Categories
Eating Food

Angel of Harlem

West Harlem is the target of much construction and renovation lately, and the gentrification has its good points and bad ones. Rents go up, forcing long term residents to move elsewhere, and the more affluent slip in like Cinderella. Crime goes down, and the community starts to take notice. But long time shops close too, leases are lost, and the flavor of Harlem is threatened.

One way to keep Harlem rising is to support the businesses that make this neighborhood unique. That means shopping on 125th street and eating in the environs. There are lots of restaurants distinctly Harlem, due to the owners, their charisma and perseverance, and the charms therein. Some places are well known, such as Sylvia’s, Amy Ruth, Charles Southern Fried, and M & G Diner, just to name a few, but other less ambitious spots still exist.

One such survivor is Lee Lee’s Bakery located on 118th street, right off of Frederick Douglas Boulevard. It’s a small shop with three tables and is designed for take out for the most part. There is a large chalkboard with specials scribbled on it and a collage of gift items for sale along the right wall, just in case you need a last minute gift to go along with that birthday cake. Most of these curios are a blast from the past or something you might find at a dollar store.

At the tiny counter you place your order, after informal salutations with Mr. Lee, of course. The kitchen always looks disorganized, as Mr. Lee is always distracted by baking many things at once. The glass counter displays what’s available, unless you’re ordering breakfast, one of the best in the city.

Mr. Lee soft scrambles two eggs with breakfast sausage patties and cheese, a simple but well done combination stuffed betwixt a fresh sweet roll, all for $2.50. There are days I yearn for this breakfast beauty, and coordinate my departure according to Mr. Lee’s availability. You see sometimes Mr. Lee opens at 8 am, and sometimes 8:15 am or 8:30 am even. There is no rhyme or reason. It just depends on the day.

Of course there are pastries. Mr. Lee has been making rugelach for over thirty years. To quote Mr. Lee, “I’m tired of making them. But people keep eating them, so I’ll just keep making them.” He bakes bread pudding and danishes and a revolving array of pastries each week. There are special cakes made to order, such as the famous red velvet cake, African American dessert at its best.

The shop is full of characters, similar to a barber shop, denizens who talk politics and religion, and life’s daily problems. Mr. Lee’s shop is a hub, a town hall for the pulse of Harlem on that street. There’s a new thriving African patisserie around the corner called Les Ambassades. The bakery is spacious with outdoor seating. They offer Wi-Fi and very French pastries, some good, some so so. I go there occasionally, but I prefer old time Harlem, the salt of the community. If I’ve got loose change, my bet’s still on Mr. Lee, angel of Harlem.

Categories
Eating

My Kingdom for a Bi-Valve

When the first hints of summer emerge, I crave the beach and raw oysters. Since I can’t be at the beach just yet, at least the food of the sea can be brought to me. The city offers several spots for oysters and clams, ranging from moderate to expensive in price. It just depends on the atmosphere you seek and the quality you deserve.

You might say that only the freshest seafood will do, but I argue that you shouldn’t have to rent a fifteen foot schooner to get it. Now there are many trendy restaurants that will offer you a spectacular plateau de fruits de mer, a three-tiered shellfish extravaganza with all the trimmings. You will pay through the nose. If this is your plan, head over to Balthazar, Markt, Ocean Grill, City Crab and the like.

I prefer fast and easy, good quality and the right price. I think of the times I spent at Acme Oyster Bar in New Orleans, a no fuss, straight up oyster depot where you can gorge on crawfish and buckets of oysters. If there was a branch in New York, I’d be permanently planted. The obvious choice here is the Oyster Bar at Grand Central Station. This old standby has an extensive variety of oysters at reasonable prices and should serve as the barometer for the rest of the oyster bars. Choose from west coast to east coast, and enjoy a glass of white wine with your tour.

I went fishing for some more oysters on Memorial Day. Many places were closed, but I rambled into Fish while shopping for cheese at Murray’s. There were several good deals involving beer and oyster specials, and although the atmosphere was dim, the seafood was just fine.

Later that week I traipsed into Pearl Oyster Bar after shopping at Ottomanelli’s, and those oysters were vibrant and a cut above the rest. The oysters at the Neptune Room are very bright and delicious, offering solid choices such as Kumamotos, Blue Points and Malpeques.

It will take some work to find a place that suits you best. Just remember that the fun is in the research and the most expensive is not always the best option.

Basically from here on in I will seek out oysters and a glass of champagne, a combination used exclusively when I want to drop some weight painlessly. I feel luxuriated and revitalized, and sometimes romantic. Slurp down and an oyster or two, fill up on some bubbly, and strut your feathers.

Categories
Drinking Eating Experiences Wine

Memorial Day

Under the guise of Memorial Day, recently at my friend Dr. L. & Y.’s, we gathered to have dinner with his folks, an unofficial pre-birthday celebration for his dad, even though the actual date is June 24th. I am a big fan of this practice, as birthday celebrations should be drawn out and rejoiced, especially milestones such as number 65.

Dr. L. prepared a steady flow of perennial favorites including N.Y. strip steaks, lamb chops, and a chicken from Quebec. As usual, the wine pairing was very important, and what a glorious chore this became when we found out his dad was eager to share a recent birthday gift in the form of a 1989 Haut-Brion. This is the time one might flaunt Parker scores, in this case a solid 100.

We started dinner with cheese and salumi, whetting our palates with a 2000 chardonnay from Movia, the cutting edge master winemaker of Slovenia. The Quebecois roasted chicken was luxurious, curiously accented by fennel seed, crushed clove and juniper berry, garlic and olive oil. Sugar snap peas were thrown in for good measure. I brought an old standby, a wine I feel can stand up to many others more than twice the price, the Billecart-Salmon Brut Rosé.

There is a reason why rosés and rosé champagnes are making a strong comeback. The quality has improved 150%. The other night at Fatty Crab I enjoyed a Lagrein Rosé from the Alto Adige by a good producer, Suditroler, which was so balanced and delicious it rivaled the food on my plate. The sweet champagne rosés and rosés still exist, but there are so many dry, crisp, fabulous wines being made to counter this former trend.

Having tasted several vintage champagnes over the years, my money rides on this bottle.

It is a real wine, full-bodied, not bready or sweet, dry and balanced revealing complexity and restrained fruit. My choice for a straight up proper rosé is the 1995 Lopez Heredia de Tondonia Rioja Rosado. This wine will have you swooning about rosés in your dreams.

What to do about the Haut-Brion? Decant it? For how long? What about the sediment?

In my memory I compared the experience to the time we had the 1986 Lafite. But the Lafite was in an Imperiale format, built to last, and 1989 was a different year altogether.

Upon concensus, for some reason I felt that we should decant it just before serving, so as to take the journey of evolution with the wine. Sometimes old wines disappear and change too quickly when decanted, and I certainly didn’t want that disaster. I even suggested that we chill it for five minutes, because the room temperature was humid.

As it transpired, the moment of truth was ecstatic. We poured out one glass and passed it around the table. The aromas were at first vegetal and then wildly, savage, full of smoke, earth, herbs and spices. We sniffed and swooned for several minutes. Then we tasted, sipping slowly, carefully swishing it around to get the full effect. Wild raspberries and licorice created a luxurious feel in the mouth, sexy, unctuous velvet, that distinct perfume reminding us of its terroir. It was a bit closed at first, but over the course of the next hour blossomed beautifully. We decided to decant the rest due to the sediment.

The boneless N.Y. strip steak was expertly prepared in Fredo (Dr. L.’s cast iron skillet) and a darling match for the wine. The lamb chops ensued and proved a bit fatty, a less suitable partner. Despite a solid fruit and cookie course, we went through the motions, having been quite fulfilled by that Haut-Brion.

John is a folk singer, and played two of his recordings on his latest CD release Frontiers for us. One of his songs is titled “Remember Me” and was written to commemorate war-time vets. I have several things to remember about this evening, among them great food, close friends, a clever white, a dandy of a rose, and the inimitable Haut-Brion.

Categories
Eating Food

Shellshocked

As a New Yorker I anticipate signs of change, marked indications such as the cherry blossom festival at the Brooklyn Botanical Garden, the rising hemline on Spring Street, outdoor picnics on the Great Lawn, and sidewalk cafes extending out into the street. One harbinger of good times to come is the soft shell crab, now in season and making appearances on menus across the city. Some recent tastings have caused me to reflect and compare different preparations.

Chan Noodle on Mulberry Street lightly batters their crabs and deep fries them to crisp perfection. Slivers of garlic and scallions are added to enhance the flavors.

At Phoenix Garden, the Cantonese method of deep frying prompted this response from my friend Ola, “This crab makes me wanna punch somebody.”

Tomoe Sushi on Thompson Street cuts a delectable Spider roll, soft shell crab battered and fried, balanced by cucumbers and wrapped in wakame and rice.

Sripraphai in Woodside, Queens offers good value with a pile of soft shell crabs, spicing things up a bit with Thai chilis.

Though not soft shell, Fatty Crab is home to the chili crab, a piece of work that easily could pass for the most divine crab dish in New York. The shell must be cracked, and you must protect against a big mess with a tucked napkin in your shirt, but the slow, steady labor pays off handsomely.

All of these soft shell crab preparations have two elements in common: proper crispy texture with succulent, moist crab meat filling.

I dream of a soft shell crab festival, not unlike the festival of San Gennaro or the upcoming barbecue tasting near Times Square. Just substitute for crab, and add a glass of champagne or two. Dazzling.

Categories
Eating Experiences Food The Chef

Jury Duty Blues

The magic slip with the red bar code came via mail two weeks ago, and that can mean only thing: jury duty. The mere words strike anxiety and panic into the busiest metropolitans, and excuses are prepared in advance as if lining up for a confession.

Crisis in Chinese also means opportunity, the chance to seize the day or go down with the ship. For me, it means several well-timed meals in Chinatown, a foodie neighborhood I have been researching for years. Over a two day stint, that means four breakfast spots, four lunches and a couple of early dinners.

In the mornings I headed to Mei Lai Wah, that bastion of a coffee shop known for their pork buns. They come baked or steamed and are exquisite, fluffy, a bit sweet and savory. Only great discipline can prevent you from ordering more. Several other bakeries provide arrays of eggs with croissants, pork bun variations, coconut pastries and shumai. The quality is fairly even, so form your own alliances according to service. The excellent dumpling house is a sure-fire way to unload your Washingtons, testing economic theory that there is no more bang for your buck. One dollar yields five pan fried dumplings or four juicy buns. What a bargain! There’s no time for dim sum, otherwise I would be firmly planted at Tai Hong Lau (70 Mott St.).

For lunch, the sky is the limit. Though Chinatown holds its perils, and the wrong turn can yield an unforgettably bad meal. Understand also that chefs come and go as quickly as the moon tides. Some family run businesses will actually close if they can’t keep a chef from within the family.

I headed over to Big Wong on Mott street for a roast meat sampler. Roast duck, roast pork, and chicken with ginger usually does the trick. I follow this up with fresh shrimp crepes and barbecued spare ribs. Big Wong stands for the tremendously phallic donuts they serve which are more novelty than nutrition.

I love to top off lunch with a bowl of soup, not the run of the mill wonton, egg drop, or sweet and sour kind either. Several shops are dedicated to soups with choice of noodle, dumpling, won ton, and roast meat which can adorn a healthy bowl of Chinese goodness. Judge a soup by its broth first. It should be translucent like a consommé, full of chicken stock flavor ready to be slurped from the bowl. The rest of the ingredients are up to you, as I have rarely not enjoyed the dumplings, or the noodles, or the roast meats.

Later that day I was released early. Before my next appointment, I headed over to Grand Sichuan for a spicy double pork lunch special, sliced, tender pork and scallions heaped on top of fiery Szechuan peppercorns, easily one of my favorite dishes in all of Chinatown. I whet my appetite with the won tons in hot oil in preparation for a meal of true grit and ecstasy.

The next day I replicated my breakfast routine, except that I supplemented my regimen with a coconut banana chocolate croissant from nearby Bouley Bakery, just for stark contrast. At lunch I dined at Chan Noodle, and excellent soup shop on Mulberry known for the fried rice. The fried rice with two sausages is the real deal, and because they’re in season, the soft shell crab was light, crispy, and ethereal. I ordered some soup dumplings at Joe’s Shanghai just because, and of course had an encore of the baked pork bun at Mei Lai Wah.

When I was ultimately released from service and handed a letter for proof like some sort of empty diploma, I contemplated the Peking Duck House for some great duck-filled tortillas, but was running late and had to forgo one last Chinatown sup.

Between siestas for those two marvelous days, visions of dumplings pranced in my head, and a note of sadness came over me as I left 111 Centre Street. It will be another six years before I perform my civic duty again, the crisis with the great foodie perks.