April 2005 Archives

Okay, not quite an obit -- this may be a bit premature.  My roommate went down to Bensonhurst this weekend for some Ocean Port dim sum and found that the building had been completely demolished.  His friend Alex called the phone number and was told that it was being "renovated".  Maybe they'll at least put the name of the restaurant somewhere prominent this time. 

I interrupt this tour to bring you this special bulletin: "A cookie is a sometimes food." 

Tomorrow, Large Boned Bird explains the words of the day: "Gastric bypass." 

**Thank you Gothamist.

DAY TWO, Thursday, April 7

1:00 a.m.  We make our way to the Blue Room after the badly needed falafel detour.  I drink two glasses of yeasty champagne and watch the dance major twirl around the dance floor.  We tire and decide to retire.

2:30 a.m.  Danny, Jewlia's friend and our D.C. host, drives us all to his mom's house, where we will be sleeping for the night.  Danny's friend Daniel squeezes in the back with Marika and me, Jewlia relaxes with her feet out the passenger side window.  Danny drives with firm speed down the empty roads of Adams Morgan.  Suddenly, Danny decelerates.  We hear the "bwup bwup" of a cop car as it descends upon us. 

DANNY: Does anybody have any gum?

DANIEL:  Show him your bar card with your license.

(footsteps on the left side of the car.)

YOUNG COP: Sir, can I see your license and registration? (DANNY hands over the rental agreement with insurance info along with his driver's license and bar card.)  Okay, do you know why I stopped you?

DANNY:  No sir.

YOUNG COP: Do you know how fast you were going?

DANNY:  No sir.

YOUNG COP: You were going 45 in a 35 mile an hour zone.

DANNY: I apologize, sir.

YOUNG COP: And the young lady had her feet stickin' out the window.

JEWLIA:  I'm sorry sir, I was wearing heels and my feet hurt.

YOUNG COP: (Pauses, eyeballing DANNY and JEWLIA)  Okay, I'll be right back.

(In an obvious attempt at outright intimidation, YOUNG COP's partner, OLDER COP, shines his flashlight over each of our faces slowly, like a helicopter circling with its floodlights.)

DANIEL: Guys, just play up the fact that you're visiting from out of town and you don't know your way around.

DANNY: Nobody has any gum or anything?

(Time passes.  Slowly.)

YOUNG COP:  Okay, who's Jew-li-a Eisenberg?

JEWLIA: That's me.

YOUNG COP:  Who's Marika Hughes?

MARIKA: I am.

YOUNG COP:  Okay, you two are the only people on the rental agreement who are supposed to be driving this car.  I don't see any other name on this rental agreement.

DANNY:  Sir, we're going to my mother's house, it's just a mile away, they're visiting and don't know their way around here--

YOUNG COP:  Well, they're the only people that are supposed to be driving this car. 

MARIKA:  Julka, I can't drive right now.

YOUNG COP: Alright then, well drive slowly and watch your speed.

DANNY: Thank you sir.  Uh....do you want us to switch?

YOUNG COP:  Yes.  (Sticks his head in a little) Are you okay to drive?

JEWLIA: Yes, I'm fine to drive, I've only had one beer tonight, officer.

YOUNG COP:  Well, just wait a minute here.

JEWLIA:  (To the other passengers)  Do I go ahead and drive now?

MARIKA: No, just wait, I don't think we can go yet.

JEWLIA:  (To the YOUNG COP) Can I go now?

YOUNG COP:  Not yet.  (A minute goes by.)  Alright, go ahead.

JEWLIA:  Okay what do I do now?

MARIKA:  Okay, first you gotta push the seat forward--

DANIEL:  Move the seat forward--

DANNY:  There's a lever down at the bottom--

MARIKA: Push it forward--

DANIEL:  No, that's the one that lowers the angle--

MARIKA: No, the other one.

JEWLIA: You're going to have to do it for me baby--

DANNY:  She can do this, there's only a couple of levers down there, she can figure it out.

(Continued ad nauseum for five minutes.  Cop car still behind us, waiting with their lights beamed in like a spotlight.)

JEWLIA: Ooh, I got it.

DANNY:  Okay, now pull out, we'll drive a bit, then we'll switch.

MARIKA: Use your signal.

(We drive away.  DANNY and JEWLIA switch.  We make it to his mom's house.  Lots of relieved laughter, a favorite emotion of mine.  I go to bed almost immediately.)

10:00 a.m.  I wake up, refreshed, in Danny's mom's quiet house.  I do yoga for an hour in the clear, quiet morning sunlight.  I eat a packet of Cream of Wheat and have a cup of tea.  Eventually, the others emerge from their rooms.  Danny knows the perfect spot for lunch.  He drives.

1:00 p.m. Short stack -- Louisiana Express

Disclaimer:  I'd like to know what it means to miss New Orleans, but I've never been.  Until then, Louisiana Express will serve as my measure of greatness.  This little hole-in-the-wall across the street from the "Eurocars" dealership in Bethesda, MD serves up all the good things I dream I'll find on the Bayou -- chicory extended Cafe du Monde iced au laits, doughy beignets with generous piles of powdered sugar, excellent greaseless spicy fries, crisp catfish "beignets" with whole grain mustard studded remoulade, excellent shrimp and catfish po' boys on smooth, uncomplicated heroes, and a spicy, roux-richened gumbo with okra or "the works" -- crawfish, chicken, catfish, andouille, and butterflied shrimp.  Huge portions meant that I got to take half a po' boy for the road -- but I'm still dreaming of the last spoonfuls of gumbo I had to leave in my deep bowl.

Louisiana Express photos

Grade: A

Total: $20 per person, including tax and tip, for enough food to embarrass even me.

Will I return?  God, I hope so.  Even if I make it to New Orleans proper someday, Bethesda is a lot closer.  And I really want to try the fried oysters.  This is a road food classic, a can't miss for any road tripper in that neck of the woods.  Bethesda, who knew?

Louisiana Express

4921 Bethesda Avenue

Bethesda, MD 20814

Phone: (301) 652-6945    

Fax: (301) 654-4852

DAY ONE, Wednesday April 6

12:30 p.m.  Meet at Jewlia's house to rehearse before we hit the road.  Jewlia and her mom have prepared a lovely lunch of bagels with tuna and capers, curried egg salad, sliced Persian cucumber, surprisingly sweet strawberries, iced tea, and water with lemon, lime, and mint in a tall glass pitcher.  I wish I could eat like that every day.  I have brought my own lunch from the salad bar next door which I nibble on as well, and a big bottle of water for the road.  Jewlia's mom says, "Ganda, you always have food with you.  It's very impressive.  You're always so prepared."  Actually, I have packed several bags of black and green teas and a couple of packets of Cream of Wheat for the road -- because you can always get hot water.  I really bring food with me for the benefit of the people I'm with.  I turn into a gremlin when I am hungry.  Or under-caffeinated.

2:30 p.m.  Charming Hostess hits the road in our silver Impala rental (significantly less sexy than its 70s predecessor).  Rehearsal in the car.  Jewlia says we can eat at the venue, an anarchist bookstore/coffeehouse called Red Emma's in Baltimore.  "The girl on the phone said, 'We've got really good vegan cupcakes,'" Jewlia says.  HA!  Vegans can be funny too.  We discuss the possibility of dinner #2 when we go to D.C., where we'll be spending the night.

7:30 p.m.  Beautiful Baltimore!  I stick my head out the car window and gawk at the Orioles fans swarming the stadium.  They are the genus of white t-shirt and sneakers wearing folks I see on the Food Network's coverage of local food festivals.  It is weird to be outside of New York.  We arrive at Red Emma's.  Shelves are divided by social/cultural genre and labeled with Sharpied masking tape.  The stage is a small space which has been cleared in front of the magazine racks carrying the Utne reader and various zines.

7:35 p.m. 

GANDA: What's that?

WORKER BEE: That's art.

GANDA: No, what is it?

WORKER BEE: Oh, it's sugar.  But don't eat the stuff that dripped onto the aluminum.  It's okay to eat it off the sculpture though.  I had some in my tea the other day.

GANDA: Oh.

8:10 p.m.  A nice mixed crowd of people have formed, encouraged by excellent press in the Baltimore Sun.  I'm subbing for regular Charming Hostess Cynthia Taylor, so we're all dealing with new parts.  It's a bit bumpy but great for the first hit.  No vegan cupcakes are offered.

10:00ish p.m.  We head down the street to the bar in the Belvedere Hotel.  I eat a few mussels with butter and an oyster with Marmite-ish Guinness sabayon off our companions' plates.  I'm hungry.

11:30ish p.m.  We make it to D.C. and meet up with a birthday party at the Circle Bistro.  The kitchen is closed.  I order a Coke with 5 cherries.  I'm pretty hungry.

12:30ish a.m.  Short stack -- Amsterdam Falafel House

The Amsterdam Falafel House serves up a tiny menu of frites and falafels in small or large.  It's Israeli style, which means you build your crisp and tasty falafel with your own choice of condiments -- everything from pink pickled turnips and cucumber salad to hummus and spicy sweet tomato salsa type sauce.  I love condiments.  The frites are crisp and quite good, but the almost chartreuse-colored dutch mayo is so thick it's hard to pump out of the little mayo station.  I was hungry, now I am not hungry.  Bring on the champagne!

Grade: A

Total: $6.60 for a small falafel and a small frites

Will I return?  If I'm in D.C., especially if I'm drunk on that little party strip of 18th St., definitely.  Any place that has a condiment free-for-all gets two thumbs up from me. 

Amsterdam Falafel House

2425 18th Street NW, D.C.

Ah, tour -- it is my great American dream, seeing the world from the inside of a vehicle on someone else's dime, eating the local specialties and spending QT with fellow adventurers, all punctuated by musical performances. For the past four days, I've been on the road with Charming Hostess who, as they like to say, put the "harm" in "Charming" and the "ho" in "Hostess". We got lost, we saw the stunning cherry blossoms of D.C., we got sideswiped by a hit and run driver, we had two involuntary and two voluntary run-ins with the cops in and around our nation's capital. I got cozy with a particular wooden spoon, I ate, I took pictures, I lived to tell you about it. Coming soon -- highlights from my adventures in the signage-tarded mid-Atlantic.

Our stretch of Sunset Park isn't particularly glamorous. I often need to get my milk and eggs from Mobil On the Run, occasionally stocking up on cans of Chef Boyardee Beefaroni for my more desperate moments. Our closest supermarket is a National, where a teenage kid standing by the entrance waits with numbered clothespins to check the bags customers walk in with. And my house is only a few blocks from an astonishing variety of fast food joints -- McDonald's, Taco Bell, Subway, Blimpie's, White Castle, and KFC. As much as I used to love me some KFC when I was a kid, my last encounter with the Sunset Park Colonel was a contentious one -- the foyer entrance smelled like someone had been pissing in it (which I'm sure someone had), and my oil-soaked, soft-skinned Original Recipe was nowhere near as good as it smelled. Disillusioned (with emphasis on the "ill"), I decided not to subject myself to such gastronomical masochism anymore.

But there's a new kid in town, and though he has the misfortune of wearing an apron that looks an awful lot like a diaper, my new spicy Latin lover has seduced the fast-food hater in me into remission. Last night, my roommate and I left the house on a whim for a party in the West Village, chugging two glasses of cava before we got on the train. I had one more glass of champagne at the bar and proceeded to sink sleepily into a booth for the rest of the evening, propping my boots up on the weathered leather. The next afternoon, on the hangover walk to the greengrocer for fruit salad ingredients, the devil in me said to my roommate, "Wouldn't fried chicken be great right now?"

"Oh yeah, we could get KFC on the way home," my roommate said.

"No, no, I meant Pollo Campero."

Lucky for me, my roommate is easily tempted by evil food suggestions, and after we made the fruit salad, we promptly refrigerated it and headed back out in the rain to get fried chicken.

We each ordered a three piece meal with two sides and took a seat at one of the bright orange tables in their extremely clean, pleasant dining room. Minutes later, a green uniformed worker delivered a tray with our plastic plates. For a fast food joint, I have to say that Pollo Campero's chicken tastes very fresh, never exceedingly greasy. Every crevice, every square millimeter of surface area is saturated with the reddish-orange blend of their own savory, fragrant, distinctly Latin blend of spices, encasing tender, moist flesh. And the skin! Oh, fried chicken skin, how appalled my mother would be if she knew how much I loved you -- so intensely well-seasoned, so wafer-thin and crisp, so rich and without starchy excess. Let's face it, fried chicken is all about the yummy, crispy skin. The equally crisp, light, and very hot tostones with a gentle sprinkling of salt were better than most fries I've had, especially dipped in the excellent roasted green tomatillo salsa from their generous salsa bar. Unfortunately, the dinner rolls are a travesty, they never seem to have biscuits when I'm there, and the tortillas are just tortillas. The real revelation comes with the beans -- tender pintos are stewed in a tasty chorizo-packed sofrito sauce. As my roommate said, "This may be the best fast food side dish ever." Their cole slaw and mashed potatoes with gravy taste like concessions to their adopted home -- certainly not worse than KFC's, but not an improvement either. I wish there were more veggie options for sides -- a little green goes a long way when you're eating this many fats, proteins and starches in one sitting.

The folks at Pollo Campero are not exactly Ray Kroc's model of efficiency -- today, I had to wait 8 minutes while they finished preparing the mashed potatoes (which I'm sure meant reheating the frozen package). And when I placed an order for a 12 piece bucket the day of our Super Bowl watching party, the lady at the counter told me they ran out of chicken -- could I wait 9 minutes for a fresh batch? I had about 20 minutes to get back in time for the start of the game (which I could really have cared less about, but I wanted the guests to have time to appreciate the chicken before the football could steal their attention). I ran out the door with my square handled box o' chicken and managed to catch a steamy, super-packed bus back home in the nick of time, overwhelming all the crushed folks packed in there with the fatty fragrance of fried food. The happy party guests agreed through their munching -- nine minutes is a small price to pay for incredibly fresh, crisp fried chicken and a guarantee that my dinner hasn't been congealing, unloved, under a heat lamp.

Grade: A-

Total: $7.33 per person for a three piece meal with two sides and a soda

Will I return? If I can manage to walk into Pollo Campero instead of Tacos Matamoros, my favorite taqueria across the street, then yes. I'm really into inviting people over to share a bucket of chicken and a salad while ignoring a major sporting event on TV.

***
Speaking of TV, maybe I should have a Tacos Matamoros Contender finale party. Do you guys watch? Best show EVAH. Go PETAH!

Okay, you know I love City Bakery, with its Greenmarket-reliant savories and perfectly chewy-crisp chocolate chip cookies.  Yesterday after work, I headed over there to get a pre-rehearsal light dinner.  Pickings were a little slim over at the salad bar, so I loaded up on tuna salad and egg salad, passing on the 70 cent baguettes hunks at the end of the line.  As I waited in line to weigh my plate, a counter person floated by with a tray of still warm pretzel croissants, leaving an almost tangible buttery breeze in its wake.  Naturally, I ordered one as a supplement to my my salads, along with one of those chocolate chip cookies. 

I moved my feast to the upstairs dining area and spread out at a corner table.  The pretzel croissant was still radiating warmth from its core, already staining the pulpy plate with its buttery goodness.  I put one croissant tail in my mouth and bit down -- the salt wash across the top stimulated my saliva glands, and the crisp and flaky layers gave way to a slightly sweet, steamy, elastic core of whole wheat flecked pastry; with every chew, the sesame seeds burst into their savory song.  I sat there feeling quite self-congratulatory, knowing with great certainty that I had ordered the best thing on the menu for that particular moment in time at that particular place. 

Grade: A

Total: An eyebrow-raising $19.77 for some veg. and protein selections from the salad bar, a lemonade iced tea, a chocolate chip cookie, and the most seductive, divine croissant experience I've ever had.

Will I return?  Mos def.  I can't stay away, really.  I'm looking forward to raspberry lemonades, fried green tomatoes, maple baked seckel pears and lemon tarts with strawberries.  And whatever else comes fresh off the cooling racks.

City Bakery

3 West 18th Street

btwn 5th Ave. and 6th Ave.

Monday through Friday, 7:30 am - 7:00pm

Saturday, 7:30am - 7:00pm

Take the N Q R W 4 5 6 L to Union Square, or the F to 14th St.

Sunday, 9:00am - 5:30pm.