The Eating Adventures of a Checker Cabbie
Before your 4th of July BBQ, you might want to read today Gothamist column for exotic ideas on what to grill:
www.gothamist.com/archives/2006/06/29/the_hungry_cabb_7.php
Visit www.famousfatdave.com for exotic eating tour ideas
I’m about to broach a sticky subject. It might be a little uncomfortable for you to confront. Think you can handle it? Okay, here goes. Why do black people have so much trouble catching cabs?
I can’t answer that question for every city in America, but I know what New York City yellow cab drivers are thinking when they speed by black people who are clearly trying to hail them. Judging from my non-scientific study of cabbies with whom I work, the reason is not so simple as bald racism. Yellow cab drivers are not necessarily scared that black people will rob them, though I’m sure there are some weak-minded ones who do harbor that prejudice.
After spending many hours conversing with other cabbies waiting at the garage or lined up at the airport, I’ve come to a fairly simple conclusion. Because cabbies make their money by dropping off and picking up fares in rapid succession, they would always rather take a fare to a part of the city where another fare can be found quickly. This is the same reason they never want to go to Brooklyn no matter what race you are.
The racial profiling occurs when cabbies pass black people by because they assume black people are heading to a neighborhood far from the busy core of Manhattan. You might be heading to Brownsville, Brooklyn where the cabbie won’t get another fare for an hour, but the cabbie will stop for you if you are white because he assumes you are not going to Brownsville. If you are black however, even if you are heading to the West Village, many cabbies assume you are heading to Brownsville, and so they pass you by. It is a less vicious type of racism than people might imagine is responsible for this phenomenon.
Another more unpleasant stereotype that cab drivers attach to black people in New York is that they are bad tippers. The black people who live in rough neighborhoods far from the moneyed sections of Manhattan might ask for the 60 cents of change on a $12.40 fare. I have no problem coughing up the change in that situation since they obviously need that money more than I do (my problem is with Upper East Siders who tip 50 cents on a $5.20 fare by giving $6 and asking for a quarter “for the phone” which hasn’t been a quarter in a couple of years now). So the issue is more that cab drivers are intent on making as much money as possible than that cab drivers live in fear of black people.
I take pride in the fact that, like Travis Bickle, I run all over town. I’ve never once passed a person by because of the color of his skin. I was raised that way. I’m no hero though. If I had a family of 5 to support in Jackson Heights, and another family of 25 to send money home to in Karachi, I might not be so egalitarian. But I don’t drive for the money as much as I drive for the adventure of it all. So it wouldn’t make any sense at all for me to pass anyone by, because I might get a good story or a restaurant tip out of it.
A while back, I watched as 4 or 5 cabs passed a black couple on Broadway and 125th Street in front of me. Once they climbed into my cab, the man immediately put a $10 bill through the divider and said with a strong hint of exasperation in his voice, “THAT’S just for stopping.” So much for the tipping stereotype.
He was, however, heading to a neighborhood far from any place where I might find another fare: The South Bronx. It was late on a Thursday night and they were going dancing at a soul food restaurant slash lounge called Sam’s. He actually invited me in, but I regretfully declined because I needed to go back to work. I’d been there multiple times before to partake of their delicious bbq chicken on my way to Yankee Stadium just blocks away. But the night club concept fascinated me.
Yesterday I convinced my friends Jack and Lance to come with Melissa and me for a late night soul food session at Sam’s. We made it up there by about 2 a.m., so when we walked in the joint was in full swing. I like to think of myself as a man of the people, all the people, who isn’t constrained by social barriers. But I must admit that being the only white guys in a very crowded, sweaty South Bronx lounge made me a bit self-conscious.
We stood at the top of the stairs overlooking the dance floor feeling pretty much everyone’s eyes on us. But the tension was broken when the waitress introduced herself with a giant smile and led us to our table in the back. As we waded through the dance floor my own giant smile spread across my face because I witnessed some of the boldest dance moves I’ve ever seen. My favorite move involved a man slapping his dance partner on the butt so firmly that the smacks were clearly audible over the throbbing bass that was loud enough to shake the stools.
Late at night, Sam’s only serves finger foods so, being the gluttons we are, we ordered one of everything on the menu. That consisted of fried shrimp, fried fish strips, chicken wings, french fries, chicken fingers and plenty of tartar sauce.
The food was not as great as it is during regular dining hours, but we all agreed that our mini late night feast was downright phenomenal as far as meals served at 2:30 a.m. at dance clubs go. Even though we were just sitting in the back quietly enjoying our soul finger food, we had attracted a great deal of attention. Jack, a pale young man with wild golden locks falling about his shoulders, said that he has been to a number of foreign countries, but he had never gotten anything like the priceless and perplexed looks he got from so many of Sam’s patrons.
(Jack shows off his mop top as he attempts to dry his lap of a budweiser that was spilt at the edge of the rowdy dance floor)
But aside from our friendly waitress, our interactions with the locals consisted mostly of shy or confused stares rather than verbal communication.
Finally, an incredibly friendly (and incredibly drunk) woman stumbled over to our table after a trip to the bathroom. She introduced herself as Tracy, and she phrased everything as though it were a secret from everyone else at the table. Tracy took an instant liking to Lance and shot him a seductive smile.
(You can see what Tracy saw in Lance, pictured here looking at the napkin that came stuffed into his beer)
She confided in Jack that her children were being “pains in my BE hind, and they should know better because they are 22 and 24.” To Melissa she whispered, “Everyone in here is asking ‘Who dat? Who dat? She is beautiful.” And for me, she took about a full minute to get herself into this pose:
And then she shouted, “Don’t label that picture ‘Crazy Black Bitch’” as she scooted off onto the dance floor.
Melissa was clearly in the mood to dance too:
But I wasn’t man enough to take her out onto the dance floor, because I didn’t think I would be able to keep up with those Boogie Down moves. So we took our leave. We ended up dancing our way back across the dance floor anyway, because Tracy had broken the glass wall between our cultures. Everyone on the floor did at least a couple of steps with each of us as we danced through. Tracy got DOWN with Lance, and she freaked him until he was caught between her and the speaker. Then she took on Jack and me at the same time, and we ended up doing the bump with Tracy bouncing gleefully between us.
We handed our waitress the check with a 20 percent tip, and she acted like we’d made a mistake. “You gave me $7 too much,” she said. “No, that’s for you,” I told her. She raised her eye brows in surprise, and her eyes lit up. Apparently, that tipping stereotype holds true at Sam’s.
Sam’s Restaurant, 596 Grand Concourse, The Bronx
Visit www.famousfatdave.com for a belly laugh or to book an eating tour
Read about my 4 favorite Sicilian culinary gems in Not For Tourist Guidebook’s “On Our Radar” section at:
http://www.famousfatdave.com/FoodWriting/NFTSicilian.pdf
Visit www.famousfatdave.com/FoodWriting/FoodWriting.html to read more of my NFT Guidebook writing and then click the cannoli at the bottom to see the main page and book an eating tour.
Cent’ anni. It means we should all live happily for a hundred years — the family. That’d be true if we all eat sausage pizza from Louie and Ernie’s in The Bronx. So read today’s Gothamist column at:
www.gothamist.com/archives/2006/06/24/the_hungry_cabb_4.php
And live for another 100 years if you take an eating tour at www.famousfatdave.com
Today’s Gothamist column on Middle Eastern Brooklyn food might make you change your lifestyle. Peace be upon you at:
www.gothamist.com/archives/2006/06/22/the_hungry_cabb_6.php
Visit www.famousfatdave.com for the one true eating tour
I’m totally down with Mexicans. I always have been, even before it was a hot button issue. My best friend in third grade was Gustavo Gonzales. And my best friend in fourth grade was Felipe Gonzales (no relation).
When I worked at Murray’s Cheese Shop, I didn’t get along with every other cheesemonger, but I made fast friends with all of the Mexicans. I’d try to speak with them as much as possible to pick up the slang. And I talked so much baseball with them in my broken Spanish that they stopped calling me “Mr. David” and bestowed the honorary nickname of “Mr. David Ortiz” upon me.
I think because I was openly friendly with the Mexicans, I was treated like one of them by the management, and I eventually left because I felt I wasn’t respected there. But before I went, I tried to organize a union as we stood around the lockers nightly.
I thought my efforts were going unappreciated (probably because they couldn’t understand my Spanish) until one day while I was stocking a cracker shelf. Cristo, one of my closest friends at Murray’s, saddled up next to me and pretended to front some items so as not to draw the ire of the watchful and vengeful manager. Cristo, who is from Puebla, shot me a sideways glance and whispered, “Hijos del maize (children of the corn). . . Viva la revolucion.” I smiled at him and nodded vigorously. As he walked off with his arms full of Pecorino Romano he barked, “VIVA EL CHE!!!”
(Mi amigo Carlos who taught me to say “Que Pasa Con La Rasa” posing proudly with some cheese)
My heart was swollen with proletarian pride. After that, even the quiet Mexican from Chiapas would smile at me every time he passed, sometimes raising a fist, and occasionally murmuring, “Viva Commandante Marcos.” Even with all the revolutionary sentiment I’d stirred up, I didn’t manage to organize a union, though one surely was needed.
Oddly, I’ve never met a Mexican yellow cab driver (another group of immigrants who would do well to form a union). I’ve met immigrants from pretty much every other country on earth who drive yellow cabs. And I’m sure there are Mexican cabbies. There must be. I’ve just never met one.
The result is that I have no reliable source for Mexican food recommendations in New York City (Murray’s Mexicans all ate at home). I’ve asked my Mexican fares, but I’ve never found a Mexican restaurant with tacos or burritos that compares to what I’ve eaten in California . . . until yesterday.
My friend Mark (not a Mexican, but he is fluent in Spanish after living in Argentina for a few months) urged me to visit a place near his Clinton Hill apartment called Castro’s. Mark, a very talented musician who just finished a great album all about apples, knows his burritos. He swears by Castro’s, and now I do too.
The burritos at Castro’s are gigantic. They are probably larger than the ones I found in the Mission District (unless my memory has faded), and certainly larger than the ones I found in East L.A. and San Diego. The innards are full of fresh veggies, fluffy rice, wet black beans, and succulent meat. They serve a generous portion of guacamole, salsa, and spicy green sauce on the side so that each bite can be custom flavored.
The highlight of the Castro’s burrito is the tortilla. They do a sort of toasting of the entire burrito once it is contructed. The burritos are placed onto a tray, lifted upwards, and pressed against the roof of the oven. A small brown spot appears on the top of each burrito where it touched the metal, and the texture of the tortilla comes out varied from crispy to chewy depending on how close it was the roof or the tray. Every bite is a unique taste sensation.
(One of the burrito’s broke apart before it was half eaten, but Mark claims that this was a first)
I’m not saying Castro’s burrito is the same as an authentic California burrito. I’m saying a comparable wave of ecstasy washed over me as I ate it. It made my shoulders relax, my mind expand, and my belly widen. And, as always, I was totally down with the Mexicans.
Castro’s, Myrtle Ave btwn Ryerson and Gran, Clinton Hill, Brooklyn
Visit www.famousfatdave.com for a good time or to book an eating tour
A place has got to be really bad, if I’m going to bother panning it. Hope and Anchor was that bad. Disappointment and sorrow abound in today’s Gothamist column at:
http://www.gothamist.com/archives/2006/06/17/the_hungry_cabb_5.php
Visit www.famousfatdave.com to book an eating tour on which we will not eat at Hope and Anchor
I swear I was planning to go to work yesterday. But when I woke up and saw the sun pouring through my window, I thought better of it. It was one of those glorious spring days with just a few puffy white clouds scattered amidst a sky of unbelievable blue. I felt like Ferris Bueller except I didn’t have to fake a stomach cramp and lick my palms. I just had to call the garage and tell them not to expect me. No one would be hailing a cab on such a nice day anyhow.
At that point, Melissa, my sweet Thai girlfriend (how did she get so sweet? years of practice), was actually playing the Cameron role in the story. She had woken up before dawn, and by the time I came out from under the covers, she’d already put in a full day’s work. She was back home in bed already, dead set on napping away the afternoon. “I’m dying,” she said, referring to the fact that she’d not had a full night’s sleep in weeks. “You’re not dying, you just can’t think of anything good to do,” I said, hoping she’d (and you’d) catch the reference. She didn’t budge.
But she bowed to my logic when I pleaded with her, “How many times are we both going to be free in the afternoon when the Yankees are playing a day game at The Stadium?” As she looked out the window at that beautiful sky, I watched Cameron slowly melt away. Before I had my teeth brushed and my mohawk tamed, there was my Sloane, cowboy boots and all, ready to go. She rubbed her bleary eyes, and we were Bronx bound.
A weekday game with a 1:05 start, and it was sold out. God bless this city. And God bless scalpers who get desperate within minutes of the National Anthem. I handled the shady negotiating, bought the tickets, and then scouted out the best empty seats in the house that we could sneak into without an usher bothering us. Melissa, once she got over her fear of being booted from our stolen seats, bought us our breakfast:
A Yankee Stadium hot dog used to taste like someone took a Dodger dog, dropped it on the floor, stepped on it, and then put it on a bun. Then they got worse. There was a very trying period sometime during the height of the steroid era (we’ve entered the HGH era) when hot dog vendors at The Stadium didn’t even have buns. They served dogs in small wedges of bread sliced three quarters of the way through as though we were too stupid to know the difference between a hot dog bun and a piece of Wonder Bread.
Even so, it had always been my dream to vend hot dogs at Yankee Stadium. One year I waited in line for hours in the bitter March winds off the Harlem River only to be turned away for not having a social security card on hand. The next year, after spending hours in line at the Social Security Office, I spent hours in line at The Stadium waiting for my second shot at the big leagues.
But some of the desperate, unemployed denizens of the South Bronx tried to cut in line, and some other desperate, unemployed denizens of the South Bronx with overdeveloped senses of propriety didn’t let it go. The shouting match turned into a fist fight, the fist fight turned into a brawl, and I high tailed it all the way to Coney Island where I languished selling hot dogs in Single A ball for a summer.
Melissa, knowing how hard it is out here for a vendor, tipped ours handsomely. They started using real buns again a couple of years ago, and they switched from Sabrett’s to Nathan’s. Although these bulk variety Nathan’s dogs have zero snap, they are wonderfully meaty. Maybe it had something to do with my stellar mood, but I thought that hot dog was so choice:
So was the cotton candy:
If you have the means, I highly recommend picking one up.
Unlike Ferris, I didn’t catch a foul ball. And the Yankees lost miserably. Yet, I believe the game was blessed. No one shouted for me to take my hat off during God Bless America during the 7th inning stretch, so I gotta say it was a good day. Sparky Anderson sat right near us:
We watched as a man proposed to his pink ARod jersey-wearing girlfriend who said “YES” and then cheered wildly while simultaneously staring at her new ring when ARod hit a monster home run just minutes later:
ARod was clutch!!!. . . for this happy couple
Then my idol, Bernie Williams, jacked one out of the park just for me:
Bernie Williams, you’re my hero.
Plus we were witness to 21-year-old Melky Cabrera’s first career home run. We can always boast we saw the first of many, if Joe Torre is right about him.
Had I driven the cab yesterday, I probably would not have made a dime. I think I needed the day off. Life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.
(This shot goes out to all my straight female readers, my gay readers, and my male readers who are confident in their heterosexuality. . . To the Upper East Side nubiles)
Visit www.famousfatdave.com to book an eating tour. The question is what aren’t we going to eat.
(You’re still here? It’s over. . . Go back to work.)
