's an optical illusion.)

I'd heard about the kale and thought it was a good idea since we tend to get meat-heavy in Asian restaurants. But the greens were absent that evening, so we opted for jackfruit, a favorite of mine that didn't sway too far from Upi Jaya's rendition. I do think Minangasli's prices are a few dollars less, for whatever that's worth. But both are worth a visit. I'm all for Indonesian food in all permutations, as it's few and far between in NYC.

Minangasli * 86-10 Whitney Ave., Elmhurst, NY

Renee's Kitchenette

I can't believe I forgot that Sripraphai is closed on Wednesdays. The last time Sripraphai was unexpectedly closed we ventured to Rice, further east on Roosevelt Ave., which made me sad because everyone wanted chopsticks, brown rice and fish sauce-less food. I wanted to pick up some mithai and those adorable Thai marzipan fruits for a party I was throwing and Wednesday night was really the only chance I thought I'd get (I was able to go back Friday, as it turned out).

Coming up with a plan B wasn't easy. Not in the mood for anything Hispanic or Indian, I was gung ho on either Malaysian or Filipino, two cuisines I can never get James to agree on (despite spending nearly two weeks on an eating journey in Malaysia this summer). Finally, he relented and said he could go for some grilled skewers from Ihawan.

Yay, victory. But then my thrill soon soured because I remembered that all those Filipino places close early. It was only a few minutes past 8pm, but yep, Ihawan was dark and shuttered. We only wanted food to go, so we were able squeak into Renee's before the 8:30pm closing (and I always thought Sripraphai was hardcore with their no orders after 9:30pm or whatever it is). Phew.

Grilled meats were a must for James. Lechon is an absolute for me. We ended up ordering a mixed grill, which came with beef skewers, pork belly, longaniza, and a chicken breast. All for $7. I like how the sweet smoky barbecued items are paired with a side of achara, pickled green papaya with raisins (I'm not sure how textbook this is, most recipes I've seen for the sour accompaniment don't use raisins. But I know Filipinos have a fondness for the dried grapes, probably a Spanish influence. My best friend growing up was from the Philippines and her mom would put raisins in the lumpia. Oh my god, I could eat a plate of toasty cylinders).

The crispy, fatty pork chunks came with a lechon sauce that was slightly different that what I've had before. It was darker, thinner and appeared to be speckled with caramelized onions. I love that stuff, and had no idea liver and breadcrumbs were main ingredients until maybe two years ago. I used to keep a bottle in the fridge, but never had any occasion to use it. Same with banana ketchup. I love that these condiments exist, though they don't necessarily fit into my daily routine.

James also ordered pork adobo just to keep up the porcine fest (I would've opted for chicken). Everything plus three boxes of rice (I swear, Filipinos are more rice crazy than other Asian cultures) totaled $18, which is amazing value if you consider that we had enough food for two meals. $4.50 a dinner is hard to beat.

Renee's Kitchenette * 6914 Roosevelt Ave., Woodside, NY

Plaza Garibaldi

This was my first stop while doing <A href=>michelada research</a>, so I came across a little hesitant in ordering the spicy drink. My michelada naiveté totally got me pegged as a culinarily ignorant gringa. After we decided to stay and order food, we kept getting steered away from the things we actually wanted and pushed towards items like quesadillas. When James ordered something with chorizo and I asked for the pernil torta we were informed, “thats pork, you know.” This would be the first of two exact same warnings at Mexican restaurants that week. Where did the idea that Americans dont like pork come from? Do they think all New Yorkers are Jewish? It always weirds me out when wait staff tries talking me out of items I'm interested in, especially when the dish in question isnt particularly odd. But even if I wanted to try lambs eyeballs or guinea pigs, that would be my bad choice if I didnt end up liking it.

Plaza Garibaldi * 89-12 Roosevelt. Ave., Corona, NY