A Cheapskate’s Guide to Sublime Snacking

Here’s what mine is getting.

When you live in a city of over 8 million people, with an average of ten people per square foot, the discovery of an unknown and extraordinary locale can feel a bit like you’ve just won the last golden ticket, or stumbled across an emerald in your bowl of cereal. Half of you wants to shout it out to the world, and the other half wants to tuck the it deep into your pocket before anyone sees you licking your lips with glee.

It could be as humble as a forgotten park bench in Prospect Park, or as magnificent as the unadvertised sunbathing deck of that out-of-the-way gym location in Hell’s Kitchen- but the privilege of getting to something good before the word is out has become my biggest thrill in life.

Take the pool with a swim-up bar in the lobby of a new boutique hotel, where (years ago) my friends and I partied the night away - free to drink a bottle of champagne in the sauna, drip water all over the leather banquettes, or terrify a celebrity in the elevator - until it got inundated with hipsters (whose unkempt appearances were probably faux but still enough to scare us away).

Late night at the pool bar in the Hotel QT on 45th Street.

There was also the dance hall I discovered last year, while wandering up a dark stairwell on the narrowest, crookedest street in Chinatown. I celebrated my birthday there with friends, and a handful of Chinese couples who stuck around after their Waltz music gave way to Duran Duran and the Jacksons…to see what kind of entertainment we could provide them through the night, I guess.

Birthday dance party at Youth Palace on Doyers Street.

Those are the times when the schoolgirl in me wants to shout “DIBS!” and eat all the candy that is underground New York by myself, but then this wouldn’t be a very interesting blog, would it?

It had been a while since the excitement of my last “I got a seeeecret” moment. Then, two weeks ago, I hit the jackpot.

I’d awakened with a start from an afternoon nap and had a strong urge to buy bedside tables. Despite the pouring rain and lack of appropriate footwear, I grabbed my dollar store umbrella, strapped on my limited edition Japanese Converse sneakers, and set out for Bushwick.

My destination was Green Village, a warehouse rumored to be piled to the ceiling with used furniture. On the way, I meandered down street after street of nothing but warehouses. Some sheltered noodles, others; stainless steel faucets. I stopped to let big trucks back into loading docks, and met glances from workers who wondered what I might be doing there in the pouring rain. Something about being where ‘you’re not supposed to be’ made this this trek all the more fun.

It was at the end of one of these streets where the rain began to let up, and, peeking out from my umbrella, I noticed a little sign above the open door to a garage-looking place that read “Roberto’s.” I wondered: What is this little Mexican joint doing all the way out here in no-man’s-land? Fascinated, I crossed the street and walked through the door of the unassuming cinderblock building.

The first thing I encountered was a menu that read “Roberta’s.” Oh. Got it. And beyond that, a window looking onto a big, shiny, coal-fired pizza oven! Besides that, there was not much in the lofty space aside from some big, heavy looking wooden farm tables with benches and chairs; just like I’d encountered all over Tuscany. It was love at first sight.

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Saturday was my friend Sky’s birthday party. We celebrated with lots of karaoke and a vegan feijoada prepared by her best bud Marcela and me. Feijoada is a Brazilian feast that features black beans, rice, various salads, and a huge platter of MEAT. (Guess which part we left out.)

The preparations began a few days ago, when Marcela emailed me with the idea and I ran to my bookshelf and pulled out my 1968 edition Latin American Cooking by Time Life Books.

Elegant Brazilian Ladies enjoy a feijoada completa.

I remembered there was an entire section on feijoada, because of the picture above. This image had made a big impression on me because I’d bought the book right after freshman year of college/Latin American Sociology 101, where I’d learned all about the brutal military dictatorships and economic disparity of that era. So I always narrowed my eyes a little at these fun loving, aristocratic ladies. It’s funny to think back on it now.

One winter break later, I visited my sister who was studying abroad at the University of Sao Paulo. We paid a visit to her friend Thais’ family in Rio, who had a terrace just like the one above where we welcomed the year 2000 with lots of dancing, triple kisses (one on each cheek is NOT ENOUGH), and a feijoada - just like the one in the book.

Since I was vegetarian, my favorites were maioneise (mai-yo-nay-zee), a Brazilian potato salad with peas and egg; and vinagrete (vee-nay-gret-chee), a Brazilian condiment that is similar to pico de gallo. Their names were also so darn cute and fun to say.

The plan for the party was that I would make Sky’s birthday cake on Thursday. On Friday, after dinner with Sky’s parents, Marcela and I would make the beans, vegan maioneise and mango vinagrete. On Saturday we would finish up- Marcela with the rice, and me with my Colombiana touch: tostones and maduros (savory and sweet fried plantains). The party would start at 3:30pm and at some point we would throw some fish and pineapple skewers on the grill.

One Brazilian…one Colombian…a Latin feast. As the day of the party approached - like a size 2 dress on a size 6 mamasota dancing samba - the seams of our tidy little plan began to unravel.

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Jean asked me where I wanted to go for our date last night, and without hesitation I picked Cafe Asean. It’s one of my favorites (cheap and GOOD), and they have a very romantic yet unpretentious little candlelit courtyard, and that was just what the beautiful, body-temperature-perfect evening called for.

This was my first visit to Cafe Asean when their courtyard’s frosted glass roof panels were retracted. Once seated, I looked up and gasped at the beauty of the night sky glowing through the branches of the massively tall tree that sprouted right from the corner of the room. I’d sat right up against its trunk before and never known it was so huge!

photo: cafeasean.com

The main reason I was here tonight was to get my chai samosa (I call it wet samosa) fix. Each order comes with two triangular bundles of vegetables wrapped in tofu skin (bean curd) and smothered in spicy coconut sauce.

I didn’t see it on the menu, and then our cute, bobbed waitress confirmed it: no more chai samosa. EVER. Well, she said it in a much nicer way, but I was still crushed.

Being too besides myself with grief to pick another appetizer, Jean ordered the Ca Bam: monkfish parcels ($8)- something I never would have picked. I think it’s the monk part. Sounds too much like muck. Murk. Spunk. Whatever - I wanted my wet samosa! Keep reading →

48 hours ago, Jean got a call from his friend Kwaku. Kwaku was back in town after months on the road for his job, and we were both happy to hear from him. In a moment’s time, they decided that the perfect reunion would be a Memorial Day BBQ on our rooftop. I reminded Jean about his show that night, so they decided it would be an early party, and everyone (including the band) would arrive at 2pm.

After Jean hung up the phone, we devised the menu. The main attraction would be swordfish and lamb skewers. We invented these together one cold night in Soho, where I’d had my own little studio apartment. The stove there was about two feet wide, but it did have a broiler. So, to combat the winter blues, we charred the skewers - for that BBQ grill effect - and plopped Bob Marley’s Kaya onto the record player.

Now, summer was here and it was time to get down to some real grillin.’

Over Sunday brunch, I called the fishmonger, the butcher, and the vegetable stand to see who was open for the Holiday. Over giggles from the boy (yes, only food-obsessed dorkuses have these kind of emergency contacts), I found out we would only be able to get veggies, so we called Kwaku and he agreed to bring the meat and fish from Queens. Then Jean and I continued our day as planned, with a trek to Water Taxi Beach for a party (and a delicious Motz burger for me!).

Kwaku called us back and announced that he’d bought a butterflied LEG of lamb! I went into momentary cheapskate shock. “But that’s too good! I always get the cubes that go into stew!” (And then marinate the heck out of them.) I began to envision too-tender cuts of meat melting through the grill and fizzling away on the coals.

That night, I stayed up ’til 6 baking muffins, and then got up early to start the potato salad and hummus while Jean cleaned the house (I just had to put that in there so everyone knows I’m not chained to the stove while he’s kickin’ back). The first guests were Jean’s friend/guitarist Allan and his 4 year-old clone, (and the cutest kid in Brooklyn) Sid- who’d both slept over.

Kwaku arrived with the fish and the gloriously red leg of lamb. Sid sat very close by as I got to work breaking the beautiful thing down into small pieces. It seemed like a crime to destroy it, but my tiny BBQ grill (purchased to accommodate previously mentioned Soho studio) didn’t have enough space or firepower for a whole joint of any animal. My angst was alleviated by the running commentary from Sid, which included; “Is that the butt?” “Where is the butt?” and “Are you sure that’s not the butt? It looks like a butt.”

After I’d threaded the meat, baby tomatoes, onion, and fish onto skewers, I stood back and took in the scene. There was a lot of meat. Plus whole ears of corn, hot dogs, and buns to grill. And the guests were arriving. Could my tin can pull it off?

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A snack blog is probably the last place you’d expect to find politics, but it can’t all be “I had a yummy today!” in this life. And there’s no way to deny…food is a very political topic.

One of my secret vices is that I read a gossip blog. While reading it today, I found out that several conservative American political commentators are upset at Rachel Ray for wearing what looks like a keffiyeh in her latest Dunkin’ Donuts ad. A keffiyeh is a black-and-white or red-and-white houndstooth-patterned scarf with tassels. They are traditional head scarves worn throughout the Arab world - most notably - in Palestine.

They are also worn throughout my NY neighborhood.

Brooklyn is the world capital of street fashion. Sometime last winter, the hip-hop kids and hipsters around here began wearing keffiyehs- but with a twist. They were worn around the neck, not on the head, and came in colors like neon green and bright purple. Some were even laced with gold thread.

I have an aversion to anything “trendy” (which is why you’ll rarely/never catch me posting about celebrity chefs or restaurants with “Momofuku” anywhere in the name) so, although I was happy to see this enthusiastic show of solidarity for the people of Palestine, my will to buy one of these colorful creations dwindled as their popularity increased.

Fast forward to a few weeks ago. I was walking through Time Square toward my cousin’s apartment when I saw a pert, blond, sorority-sister-type tourist sporting a keffiyeh and strutting through town with her Burberry-patterned mother. I stopped dead in my tracks and wondered: Are keffiyehs the new Tiffany sweetheart charm bracelet? Keep reading →

Yesterday I met my friend Audrea for lunch at AQ Cafe, inside the Scandinavia House, which itself is nestled amongst the consulates along Park Avenue below Grand Central Station. As you can guess, the menu is Scandinavian, and headlined by Swedish meatballs. They are served in a creamy sauce, with a side of mashed potatoes, pickled cucumbers, and lingonberry sauce (a lot like cranberry sauce).

We tried those, along with a salmon platter that included smoked salmon, gravlax, cold potatoes, sour cream, and something that tasted like sweet and sour sauce. Both were okay, but the part of the meal that I just can’t stop thinking about was the Tomato and Cheese soup Audrea ordered ($5).

Instead of using spoons, we ripped pieces off the stack of hearty yet soft whole grain bread, thin crispbread and homemade crackers; dunked them in the soup; and took bites while we talked about funerals, pigging-out in Japan, catcalling/harassment of women on the streets of New York, and recycling etiquette.

The soup was made with gouda, and since we were dipping instead of sipping, it reminded me of fondue…a lusciously tomato-y fondue. I will definitely go back again for this, order the bigger bowl (seen above is the cup-sized portion) and a double-tall stack of bread.

Since fondue is a social activity, I should also bring more friends. Or maybe I’ll just eat it all myself

AQ Cafe
@ Scandinavia House
58 Park Avenue (between 37th and 38th Streets)
Midtown

I was craving mushrooms last night, and not just any mushrooms- RAW mushrooms, as in unabashed fungus goodness.

I decided to add mushrooms to the somewhat run-o-the-mill cucumber salad I was planning, to go with some simple roasted eggplant and oven-warmed pitas. The results were completely satisfying, as the mushrooms gave the salad a richness and depth (like cheese!) to counterbalance the cool neutrality of the yogurt and cucumbers. Yum.

Cucumber and Mushroom Salad

1 large cucumber, sliced

8 white mushrooms, sliced

1 individual size yogurt, drained

½ c. chopped dill leaves

¼ c. thinly sliced & chopped red onion

¼ c. chopped sundried tomato (optional)

Juice of 1 lemon

2 tbp. vinegar

2 tbp. oil

salt and pepper to taste

Combine all ingredients in a medium bowl and toss. Serve immediately.

Alternately, whisk together the dill, lemon, vinegar, oil, salt and pepper and chill all ingredients until ready to serve. Before serving, combine the other ingredients and toss in dressing.

Note: the longer you let the salad sit, the more marinated the mushrooms will be. This can be good: if you want a richer flavor, or bad: if you want the “crunch” of crisp mushroom slices between your teeth. I recommend you have one serving right away, and then another later, so you can have the best of both ‘shrooms!

This would also go well with grilled meat…kebabs, lamb burgers. I had it and loved it with a veggie burger, too.

*UPDATE*

The Nation’s only mushroom museum, in Kennett Square, PA, (the “mushroom capital of the world“) has closed!

When I was 13, my Dad took me there during one of our frequent, post-move road trips from D.C. to Pennsylvania. All I can remember is watching a video of a worker shoveling manure onto shelves in a dark barn and a time lapse video of mushrooms growing on it.

After a moment of revulsion, we went out for a mycelian feast at a local inn that specialized in dishes featuring buttons, portabellas, oysters, criminis, shiitakes… I had linguine with mixed mushrooms. It was my first moment of Pennsylvania pride!

Recently, I noticed that a package of Brooklyn vegetable stand mushrooms I was opening was from Kennett Square (sigh).

Rest in peace, mushroom museum.

Does food make everyone this emotional? All I did was stop by Piece of Chicken, the 99-cent fried chicken ’n’ fixins takeout window on West 45th Street, order some food, and take it to eat in the little park further down the street. And it made me lonely!

Why?

Because my box of chicken, collard greens, and dirty rice reminded me of picnics…of family, friends, music, BBQ smoke drifting through the air, and children playing…but I was sitting by myself under a potted tree in a concrete jungle, between two towering office buildings…surrounded by other potted trees under which people in ties or Easy Spirit pumps were also eating by themselves. No music, no fun…the antithesis of a picnic!

But it was sunny. And I’m a sucker for nostalgia. And $1 food. So I closed my eyes and relished the salty goodness of the tender meat in my hand. Salt was the main attraction in all 3 of the $1 items I tried, so be ready. The breading on the chicken is thin and crispy, more like homemade then the thick and crunchier fast food types. I like that.

If I went back to Piece of Chicken, it would be with friends and/or BEER. I would also walk west, toward Hudson River Park, instead of east, toward solitary lunch confinement.

When in the area, I recommend you try it, too. Maybe it’s all the Broadway Marquees you pass on the way, or it maybe it’s the breading. But there is drama in that $1 piece of chicken.

Piece of Chicken

362 West 45^th Street, between 8th and 9^th Avenues

Midtown

One of my most valuable learning experiences to date was getting published in Bon Appetit Magazine. (The article is no longer posted, but the recipes are here, here, here and here).

It was almost a year ago that my recipes went through the hoops and hurdles of the BA test kitchen. I remember nervously opening the email from the editor with the final versions, and being delighted that, while slightly different than my original versions, the recipes remained true to my style and taste. Still me; but with an exclamation point. It’s kind of like when Dorothy, the Scarecrow, the Tinman and the Lion got all dolled-up to go see The Wizard of Oz.

What I learned was that my preoccupation with simplifying everything, minimizing ingredients, and streamlining recipes was misplaced. Where I’d held back, their version took a dish one step further. Where I’d thought “that would be overdoing it,” they fearlessly added a step, an ingredient, a twist - with stunning results. The process gave me an even greater respect for those genius ladies in the BA test kitchen, and showed me exactly where I had to shed inhibitions.

A beautiful example of taking a dish “to the max” was the $5 plate of Jade Seafood Dumplings Jean and I shared at Sea last night (to kick off our “sweet yet sophisticated” dinner ‘n’ a movie date). The menu described them as“steamed crab meat & shrimp wrapped in green wonton served with massaman curry sauce.”

What I pictured was a plate of flat dumplings with a little ramekin of dipping sauce. What we got was a plate of plump green globes smothered in a thick, deep green curry sauce, with crunchy bits of dry rice noodle mixed in. The dumplings were tender and juicy; delicate, while still holding their own against the smoky and richly complex flavor of the sauce.

On their own they would have been great. In just the sauce, they would have been heavenly. But the dumplings in the sauce punctuated by the crunchy noodles was a flavor, texture, and overall sensory experience that had me reeling.

As we continued onto a whole fried snapper in tamarind-chili sauce, I confessed “I would give anything to spend a day hanging out in their kitchen, seeing how they make all this stuff.” Jean replied “You know, I feel the same way about music. What I wouldn’t give to be a fly on the wall when a musician I admire is creating a sound that I really like.”

So, can anyone get me backstage passes?

Sea Thai Restaurant and Bistro
114 North 6th Street, Between Berry and Wythe
Williamsburg