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Kitchen 79: Kua Kling Nuea Sub

kitchen 79 kua kling

It may not look like much (the photo certainly isn’t helping matters) or it may look like larb depending on your perspective, but that pile of ground meat in a plastic container is very much a something. It’s kua kling, a so- called dry curry from southern Thailand that I’d never noticed previously on the menu at Kitchen 79 and is relatively scarce in NYC. (Center Point has been known to serve it.) That’s reason enough to care.

This version, kua kling nuea sub, features irregular nubs of chopped beef, but chicken and pork are also available and all three are traditional. Lacking coconut milk, these curries aren’t sweet in the least so the aromatics like turmeric, lemongrass, and kaffir lime are all super pronounced (and though I’m certain Sichuan peppercorns are not an ingredient, there was a tingly undercurrent from something) with a rumble of heat from visibly pulverized red chiles and scattered inner seeds. It was spicy for a Thai dish ordered online with no particular heat specificity requested, though I’m pretty sure southern Thai curries on their home turf are punishing, which is what I wanted after a long weekend overdosing on Hudson Valley quaintness, but Kitchen 79 isn’t specifically a southern Thai restaurant and the clientele certainly isn’t either.

That said, be on the lookout for the yellow-tinged pile of meat masquerading as a curry. It’s a good dish to try when you’ve exhausted all the standards.

Kitchen 79 * 37-70 79th St., Jackson Heights, NY

Would You Rather? Ridgewood These Days or Those Days Drinking Edition

Because I just can’t stop keeping tabs on neighborhoods I haven’t lived in for 15 years.

Natalie Keyssar/New York Times

Natalie Keyssar/The New York Times

Nowadays?

 

Or The Bad Old Days?

Eaten, Barely Blogged: Oleanders & Four Horsemen

Recently, I was having a discussion about how trends recycle so quickly that style has collapsed on itself to such a degree that now you can wear whatever you want and it doesn’t matter anymore. When the friend I was dining with last night asked where I got my butt-ugly white lug-soled sandals without calling them butt-ugly, it was totally conceivable they could be Alexander Wang, for example. Of course I bought them online for $15 at Target last summer. I’m not at a point where I could saunter into work in a crop top and harem pants, but that says more about my office than me.

The same lack of rules goes with neighborhoods, architecture and food. It’s a great time to be alive. Earlier, this same friend, a graphic designer, wanted me to see the jaunty font and signage being used at The Bean outpost that opened on Bedford in the ground floor of one of those new brick buildings that look like they belong in an upscale development in Denver. (Actually, I assume it’s the same font used at all four locations, but it’s really allowed to come into its own in this particular setting.) It’s so middlebrow, occupying the space between the character by virtue of age bodega awnings (not to be confused with deli grossery) and overly precious peak Brooklyn handwritten everything aesthetic.

This is a long-winded way of saying that a nouveau fern bar with an explanation of what a fern bar is (don’t make me link to wikipedia) on the menu and a wine bar opened by LCD Soundsystem’s James Murphy in the former Foodswings space make perfect sense for right now even if neither objectively make sense.

oleanders quad

Oleanders. I, for one, am welcoming this weird shift. Bring on the rattan and potted plants. Dust off the Galliano. I knew fern bars were eventually coming and Williamsburg might be the epicenter. Reynard has been serving a Harvey Wallbanger. Donna has that awesome brancolada. Dark carved wood and damask has been giving way to Scandinavian lightness, warm metals and copious foliage on design blogs for some time. Restaurants are getting there. (Meanwhile, Bushwick gets the chimichangas. Who’s making the English muffin pizzas?)

Technically, Oleanders should be getting The Middle Ages treatment since I sat at the bar and didn’t eat a full-on meal but 5:30pm on a Monday isn’t exactly a meet/meat market in any era (though for the record, the one other female patron, solo, could’ve been a mature 38 or youthful 42, or maybe it was that she looked more tan and tailored generally than you see in Williamsburg and it made her look aged i.e. more grownup).

The thing about The Elm’s demise and total overhaul is that it’s not clear how people who were turned off by that too much for Williamsburg menu are going to be into beef wellington and lobster thermidor–poolside? In a girls with boyish figures neighborhood? Too highbrow even ironically for dadbods? I dunno. As the consensus arose on a Facebook discussion: “Too regal, not enough beagle.”

The fantasy fern bar of my childhood totally would’ve served potato skins (crème fraîche and roe just an added bonus) and grasshoppers. The clams casino never would’ve crossed my mind but they are the perfect bridge between T.G.I. Friday’s (which is not only a native New Yorker but as some claim the O.G. fern bar) and 1970s continental cuisine. Honestly, I can’t think of any better place to drink an elevated shot (I tried both, including the Alabama Slammer, which crams Medley Brothers bourbon, Southern Comfort Reserve, Plymouth sloe gin, Caffo amaretto, cranberry, orange juice and Morris Kitchen grenadine into one tiny glass and results in fruit punch) while listening to Bob Seeger and ELO.

Also, that name. I do appreciate the extra S in Oleanders, though it doesn’t read preppy (I’m more of the west coast school anyway where you can have wicker and wine spritzers and not be all Ivy about it). It’s a flourish I affectionately call “the white trash S,” since it’s a written and verbal tic I’ve fought to repress on many an occasion. At least it’s not an apostrophe S.

But back to business, there’s a real opportunity here as Wegmans (no apostrophe) the beloved upstate grocery store coming to the Navy Yards in 2017, adds in-store pubs with Tiffany-style lamps and high-backed tapestry booths, to tap into this zeitgeist. In two years all of the cool kids will be eating prime rib and Tuscan fries in a Fort Greene grocery store and no one will remember what Tinder was.

four horsemen quad

Four Horsemen. Would you like some orange wine to go with your kale crostini? Sure, why not. I’ll take it over a vegan milkshake and chick’n cordon bleu made from mock poultry, soy ham and Daiya mozzarella. Say goodbye to the second-wave of Williamsburg gentrification (as much as I loved my local lazy brunches, Taco Chulo, your days are numbered too, I’m afraid).

I had a few wines by the glass like the aforementioned ‘Coenobium’ Field Blend Monastero Suore Cistercensi, a slightly nutty unfiltered blend that I have to admit went pretty well with that kale toast spread with fresh sheep’s milk cheese and garnished with pickled golden raisins. Nothing is crazily priced and all of the wines are natural, which is the angle, far simpler in concept than a retro revival. There’s room for that, as easy as it is to poke fun of anything new and veering toward earnestness.

The food was better than I expected for a newly opened Williamsburg wine bar, emphasis sort of on the bar. A terrine with tiny florets of fermented cauliflower, beef tartare speckled with seeds, and carrots roasted to nearly maduros-like texture and sweetness with Thai peppercorns and bound together by gooey ribbons of stracciatella all packed strong flavors but nothing that would compete with a light, biodynamic Gamay.

And for the record, the pink and green (mine was just brown and I didn’t feel right swapping) Opinel knives were pretty sweet–and I managed to not even Instagram the cutlery.

Dani’s House of Pizza

threeshovelDani’s is one of those institutions that also happens to be located in one of those Tudor buildings that still thrive in Forest Hills and Kew Gardens, lending it just that extra veneer of Queens charm. Brooklyn has classic pizza, too, obviously but not served in a corner Snow White cottage.

I’ve only come to know it recently after I’ve started getting my hair cut across the street at the suggestion of a young Montenegrin (or Macedonian? I always confuse the two) woman I met at a party last year when she learned I was moving to Jackson Heights. It’s great—the cut is only $25 (it’s double with a blowout, which is maybe more standard for ladies, but I don’t like them) and you can have a mimosa or cappuccino. It’s a salon not a barber shop.

 

dani's house of pizza slice

The plain slice is substantial. I originally thought I might wait it out for the pesto style I keep hearing about that wasn’t on display and never appeared in the 20 minutes or so I occupied a seat, but one slice was filling enough. The sauce is sweet, maybe too sweet for some tastes (counterbalance with an aggressive shake of chile flakes) and the mozzarella is laid on thick and melty, like kid pizza, you know, as if a grade school served pizza that actually tasted good.

dani's house of pizza beers

Pizza isn’t allowed in the dining room and the pizza operation itself isn’t more than a narrow takeout counter that happens to have six diner-style stools bolted down at the far end near the kitchen. The upside of snagging a seat is having more than soda with your slice. A pair of older women were nursing glasses of red wine, but beer is where it’s at. There’s a whole refrigerator filled with beers, most more exciting than what you’ll find at your local Queens bodega. A Gose brewed with coriander and sea salt from the Oregon coast? Sure, why not.

I wasn’t paying attention, but I’m pretty sure the slice and beer were $6. It’s hard to argue with that.

Now, I just need to go back and get that pesto slice. As soon as my hair needs a trim…

dani's house of pizza pete the dog

I referred to this handsome canine (that’s saying a lot coming from a cat lady) on Instagram as a pizza dog. It turns out his name is Pete. I don’t imagine his last name is Za, however.

Dani’s House of Pizza * 81-28 Lefferts Blvd., Kew Gardens, NY

And Then There Was One

sizzler for rent

I didn’t want to believe the rumors were true, but now I’ve seen the the proof with my own eyes. Sadly, the only remaining Sizzler on the east coast (ok, there is still one in Florida but does that really count?) served its last plate of Malibu Chicken last week.

sizzler map

Even though the past-its-prime chain likely wouldn’t top anyone’s list of favorites–or even crack the top 25–it has carved out a place of honor for me since childhood and took on a new level of prominence after re-experiencing my first Sizzler in decades last August. I talked about it a lot. I still did up until this weekend. I am right now.

Maybe Sizzler just isn’t compatible with the east coast and has nothing to do with changing tastes. After all, it was kind of the original fast casual, the restaurant sector that’s been driving sales year after year. Maybe Sizzler should reposition itself as a heritage brand a la Pendleton or Madewell but you know, for food.

Not even the recent burst of unexpected viral fame was enough to save the brand (though Sizzler’s Instagram followers did jump to 378 from the 48 it had pre-1991 commercial fervor).

It felt like my little secret, not a secret at all, of course, but being located in that quiet, residential patch of Forest Hills not easily accessible by subway, you can almost imagine you’re not in New York City. As I walked down Metropolitan Avenue yesterday, fueled by a daiquiri and negroni (where no one knew it was its namesake week) chased by a tequila shot (all that was missing was whiskey), I decided that a true test of someone’s character would be if they would come to this part of Queens without complaint. It’s as good as a barometer as any, a love of taco, pasta and  Jello-laden salad bars no longer necessary.

 

Not Lovin’ It

Staged or not (I kind of think not), being driven to non-joyful tears by an engagement ring in a McDonald’s chicken sandwich is the only rational reaction I’ve ever seen to such an uncalled for food-based proposal.

Mom On Mom Crime

vulgar

As you may know, though I wouldn’t necessarily expect you to, I’m kind of obsessed with both 40-year-old New Jersey mom posing as Williamsburger of 26 fable Younger and chain restaurants generally, especially if they serve Cheddar Bay Biscuits (not to mention one of the nation’s most caloric meals) . So, the latest hate campaign by One Million Moms cuts very close to home.

This easily riled group made up of a few hundred at best wants Red Lobster to stop advertising during the show (and have claimed dubious victory over a recent lack of IHOP commercials) because of the “s-xual innuendos” and “almost impossible to describe the depth of depravity” and then go on to try and describe said depravity.

Highlights include:

  • Pixelated n-dity
  • Excessive alcohol consumption
  • Pervert meets woman to buy underwear but scams her by sniffing them and then running off

That’s really just one episode. There’s also homosexuality, drug use, Jewishness, removing a friend’s stuck menstrual cup–and to bring this back to food, a Meatball Shop reference. Ban it all.

Millard really puts it best. What’s next, indeed?