Category Archives: NYC

I had my birthday at Cherry Tree, a new bar on 4th Avenue between Bergen and St. Marks in Brooklyn (just south of Atlantic Center).  They have a lovely rear deck which didn’t close until 1:30, but the interesting part is what they were doing with it: a chef was roasting a whole pig over an ersatz fire pit.  For free.  I had a bite of the tenderloin and it was a bit chewy, but it sure beat the hell out of beer nuts.

I can’t fully recommend the place, though, despite the nosh.  After the deck closed, the party moved inside, where the music is ALWAYS too loud.  I’m pretty tolerant of loud music, though I don’t always enjoy it, but this music was loud to the point of pain.  I’m told that it’s the owner/manager’s fault, as he is apparently deaf as a post.  Unfortunately, this is ultimately going to hurt business, as none of my friends wanted to stay (and neither did I).

Before we left, karmic justice was served, however, to said owner/manager, when he brought out a pair of squirt guns and started going after patrons who looked like they wouldn’t mind.  Among the collateral damage (besides us – I can’t say we enjoyed getting splashed) was the offendingly cranked stereo amplifier, which cut out midway through “Livin’ On A Prayer.”  Seriously: the guy shorted out his own way-too-loud bad music with his own unnecessary squirt guns.  Absolute brilliance.

We retired to the Brooklyn Inn for a final drink, and enjoyed those environs much more.  No squirt guns in sight, and it was possible to have pleasant conversation.  What a concept!

In the 88th spot on the 2005 Voice list lies Kasia’s, a Polish diner on the corner of North 9th Street and Bedford Avenue.  Yesterday, when I could only wish for a temperature as low as 88, I paid Kasia’s a visit and tried to ignore their non-functional air-conditioning.

The friendly service was exemplary under the circumstances, though I do get tired of the community complaining that goes on any time some guy walks in with a grudge against Con Ed/Bloomberg/the Man.  Wasn’t 311 invented so people could get this stuff off their chest before they left the house?  Yeah, it’s hot, it sucks, et cetera – the idiot wind ain’t makin’ it any more tolerable, there, dude.

As to the bill of fare at Kasia’s, I fear that it’s a bit too expensive to really qualify for bargain status.  While the $9.25-ish plate of a split and cross-hatched kielbasa with a microwave-burrito-looking potato blintz was satisfying, it wasn’t necessarily the greatest thing since shaved horseradish (speaking of which, I was pleased that the jarred variety was included with the plate, along with sour cream and applesauce for the blintz).  Better bargains are available on and off Manhattan Avenue north of the park, I think.

That said, if you were geographically limited to two blocks from the Bedford L, you could do a lot worse.  And afterwards, you can slide on down a couple blocks further to the Turkey’s Nest and score yourself a beer in a Styrofoam cup AND a kickball-playing hipster girl.  I’ll leave it to you to make up your own kielbasa joke.

For our latest group dinner escapade, one of my friends (who is moving out west to go to film school) requested that we go to a place with good fried chicken.  He was inspired (proving that I’m not the only one following his column closely) by Mr. Sietsema’s recent article comparing a trifecta of bird joints, I think, and, for the first time in my group dinner history, we picked the closest and most convenient option.

Ruthie’s, at 96 DeKalb Avenue, is both close to home and close enough to Manhattan to make it an easy stopover on the way home from work.  We’re awfully glad we did make that stop, and not just because Ruthie’s was comfortably air-conditioned (this weather…).  The woman I am assuming was the proprietress (though I don’t know if her name is Ruthie) was as sweet as they come, and the food her establishment slings is beyond excellent.

The chicken itself was a revelation.  Minimally coated with flour before the frying, Ruthie’s lets the skin do the heavy lifting – keeping the juices in and providing the crunch that satisfies.  Some friends were pleasantly surprised that it lacked the kind of heavy duty coating made infamous by KFC.  All I had to say on the subject was, “thank God.”

The sides provided even more of a reason for joy.  Firstly and foremost, the candied yams were breathtaking.  Lacking all of the worst attributes of your mama’s thanksgiving recipe (particularly the overbearing sugary sweetness), Ruthie’s yams tasted like the best pumpkin pie you’ve ever had, only in chunk form.  I was tempted to ask for the recipe, but considering how good they are, it’s probably a state secret.

Mac and cheese and collards were also good options, though many were left reaching for the bottle of hot sauce provided at every table (after my own heart).  The cornbread that comes with the approximately $10 plate (with thigh-leg or breast portions and two sides) has a crust that will leave you angling to break off crunchy pieces of everyone else’s squares.  The potato salad was perhaps the most generic side I tasted, but it would not be a bad option if you were attempting to re-create a backyard barbecue of your youth.

The best thing about Ruthie’s?  They must put something special in the chicken.  For the rest of the evening, post-dinner, I felt an overwhelming sense of calm and satisfaction descend upon me, and I am pretty sure it wasn’t just heatstroke.  This feeling differed from the average post-meal coma by virtue of its lack of sleepiness and the total absence of any post-grease stress disorder.  I realize that this makes me sound like a new-age-leaning crank doctor.

It might not be scientifically quantifiable, but I’ll be going back any time I need a karmic salve.

Last night’s dinner came after a brief (meaning I only browsed a third of the inventory) stop at EAT Records, and was obtained at the Franklin Corner Store, at the corner of Franklin and Huron Streets (one block north of India Street, which is the north exit of the G-Greenpoint stop). Having been anointed Sietsema’s favorite Cuban sandwich purveyor in last year’s “best of” issue, I was somewhat surprised to find that the store came off less as a Hispanic grocery and more as the kind of sandwich shop you’d stop at for provisions on your way to a Cape Cod beach.

The sandwiches are arranged on big index cards taped to the wall – for maximum ease in browsing, as there are more than seventy sandwiches, I recommend picking up the takeout menu. In it, find a mess of named combinations, among them two named after fascist dictators, one named after a juiced former baseball player, and still another that shares a name with the venue for a Rolling Stones show at which people were knifed by bikers on drugs. What the hell?

Nonetheless, I found the Cuban sandwich to be good, if not breathtaking. The usual Swiss cheese was augmented by American, strangely, but the effect (more gooey melted cheese) wasn’t unwelcome. The meats weren’t terribly unique, by the way, but it’s still nice to be reminded (in and amongst the prosciutto cotto) that good sandwiches can be made from Boar’s Head.

I hear there’s a good Cuban at 69^th Street under the 7 train. Further investigation required.

Walter is really outdoing himself: the latest sandwich to feature my new favorite pork product combines the top-of-the-line cooked ham with cannellini beans, white truffle oil, and arugula, and is called the Buffon. While Walter may insist that it’s a coincidence (apparently it means “clown” or “fool” in Italian), it is named after yet another Azzurri player.

Yes, indeed, you read correctly: white truffle oil and beans on a sandwich. Again, I must insist: get down there and get one.

Nothing really new to report today other than a Saturday night trip to Flushing for Spicy & Tasty with Sophmoricles and my roommate.  I have to say that the cold shredded chicken with spicy sauce appetizer remains god’s gift to those who like their food to promote endorphin release, and we ordered two plates of it this time (they were out of dan-dan noodles, unfortunately).  I’d go to S&T just for that – Grand Sichuan’s version will do in a pinch, but it’s not nearly as good.

The other stuff we ordered was great, too.  I’ve never had more perfectly-cooked eggplant in my life than the eggplant with garlic sauce; it was better, even, than on previous visits.  I also seem to always order the same hot shredded pork dish that I ordered on my first visit, but I think I’m due for a change, as the shredded chicken’s array of flavoring now seems to make it seem one-dimensional.  Anyone have any suggestions?

Interestingly, we ate in the restaurant’s upstairs room, where most of the tables have six or more seats (though it was emptying out by the time we got there, at about 9:30).  There are two private rooms as well – sounds like my kind of place to have a banquet.

Music of the day: The Move – Message From The Country.

I’m not asking, I’m telling: get yo’ ass to Alidoro soonest and order the limited special sandwich Materazzi, or anything Walter will make you that features the Gran Biscotto prosciutto cotto – the melt-in-your-mouthiest ham product I’ve ever tasted, without peer.  It has a subtle, fine flavor and the perfect amount of saltiness and grease.

Walter cut me a piece to taste and I nearly started dancing right in the store.  The sandwich, which adds arugula and hot peppers to the ham and bread of your choice, is excellent.  (No truth to the rumor that it called the Zidane sandwich’s mom a dirty Boar’s Head boiled ham, by the way.)  Go now!

I dig White Castle ‘cuz it’s the best, but I’m fly at Fatburger when I’m way out west.
– Horowitz/Diamond/Yauch


Unlike 1986, we now need not split best burger categories between coasts when comparing the mighty Fatburger with White Castle’s slyders; both are available within the Jersey City limits.  At one end of town, at the corner of Newark Avenue and JFK Boulevard, lies an outpost of the ancient and estimable White Castle.  At the other, in an area that reminds me of California’s wide-boulevarded corporate developments, is Fatburger.  Having tried neither until this week, I was unprepared for the vehemence and polarity of my reactions, and it’s safe to say that one of them is now one of my favorites, while the other disappointed.

Fatburger certainly has an advantage in the atmosphere department.  With a jukebox that plays soul, R&B, rock and oldies, as well as a friendly counter staff and actual table bus service(!), Fatburger is a lovely place to eat.  I grabbed a table and marveled at how odd it was to see crumbling Brooklyn-style co-ops (projects?) across the street from a garden-fronted corporate headquarters (reminded me of East Berlin’s Mitte).

Unfortunately, I can’t say I enjoyed the food as much as I was expecting.  Fatburger uses what they claim is extremely lean ground beef – unfortunately, health fanatics, this ends up robbing it of its greasy potential, making it too dry, though an attempt is made to gussy it up a bit by loading it with condiments (an egg would help).  I can’t say that the fries, which are available in “fat” (steak cut) and “skinny” varieties were much better – my skinny fries ended up tasting a bit like the famously revised Burger King spuds, and they were disturbingly salt-free.  The burger and fries are available separately, or in combos – my Kingburger combo, featuring the larger of the two available burger sizes, came out to approximately $8.75.

I didn’t give White Castle quite the same rundown, as I but briefly stopped in on the way back to the PATH from yesterday’s dosa run.  Feeling none too hungry, I ordered one slyder with cheese and forked over my 71 cents (with tax) to the bemused counterperson.  Noshing while walking, I admired the super-skinny meat, the chopped sautéed onions, and the perfect squirt of ketchup and pickle that reminded me a bit of a plain McDonald’s hamburger.  The cheese wasn’t exactly melted when I dug in, but it was no matter: the greasy, salty miniature possessed the perfect ratio of condiments to meat to bun, and I scarfed it down in a matter of bites.

I guess I didn’t have the definitive White Castle experience, as I had but one morsel-burger rather than six or eight, but I’ll certainly be back to do it right long before I cast my shadow across Fatburger’s door again.  

If you haven’t seen it, New York magazine has released their annual “Cheap” list – a hundred and one entries ranging from Hong Kong Station to various Batali Imperial Outposts™.  Generally, when one of these lists comes out, I get forwarded it by some well-meaning types and queried about it by others, and I thought I’d share my likely answer with all of you.

As usual, I have some qualms with their selection criteria: I contest that “where entrée prices seldom exceed $20” should be considered “cheap,” even by their honestly disclosed neighborhood-relative criteria.  Spending $50 on dinner for two might really be slumming it if you’re a Alec Baldwin and your watch costs more than my grandmother’s car, but not if you’re in college or working a crap job to make ends meet.  It most CERTAINLY isn’t cheaper than cooking (again, unless beef Wellington and the ilk are your standard recipes).

Now, before I start getting irritated letters from the editorial staff of said magazine, who I’m sure are proud of their creation, I understand (have had this beaten into my head ad nauseam by those who are picky with how they spend their time) that not everyone gives a poop about getting on the train and going out somewhere, and that NY Magazine is in the business of making money (and stands a better chance of doing so if they include love letters to Bouchon Bakery), blah, blah, blah.

Personally, I’d rather spend the column inches on promoting places that aren’t in the Country’s Highest Per-Capita Shopper Income Mega-Mall and don’t have publicists or celeb chefs.  Less “French Laundry,” more “next to the local lavanderia.”  Different strokes for different folks.  If anything, the list serves to remind me how unique the Sietsema column is in a for-profit publication.

Still, I give NYM credit for explaining their criteria, flawed or not, for not totally ignoring the outer boroughs (I counted 28 outer borough restaurants among the list, and a few of those are even outside Park Slope, Prospect Heights, Williamsburg and Carroll Gardens!), and it’s an encouraging trend that the first item on the list is way the hell out in Bay Ridge (and I’ll be going there soon enough, I’m sure).    

The last time I went to Jersey City, my ex-girlfriend and I took 45 minutes to figure out in which direction Newark Avenue lay (sometimes “memorizing” the Google map works out well, sometimes not).  Once we figured it out (and I don’t recall how we did), the resulting trip to Dosa Hut was well worth it.

This time around, I didn’t have a lot of extra time for “exploration,” but fortunately already knew which direction to walk from the Journal Square Transportation Center.  Taking a long lunch over the state border requires a quick pace and well-timed trains in order to make the round trip in an hour and a half, but I was in dire need of a little spice in my day.

The source of the fire was the recently Voice-reviewed Sri Ganesh’s Dosa House, which has materialized a little further down Newark Avenue’s dead end.  The menu is quite extensive – tens of variations on the basic crepe – but I stuck to the butter masala dosa ($4.50), which features a yellow-tinged potato chunk-mash, sided with the usual coconut chutney and a new-to-me peanut variety.  I can’t say that the coconut chutney is as spicy as I recall Dosa Hut’s being (same goes for the sambar, which is the self-service lentil soup to the right of the cash register), but that was a while and many spicy dishes ago.  The nutty chutney was a bit hotter, and I looked in vain for a jar of it at Patel’s Cash and Carry on the way home (made fresh, I’d gather).

Also, if you’ve only had dosas in Manhattan, take note: these things are huge!  They’re a foot and a half or more in diameter, overflowing the ends of your tray like two-by-fours sticking out of the back of a pickup.  Delicate balancing is required as you shuttle your way back to the table (the counterperson will call out your number when your order is ready), particularly if you order one of the Indian sodas, which come in a tall glass bottle and seem particularly tippy.

Even with the PATH fare ($3 round trip), the meal including drink was only $9.  If taking a long lunch were a crime, and I thus just made it a federal case by crossing the border, I only hope the judge would take a Thums Up as a bribe.