04.26.06
Sass and Beans
I have one best friend at my taxi garage, and I can’t pronounce his name. I can’t even begin to try to spell it. It begins with a combination sound we don’t have in the Western world. He is from Madagascar, and we made fast friends because neither of us are of the usual New York cabbie ilk. I am the only Jew at our garage, he is the only Madagascarian.
The pecking order starts with the Poles because my Greenpoint garage is owned by a Pole. After them come the Indians because the night dispatcher’s name is Cha Cha and he hails from Bombay and looks out for his own. Then, you get a cab if you work six days a week no matter where you from. And if there are any cabs left over when they’ve all gone out, Cha Cha dispatches to Madagascarians and then to Jews. I often get sent home after waiting for over an hour because “NO CARS, GO HOME, DRIVE DAY SHIFT, YOU’RE TOO NICE TO DRIVE AT NIGHT.” It’s understandable. That’s the way it goes. But I can do without the sass.
Today at the garage, as my friend and I shared an abondoned New York Post, we began talking about our favorite rice and beans joints in the city after we spotted a story about the Bush Administration crackdown on American tourism to Cuba. I’m a Margon man, he’s an El Valle man. Margon, some of the only cheap, authentic food in all of midtown, has kept me full and happy since long before I got my hack license. El Valle is in the heart of the South Bronx and therefore, my friend argued, is even cheaper, and has more character.
It is true, I admit, that whereas Margon is more than half full of briefcase-totting midtown commuters who don’t know an ox tail from a hole in the ground, El Valle is always 100% Spanish-speaking. It is particularly popular with Latino cabbies which is how I heard about it.
Once, when I was the only one at the lunch counter, a three piece mariachi band walked through the door in full “Ayyyyyyy Yiiiiiiiii Ya Ya YIIII,” played for a few minutes, and walked out with some roasted chicken gratis. You don’t get much more character than that in a rice and beans joint. I just happen to think the roasted chicken at Margon falls off the bone easier, the rice at Margon is fluffier, and the beans at Margon are somehow wetter. That is not to say that a meal at El Valle isn’t good, it is phenomenal. But given the choice, I’d take Margon.
Alas, I was not given the choice today because the parking situation on 46th Street between 6th and 7th Avenues left me no choice. The first time I found myself above 96th Street on the east side I locked my doors and hit the off duty light (as I do anyway when I’m above 96th Street on the east side even when I’m not foraging for my lunch). I wasn’t particularly close to The Bronx, but I love the thrill I get when I cross the Willis Avenue Bridge into the Boogie Down Bronx.
(the forbidding approach to the Willis Ave Bridge to The Bronx)
Rather than face the meter maid in midtown, I pulled up to the meterless curb in front of El Valle on Melrose Avenue. But I had come in the middle of a rush. So I bellied up to the bar as soon as I saw an opening and fixed my gaze upon a woman who would have been my mother had I been born in the Dominican Republic. But she was ignoring me. . . I thought. Maybe I was wrong, and I hadn’t noticed that the lady she was helping had gotten there before me. But I was sure she was ignoring me when I saw a construction worker walk in from outside and right up to the counter next to me. She called him “papi” and took his order. It was about time to drop some knowledge on her, and let her know I wasn’t some schmuck to be triffled with. After four years of public school Spanish and four months of living in Madrid for an internship, I wasn’t exactly sure how to say “excuse me.”
(maybe these are some schmucks to triffle with)
But the moment I caught her eye I confidently told her, “Quiero solomente uno plato por favor, con arroz amarillo, frijoles, maduros, y pollo.” She looked at me like I was talking Chinese. I thought I’d gotten it perfect. Within minutes all of El Valle was in on the joke. I got impromptu Spanish lessons from a couple of different sources at once, and, even though I didn’t repeat myself, I did get exactly what I ordered. It wouldn’t fit on one plato however and my bizarro universe mamma threatened not to give me the chicken because I had only indicated that I wanted uno plato. Meekly, I said, “si, pero quiero un poco mas.” She let me in on the fact that was just sassing me the whole time when she called me “papi” and gave me a priceless look after I learned the word for smile from a kindly woman at the lunch counter (something like “sonreal”).
(all I had to do was ask for a sonreal, and I got a beaut)
The meal hit the spot. My Madagascarian friend was right, El Valle had more character. Sometimes, a large part of the pleasure of a good meals comes as a result of an authentic atmosphere and a cultural exchange. But if I wanted to to get sassed because I look different, I could have gotten that back at my taxi garage in Brooklyn.
El Valle, Melrose Ave at 155th Street, Melrose, The Bronx
Margon, 46th Street btwn 6th and 7th Ave, Midtown, Manhattan (closed Sundays)
Check out http://www.famousfatdave.com for a chuckle or to book an eating tour
Maria said,
May 4, 2006 at 1:20 pm
smile: sonrisa
to smile: sonreir
smile, please: sonria, por favor
love your blog
Gene said,
May 5, 2006 at 7:54 am
Oh my god,what a great concept for a blog! It’s only a matter of time before the media will be onto you and your stuff will be appearing in magazines, newspapers, and TV, if that’s the direction you want to go. Good luck! And by the way, if it makes you feel any better, I’ve been a NYC cabbie for 28 years and I STILL don’t know the fucking Bronx.