The Eating Adventures of a Checker Cabbie
If you are fan of Eric BADLAAAAAAANDS Booker or Run DMC (or both) you will enjoy this 49 second video:
Famous Fat Dave and Badlands Rap
Let me just say this: it was the single greatest moment of my career.
Famous Fat Dave Video: Nathan’s Famous 4th of July Hot Dog Eating Competition Vs Eric Badlands Booker
Let me give you some advice. If you ever do a Nathan’s Famous hot dog eating competition, don’t do it for the FIRST time AT the original Nathan’s in Coney Island, WITHOUT ever training, AGAINST a legendary professional, ON CAMERA. If you do, you could end up looking foolish.
That’s basically what I did for the grand finale of the History Channel Dot Com Holiday Foods series. I went to the storied Stillwell and Surf location to take on the storied Eric BAAAAAAAADLAAAAAAANDS Booker in a mini three minute version of the 4th of July Nathan’s Famous hot dog eating competition.
Badlands has been a personal hero of mine for a number of years already, if only for the open mouthed poses he has mastered for the camera. But when I was told I’d be going up against him in battle, I did a little research. I knew he held some records, but I didn’t realize he held records for some of my favorite foods: cannoli . . . corned beef hash . . . candy bars . . . matzo balls . . . donuts . . . burritos . . . hamentashen! And it’s HIM up there in the middle of the big board staring at Tekeru The Tsunami Kobayashi, hot dogs at the ready.
I was intimidated to say the least. Badlands is a competitive eating Goliath, and I’m no David. I did spend a summer selling Nathan’s hot dogs at the Single A Cyclones ball park right next door to the original Nathan’s. And any hot dog I couldn’t sell, they’d let me take home for free to my endless bbq in the 2004 Summer of Awesome (as it came to be known). I’d eaten more than my fair share. Still, I thought I’d better train a little so as not to make a fool of myself.
As luck would have it, my best friend Greg bought me a sweet ticket to see my lowly Nats take on the mighty Phillies down at the ball park in Philadelphia the night before the contest. AND IT WAS DOLLAR DOG NIGHT!!!
It would have been the perfect opportunity to get some practice in. Never mind Badlands, I could see what I was up against internally. But the dogs in Philly have less snap than Nathan’s dogs. Nathan’s dogs, the ones at the flagship location at least (I don’t know why Nathan’s Famous would sully its good name by selling snapless franks in supermarkets and franchised locations the world over), are encased in real intestine so they taste way better but they’re harder to eat. It’s an entirely different experience biting through one of those.
I still should have tried eating one in Philly as fast as I could to see how I fared. Instead, I convinced myself that I’d die of nitrate poisoning if I ate a bunch of hot dogs the night before a hot dog eating competition, and so settled for a photo op with Greg, and only really ate two . . . slowly. Rookie mistake.
When the day came I was NOT prepared. After leaving Philly at 11pm, I had to stay up until about 430 writing a paper for school. I was on NO sleep. Aaaaaand I had a shoot early in the morning during which I had to eat a bunch of tacos (delicious tacos at Alma, but not the proper way to start my day).
By the time I got to Coney, I was so nervous. And worse, I felt like a pretender to the throne. People train for years, fight through dozens of qualifiers, suffer through endless heartbreak before they get to compete at Nathan’s against the likes of Badlands Booker. And here I was, a rank amateur, getting a shot at the champ just because I had cameras with me. Shame washed over me when I saw the big man approach.
But anyone who knows Badlands Booker knows he is a great guy. Truly a gentle giant. He greeted me with a “What’s good Famous?” and immediately put me at ease. Even the sight of dozens of hot dogs didn’t really effect me because I was having such a blast with Badlands mugging for the camera and such.
However, when I met the EMT on hand, I got nervous again. It’s funny that even though I should have felt better that there was a trained medic who would be just feet away while we competed, it made me more ill at ease. I guess I was thinking about how dumb I’d feel if I choked on a hot dog.
Badlands told me it’d be a good showing if I ate five in the three minutes we had. I decided I could down 7, at which point Badlands said, “Oh it’s like that, then we’re ON.” That’s how inexperienced I was. I didn’t even know I was challenging the pro when I was challenging him.
I stupidly decided NOT to dunk my hot dogs in water on the logic that dunking is gross and I could eat more if I was actually enjoying them. The competition began, with three cameras set up, a four person film crew, Ryan Nerz – author of the hilarious “Eat This Book” – announcing, the EMT standing by, and about 20 onlookers gathered round. And on my very first bite I immediately realized, “There is NO way I’m gonna eat 7 hot dogs.”
The bread expanded rapidly into every corner of my mouth. The bite I took must have been far to big. I couldn’t swallow if my life depended on it. But I only had three minutes to compete and Badlands was chomping through two dogs and buns (dunked) at a time. So, prematurely, I dunked my dog and took another big bite. Now it felt my whole head was filled with wet bun and chewed up hot dog. There was nowhere for it go. It just went in circles around my mouth. It was not pleasant. And I was making a fool of myself.
After a full minute I hadn’t even finished one. By the time I recovered from the original bite, half the competition was over. I managed to nearly choke on a couple of occasions too because I’d be chewing all that wet bun up front and a stray piece of hot dog would try to escape down my throat. I felt like I could end up like the little girl Moonlight Graham had to save in Field Of Dreams. That’s not how I wanted it to go down.
When three minutes were up I’d eaten less than 3 hot dogs (and I’d chipmunked the last 3/4 of a dog, Major League Eating lingo meaning I had just shoved it into my cheeks) while Badlands swallowed ELEVEN. That’s a really good pace for him considering the real competition is four times longer and his personal best is 30 and a half.
When I finally downed my chipmunked hot dog, I said, “I’m not even full,” and Badland responded with “You wanna go again?!? Let’s GO.” With that, we were off for, as Ryan Nerz put it, “An unprecedented one minute overtime.” None of that part made the cut for HistoryChannel.com so I’ll tell you, I managed just one more hot dog while Badlands downed another FIVE. What a pro.
Badlands had been semiretired from the competitive eating circuit when I met him. He’d lost 120 pounds (then gained another 40) he told me. He’d gone from an XXXXXXL Nathan’s tee shirt to an XXXXL. Everyone wanted to know if he was going to get back into the game. Last week, I heard he won a qualifier in Camden New Jersey and he will be ON STAGE tomorrow at the 4th of July Nathan’s Famous International Hot Dog Eating Competition. I’d like to think I had a little something to do with it.
Missed the video link at the top? Here it is again: Famous Fat Dave Vs. Badlands Booker At Nathan’s
(Post-competition it’s a classic Badlands pose)
(Badlands Booker you’re my hero)
(Badlands, Melissa, me, and a lemonade)
(Badlands, Ryan Nerz, Me, and the Crew. Thanks History.com)
Visit www.FamousFatDave.com for five borough eating tours where the original Nathan’s Famous is a classic stop
Chanukah is upon us. I’m gonna ask for my own tv show. In the meantime, take a look at today’s installment of HistoryChannel.Com’s Holiday Foods Series as we fry latkes at the Clinton Street Bakery. And if my antics aren’t enough for you, Buster Poindexter fans will be excited to hear that the Checker Cab I drive in this series is the very same one he drove in Scrooged.
Come back here this week for a second Channukkah episode. And go to www.FamousFatDave.com to book your five borough eating tour
I believe in luck. I believe in karma. I believe in the yin and the yang. And I believe in curses. But a string of bizarre and inexplicable events that dominated my life during a week in mid October of 2003 made me believe in God.
“Baseball is the only real sport, I think, in the world.” Babe Ruth said that. As a Yankee fan who hasn’t missed a box score since I was eight years old, laid on collapsed cardboard in the South Bronx for twenty two hours to get a ticket to the 1998 World Series, and chants “Boston SUCKS” at Yankee Stadium even when the visiting team is the Orioles, I believed in the Curse of the Bambino. In the American League Championship Series that October of 2003, the Yankees were playing the Red Sox, who had been languishing under the curse since Babe Ruth was sold by Boston to the Yankees for the low, low price of $100,000 in 1920. The Red Sox, who had won the 1915, 1916, and 1918 World Series behind the brilliant pitching of a young Babe Ruth, had seemed to be on a roll when the teens ended. But the Great Bambino led the Yankees to their first World Series title ever in 1923, the Yankees went on to win 25 more championships, and the Red Sox were damned.
My second team was the Chicago Cubs, who I’d always loved with a warm place in my heart as a result of a large, deep-dish eating extended family hailing from the North Side. The Cubs have suffered through an equally powerful curse. The story goes that when a man arrived at Wrigley Field with a billygoat in tow, he was denied entrance. So he hexed the Cubs, saying they would never win another World Series. It was a ludicrous concept at the time. The Cubs, in fact, had been the century’s first great dynasty, going to four of the first seven World Series ever played, and winning twice. But the curse of the billygoat stuck, and the last time the Cubs brought home the ring was in 1908. The last time they even made it to the World Series there were only forty eight states. The Cubs too were poised to win a pennant that October of 2003, playing in the National League Championship Series.
I was living on the sandy peninsula of Rockaway Beach, an old Irish enclave barely existing on three blocks of Queens between Jamaica Bay and the Atlantic Ocean. The locals, mostly cops and firefighters, were surprised to find a chubby, moderately-tanned Jewish kid living on the Irish Riviera. I was there, however, not to befriend the natives, but for the fishing, sun, and fresh air. Mostly, I have to say, I was there for the abundant parking. I’d already been a yellow cabbie for a couple of years. But I was having trouble finding time to work because I was watching one or two baseball games an evening, and rarely did both the Cubs and the Yankees have a simultaneous travel day.
Early in the Championship Series, the Cubs had the day off so I elected to work and listen to the Yankees on the radio. Unknowingly, as I pulled my cab out from the garage in Greenpoint Brooklyn, I was beginning my religious education. Before the sun would come up over the Atlantic, I would be on my way to edification.
It was a night of ups and downs, strikes and gutters. My first fare of the evening, at 5:15 when traffic is at its worst, was my first trip in two years on the job to Newark Airport. This is the worst possible fare because, not only does it take forever to get to the airport and back, it is illegal to pick up another fare in New Jersey so I had to return empty. To make matters worse, I was out of my element and ended up getting off Highway 9 by accident and getting lost in downtown Newark. But when I finally returned to the city, I picked up a Chinese woman in the garment district who wanted a ride to Chinatown. We hit it off and by the time we stopped at the base of the Manhattan Bridge, she offered me a job selling jewelry at her shop on Canal Street. I can’t say I’ve always wanted to sell cheap jewelry to tourists at a massive mark up, but, since my full time career had blossomed into watching baseball in the afternoon and night, I was in the market for a day job. Here was one handed to me on a silver platter. A case of the yin and the yang? It crossed my mind at the time.
A couple hours later on Avenue B and 7th Street, a man hailed me frantically. Usually I’d pass by people like that for fear of dealing with an insane person, but I stopped because I saw he was propping up what looked to be his elderly father with his other arm. The old man got in first, wheezing, coughing, and clearly frightened. His son got in second and told me to go to the nearest emergency room in a hurried voice. I asked if he wanted to get there very quickly, and the younger man said, “Be reasonable.” Little did he know that I had always wanted to be an ambulance driver. I put my flashing emergency lights on and blew through a fresh red light on Avenue A leaning on my horn. I turned right onto First Avenue and before four minutes were up, I stopped in front of NYU Medical Center ER on Thirty Third and First. I got this man twenty five blocked and I think I set a land speed record for New York City. I was on such a natural high that I pumped my fist, hooted, and hollered after I let them out. I can’t say for sure that I saved his life, but I felt I had done a serious mitzvah. Now, wasn’t I due for some good karma?
The rest of the night passed without incident until, at about 3:15 am, I stopped for pizza at Rosario’s on Orchard Street. As I was waiting for my slice, three neighborhood guys started a friendly conversation with me about the Yankees. I was feeling a bit too comfortable. I was in my element, the neighborhood in which I had lived, worked, hung out, and volunteered with youths just like these. At that moment, waiting for Sal to heat me up a slice and talking of life and baseball with the locals, all was right with New York City. As I hopped back in my cab and waved goodbye to my new friends, I thought to myself, “Those neighborhood kids are great; you just gotta give ‘em a chance.” I realized twenty minutes later that the chance I had given them was the chance to rob me. While my three friends distracted me, a fourth had stolen my cigar box of money out of the cab. I was not pleased. How was I to believe in karma?
I arrived home in Rockaway despondent and disillusioned. Leaning against my door was a FedEx package. I plopped down in a chair and looked at it. It had my address but the name Susan Garbarino. I knew she was not the former resident, so, without giving it much thought, I opened the envelope. Inside I found the single most beautiful thing I have ever laid my eyes upon. It was one ticket – JUST ONE – to game six of the American League Championship Series at Yankee Stadium.
This is where Dave goes crazy. Of all the people in all New York to be on the winning end of this kind of mix up, the kind of mix up I have never known FedEx to make, it probably gave me the purest, most unadulterated bliss. After I finished freaking out, screaming, running in circles around my tiny house, pumping my fist like Derek Jeter, doing the Bernie dance, and laughing hysterically, I took a look at the flip side of the ticket where the receipt was attached. On it, Ticket Master had printed Susan Garbarino’s real address. Not even close. She did live in Rockaway, but it was eighty one blocks east of me on Beach 19th Street. Tough luck Susan.
But as I tried to go to sleep it dawned on me that I had a moral dilemma on my hands. I could use the ticket for myself, go to the game, and enjoy it immensely. When I first saw the ticket, this option was the only one that even entered my mind. But I had this woman’s address. I could easily go to her door and present her with her rightful ticket. Beach 19th Street, however, is at the edge of one of the worst neighborhoods in all the five boroughs. On the list of bad ideas, showing up in the middle of the ghetto and buzzing a stranger’s door ranks just ahead of leaving a box full of money in an unlocked yellow cab on the Lower East Side. From the day’s events, it was clear to me that I was not having the best luck with the city’s rougher neighborhoods.
I awoke the next afternoon honestly thinking the ticket was a dream. I cannot stress enough how amazing it was to me to have a ticket to game six of the ALCS against the Red Sox magically show up at my door. Over the next couple of days, I ran my moral dilemma by as many friends, family members, and strangers as possible. I’d say I talked to about thirty people and only four of them told me what I wanted to hear. And all four were morally bankrupt people and/or equally huge Yankee fans who were astonished at my dumb luck. The good people kept telling me that it was bad karma to keep the ticket. My defense, I maintained, was airtight. It wasn’t bad karma to hold onto the ticket because the ticket falling into my hands was the second half of a karmic equation that had been set into motion for me when I rushed a dying man to the hospital just hours before finding the FedEx package. Or maybe it was my yang to the yin of being robbed only one hour earlier.
The day before the game I took yet another night off of work and went to my brother’s apartment to watch game six of the National League Championship Series. I was now sick of everyone telling me to return the ticket and defiantly announced, “Screw it, I’m going to the game tomorrow.” I then watched in horror as the Cubs, just five outs away from winning the pennant for the first time in three generations, fell victim to their curse. A Cub fan in a seat in foul territory reached up and grabbed a fly ball away from a leaping Cub outfielder. An eerie darkness washed over the fans at Wrigley Field. The rowdy mob gathering on Waveland Avenue fell silent. Even the television cameras, which seconds before were shaking in the pandemonium and excitement of the moment, were still. Millions of people all over Chicagoland were thinking about a billygoat. The Cubs had been ahead three to nothing. A passed ball, an error, a few weak pitches, and the Cubs gave up EIGHT runs that inning. My brother told me to leave his house and not come back for a while, citing bad karma.
I did not take this lightly. It was pouring rain that night, and I wandered the streets of Brooklyn in a daze. Was I to blame for the Cubs’ tragic loss? Or was this just a warning to make things right by Susan Garbarino? Could I bring this bad karma into the House That Ruth Built and be responsible for giving the Yankees a curse of their own? Was this mystery ticket not just a stroke of luck, but a test from God Himself? What would Sandy Koufax do? All of this was coming hard on the heels of Yom Kippur, a Yom Kippur during which I had broken the fast a good hour early with an unkosher Nathan’s hot dog at a break-the-fast-bbq I had thrown for a bunch of goys. It was impossible to deny the religious implications.
And this could all go beyond baseball. Even if I were to snub Susan Garbarino, use the ticket, and the Yankees were to go on to win twenty five more World Series, this karmicly charged ticket would be hovering over my head for the rest of my life. I would spend my days with a numb fear in the back of my head and the pit of my stomach, just waiting for the other shoe to drop.
I had to find Susan. That night I looked up Susan Garbarino in the Rockaway yellow pages but she wasn’t listed. I called FedEx with the tracking number – 1220ZI0155104 – and they told me they don’t even use letters. I was now thoroughly freaked out. I was feeling an emotion akin to what the dying man in the back of my cab must have felt. I was preparing to stare God in the face.
I awoke early the next morning to go to Susan’s house. Since she lived straight down the beach from me, and I had the feeling that I was experiencing something larger than the things of man, I left my car and walked along the boardwalk. The storm the night before had brought in dangerously windy weather. It was difficult to walk. Blowing sands stung my ears, sea spray impeded my bespectacled vision, and the wind nearly knocked me off my feet on a number of occasions. As I drew closer to Beach 19th Street I saw that I was approaching a cluster of high rises. This woman lived in a complex of buildings which I had always noticed as the most distant visible edifices on the eastern horizon. It was as if the Eyes of TJ Eckleburg were upon me.
When I arrived, I realized with a sinking feeling, that these building comprised a retirement community/ nursing home. I very well could have been denying this woman her dying wish. I made up my mind right then and there that not only would I return Susan Garbarino her ticket, I would drive her to The Stadium myself.
I found her building, went to an elevator, and tried to go to the 14th floor to find Susan Garbarino’s apartment: 14C according to the Ticket Master receipt. To my dismay, this elevator only went to the 12th floor. I found a different elevator bank, but again the highest floor was the 12th. Now perplexed, I sought help from a janitor. He was an old, white-haired black man with a mop and a glass eye. He would, naturally, play the part of the blind oracle in my story which is about to sound made up, but I swear upon the lives of my ancestors it is true.
I asked him, innocently, “How do I get to the 14th floor?” He gave me a kindly smile, and in country accent quite foreign to the borough, he said softly, “You goin’ ta tha 14th floor, you goin’ ta heaven.” I swear that is what he said. Now I felt like I was dreaming with my eyes open. Refusing to believe what I just heard, I breathlessly explained the entire situation to him and showed him the ticket and the receipt with the address. He told me he had been working in the building for nearly twenty years and that he was positive that there was no 14th floor. After we checked at the front office to be sure no Susan Garbarino resided there, my blind oracle told me, “You blessed! You blessed! Go ta tha game.”
That was the moment I began believing in God. Not only did I begin believing in God, I began believing I knew God’s name, and it was Susan Garbarino. With the wind still blowing violently, I walked back to my house. But this time the gales were at my back, hurrying me along. The game now just hours away, I drove to the Bronx in a hurry, and, in perhaps the greatest miracle of all, I found a free and legal parking spot less than five blocks from The Stadium.
But the Lord works in mysterious ways, and as a newly converted religious zealot, I believe that with all of my heart. The Yankees lost game six. I stood there frozen as the drunken and angry denizens of Yankee Stadium filed out onto 161st Street. I was shocked. I had been as positive that the Yankees would win that game as I was that Red Sox would never win another World Series. In the end, both occurred. But no, the Red Sox would not win in 2003.
The important thing is that the Yankees went on to win game seven, and they did so in dramatic fashion. Aaron Boone’s home run in the bottom of the 13th inning broke untold millions of hearts across New England. But I witnessed something earlier in game seven, something largely forgotten by history, something for which I take total responsibility. In the eight inning, the Yankees came from behind off a weakened Pedro Martinez to tie the score. But they could have taken the lead. A fan reached out of the stands to put a hand on the batted ball, forcing the umpires to call a grounds rule double and call back the go-ahead run. When a fan touched a ball in Wrigley Field, the God of baseball, who I think is same God of everything else, descended upon the Cubs. The Yankees, on the other hand, didn’t miss a beat. The fans continued screaming, the cameras continued shaking in the excitement, and the Yankees went on to win.
I contend that, had I not exorcised the demons locked within that FedExed ticket, the Yankees could very well have fallen under the spell of a wicked curse. I cannot speak for whatever damned, faceless fan cursed the Yankees in 2004. But when it was up to me during that October of 2003, I wouldn’t let the dynasty be replaced by anguish, as occurred in Boston and Chicago so many years before. I wouldn’t let luck turn against the Yankees. I wouldn’t let karma at The Stadium go bad. I took it upon myself to go see the blind oracle of Beach 19th Street, I looked into Susan Garbarino’s eyes in those high winds, and I refused to bring a curse upon the Yankees.
All the great ones have theme songs. John Williams wrote Darth Vader a classic. The Greatest American Hero’s theme song was better than the show. And Sergei Prokofiev gave every character in Peter and The Wolf his own. So, being a megalomaniac, I wanted a theme song for myself.
Last week the stars aligned and the gods smiled, and my theme song was recorded. The two most gifted musical talents I know happened to be in New York City simultaneously for the first time in quite a while, though they met and became friends many years ago.
My cousin, Aaron Weinstein, is the best jazz violinist since Stephane Grapelli (and I’m not just saying that because I’m related to him and I’m prouder of him than I thought humanly possible). Before he graduated from high school, he was touted as the next big thing in music and played regularly with Les Paul, Bucky Pizzarelli, and the late, great Skitch Henderson. Now that he has reached the ripe old age of 20, he has redefined the way both the violin and mandolin are played. Even Nat Hentoff, the famously judicious and discerning jazz critic, recently called him “an unmistakably personal improviser who can be intimately tender as well as so fierily invigorating that you have to move to his music” in the Wall Street Journal. And most importantly, Aaron is my eager partner in gluttony whenever he comes to New York for a gig.
My best friend, Jack Dolgen, is a character who has come in and out of this blog since the beginning. Though he appreciates jazz, he is more of a rock n’ roller than Aaron is. His pop band, Sam Champion, is a high energy, bass driven explosion of sound and fun that puts on one of the best shows in New York City every time they take the stage. Yet, Jack reveals a soft, folksier side when he does his solo music. He is an accomplished song writer, and he used all of his skills to write my theme song one afternoon after I took him and his family on an eating tour. Like Aaron, Jack is one of the most serious, adventurous eaters I know.
Aaron was flying in for a day to play at Bucky Pizzarelli’s 80th birthday tribute show, so Jack, Melissa, and I picked him up at Laguardia after midnight. I figured I just needed to get the two prodigies in the same room for a couple of hours and the magic would happen. I was right.
(Jack’s bedroom is basically a recording studio)
I dropped them off at Jack’s apartment after a harrowing trip to DUMBO to pick up Jack’s acoustic guitar (I had to pull off the BQE to reattach a piece of metal that had been dislodged from the bottom of my car by a monster pot hole and was kicking up sparks. Then we were assaulted by a gang of monster rats in the stairwell on the way down to Sam Champion’s studio – welcome back to New York Aaron). It was close to 2 a.m. by that point, and it was up to Melissa and me to bring back the sustenance to keep the geniuses going for what was sure to be an all night session (Jack called his downstairs neighbor to warn him of the emergency recording session and tell him not to be alarmed by the ruckus).
Last year, only after unpacking all of her belongings in her 6th floor walk-up SoHo apartment, Melissa informed me that she’d moved to New York mostly because she wanted the luxury of ordering sushi in the middle of the night. I asked her who told her that she could do that, because it wasn’t me. She had made an assumption, and she was sorely mistaken I believed. Once the clock strikes 2 a.m., I told her, even on the weekends, freshly prepared sushi is just not an option. She considered packing up and moving back to D.C.
It was my cousin Aaron who discovered the only open sushi bar (that I know of) with me at 4:30 a.m. one Monday night earlier this year after a long show at the Algonquin’s Oak Room. On MacDougal Street, a strip I’ve walked and driven countless times, we saw, to my amazement, a shining beacon in the night called Yummy Village Sushi. Open until at least 4 and sometimes as late as 6 a.m., the Yummy Village sushi chef work tirelessly cutting large, moist pieces of nigiri and constructing hefty, tender maki.
The discovery has changed Melissa’s impression of this town, and she is training to surpass the mark set on pieces eaten in a twenty minute period (the number stands only in the low 20s for women, whereas the men’s benchmark is the stuff of legend that only a real man like my heros Takeru or Joey Chestnut could hope to challenge). Aaron and I are convinced that Melissa can beat the record, get the meal on the house (and if she fails, the meal would be on Aunt Linda anyway), and have her polaroid mounted on the wall of fame.
(This is where we stood more than half way through the session)
When we returned with a couple of party platters for the group, the recording session was well under way. Sushi was a perfect food for the occasion since it wouldn’t make anyone’s string fingers greasy, and every person involved was a great lover of Japanese cuisine.
(I felt bad putting my little cousin to work all night long, but this sight eased my conscience)
My entire being was consumed with unadulterated joy as I watched two of my favorite people (who also happen to be two of my favorite musicians) collaborate musically for the first time and gorge themselves on sushi until the sun came up.
(Eat a little, work a little, pick a little, talk a little)
Aaron laid down violin tracks, did a mandolin chuck (I learned that term that night), and even played the music stand with those drum sticks that have metal spokes like a rake called brushes. Jack, who’d just spent endless hours in the studio cutting Sam Champion’s much anticipated second record, did the producing and worked the sound board. He was also responsible for the lead vocals, backup vocals, acoustic guitar, bass, bongos, maracas, and snaps. Melissa and I basically just watched in awe. You can also hear us singing backup along with them on the “ON THE WHEELS OF STEEEEEEEL” line.
(Notice one of Aaron’s biggest fans watching intensely)
Adam B. was given a sneak peek at the song and called it “The best theme song since the It’s The Gary Shandling Show theme song.” Another person close to the project called it, “The greatest song ever.” My dad has it on his ipod. Let us know what you think. And Nat Hentoff, if you are reading, we’d like to know if you think this song is as fierily invigorating as Aaron’s last album.
Listen by going to www.famousfatdave.com, scrolling to the bottom of the page, pumping up the volume, and pressing play.
And do yourself a favor by going to Sam Champion’s website, Sam Champion’s MySpace page, Gothamist’s take on Sam Champion, Aaron Weinstein’s website, and Aaron’s MySpace page.
Yummy Village Sushi, MacDougal Street btwn Minetta and Bleeker, West Village, Manhattan
(The Mick watches over an historic recording session that would impress even Danny Elfman or, more appropriately, Django Reinhart)
May is National Hamburger Month, and the burger-lovers at A Hamburger Today requested that I compile a “Best Of” list for the occasion. Since I call myself both Famous Fat Dave and The Hungry Cabbie, I thought I might transform “AHamburgerToday” into “ThreeHamburgersToday” for this exercise. So I spent an entire shift in the yellow cab searching for good New York burgers. I ate one for breakfast, one for lunch, and one for dinner. And here you have it: The Hungry Cabbie’s picks for “Best Three Hamburgers” of the day, as recommended by my fares.
My first fare of the day, at 5:15 pm when traffic is at its worst, was a New Jersey soccer mom rushing home to pick up her kids. She asked if I would take her through the Lincoln Tunnel to Clifton, New Jersey. This is a fare that is incredibly time-consuming, and it is not required by law that I go to New Jersey (unless it is to Newark Airport). Usually when people request it, I decline and tell them NJ Transit would be faster.
However, I had already decided to go where the day took me and let fate decide which burgers would reach my eager belly. So I took her. And when I told her that I was really in the mood for a burger, she said there were a couple local places, but she couldn’t think of one tastier than the Red Robin Bacon Cheeseburger with onion straws at The Red Robin.
The Red Robin is a national chain along the lines of T.G.I.Friday’s or Ruby Tuesday’s, but not so obnoxious. I’d never heard of it much less been to one, but, apparently, I had been missing out. They have 25 different kinds of burgers, bottomless fountain drinks, and all-u-can-eat steak fries. Happy memories of Fuddruckers burger feasts on summer Saturdays after swim meets came rushing back to me, and I made my way there with a wide smile of anticipation on my face.
Although I could see the Empire State Building from the edge of the parking lot on Route 3, the Red Robin felt decidedly suburban. There was the teenage hostess who clearly said the same exact thing to everyone, the New Jersey radio station playing only the whitest hits, and the customers wearing fleeces and jean shorts. It seemed like middle America.
When my burger came my mouth began to water, and not just because it was 6 pm and I hadn’t eaten yet. It looked beautiful. It was big, but not overwhelming. It was loaded with toppings, but the burger was clearly the star.
And once I took a bite, I felt beautiful. The salty onion rings that came piled onto the bottom bun were a perfect complement to the hickory maple-smoked bacon and juicy burger. I had taken a chance on the suburbs, and it had paid off in a big way. My first burger of the day was a resounding success.
(Kicking off my shift right with my first bite of burger)
Getting back into the city, however, was a nightmare. I sat in traffic for over an hour, affording me time take in some great views of the skyline:
but killing any chance I had to make good money on the shift. By the time I got back, the rush hour was long over, and fares were scarce.
After a few fares who had no clue as to where to find a good burger, I picked up a glowingly happy couple on their way to a Broadway show. They were from Australia, Tasmania to be exact, and they were honeymooning for six months in America. They had come through Hawaii, California, Las Vegas, New Orleans, Florida, and Washington, and they were nearing the end of their trip here in New York.
I assumed they wouldn’t know any burger place since they were just tourists, but I asked them anyway. Thank God I did. They told me that every Australian in New York, whether living here or just passing through, goes to Ruby’s on Mulberry Street. Owned by a couple of expatriate Aussies, Ruby’s serves fantastic burgers and great coffee as well. They told me they’d been looking forward to a meal at Ruby’s their entire honeymoon, and when they made it there, they were not disappointed.
(You could tell this guy is a real Aussie by his accent and his smile)
Once I drove back downtown, I took their advice and ordered a “Whaley’s.” It came on baguette-like bread with a fried egg, pineapple, and beets (apparently, Aussies all grow up eating beets). I was skeptical, about the beets in particular, but the moment I took my first bite I was consumed with that rare feeling I get when I taste something so delicious that I get angry with myself for not having eaten it before.
The ground beef was so tasty that not only did my saliva glands switch into overdrive, but my tear ducts began to work. I can honestly say that the “Whaley’s” burger brought me to tears. The fried egg was genius, and the beets made me a believer. My only complaint was that the burger patty was smaller than the bread, leaving the last couple bites meatless.
The cappuccino made up for this one small negative though. I am not a coffee drinker because I’m worried about getting addicted to the caffeine, but Ruby’s coffee was so good it made me reconsider my lifestyle.
For the rest of the night, I couldn’t get a recommendation out of anyone. I started to think I’d failed my ThreeHamburgersToday adventure when I saw it was 2 am and the streets were growing desolate. I considered quitting and just going to Corner Bistro because I was hungry again. On my way crosstown, I was hailed on Christopher Street and Bleeker by a Dominican transvestite hooker and her pimp. They told me to go to Washington Heights, but we immediately got stuck in a traffic jam on Christopher Street.
At that point, a bunch of transvestite hookers recognized my fares and came over to chat with them at the backseat window. One of them, seemingly the queen bee, caught my eye and stood up from the window. She announced loudly, in a comically, Rosie Perez-esque accent, “LOOK AT THE CUTE WHITE CAB DRIVAUH. . . mmm, mmm, mmm, mmMM, MMMMM! You guuuuys. Oooooooh girls. Look at the CUTE WHITE CAB DRIVAUUUH!” I waved hello to the group.
She leaned into the frontseat window and asked, “Do you like girls? I’m a girl. Do you like me?” The traffic jam let up at that moment, and she rapidly said, “My name is Angelina, my number is 6464966540, I HAVE A PUSSY,” at which point she stood up and hoisted her camel-toed crotch onto the window sill to prove that she didn’t have a penis (unlike, presumably, the others in the group).
I can’t say that got me in the mood for another hamburger, but it did create a friendly rapport between me and my transvestite fare. I asked her if there was any place for a burger in her neighborhood at that hour, and she told me to get a chimichurri at the Dominican pork truck on 155th Street and Broadway. “Actually, I think I want one too,” she said.
So there I was, waiting in line with a transvestite hooker and her pimp at the Dominican pork truck in Washington Heights. I thought to myself, it’s moments like this that remind me how much I love driving a yellow cab.
The pimp bought me a $3 chimichurri as my tip, and I was very thankful. They told me everyone up in Washington Heights eat “chimis” late night, kind of the way people downtown get a slice of pizza. The crowd on the sidewalk was boisterous and rowdy, and my presence did not go unnoticed. But I wasn’t nervous because the pimp was with me (rather I was with the pimp), and I figured he wouldn’t let anything happen to me.
(The chimi lady liked me too)
My chimi was incredible. It was actually reminiscent of the Ruby’s burger in that it came on long bread rather than a bun and the meat was much more flavorful than your average ground beef. But whereas Ruby’s meat tasted so good because it was extremely high quality, the chimi was so tasty because they seasoned the low quality meat beyond recognition.
My Spanish isn’t particularly good, but I’m pretty sure it was beef and I’m positive they offered a chicken option (as did Ruby’s). I watched as she pressed it on the grill and loaded it with chopped red onions and shredded cabbage. But the defining characteristic was the sauce, a combination of Russian dressing (giving it a vague Big Mac quality), ketchup, mustard, and hot sauce that all liquified during the heating process. It was a mess, but my chimi was absolutely delicious.
I bid my new friends farewell, and headed back to the garage. Pleased with myself just for finding three new burgers in one day, I crossed the 59th Street Bridge feeling groovy (and a little queasy).
Here’s wishing you and yours a healthy and happy National Hamburger Month. So go out and celebrate today with a hamburger (or three).
Check out http://www.ahamburgertoday.com for everything you ever wanted to know about burger but were afraid to ask
Red Robin, 265 State Route 3, Clifton, New Jersey
Ruby’s, Mulberry between Spring and Prince, Little Italy, Manhattan
Dominican Pork Truck, usually parked at 155th Street and Amsterdam, Washington Heights, Manhattan (there are many others)
Check out http://www.famousfatdave.com for a chuckle or to book an eating tour
To understand the girl I love, I have to go back more than two centuries. Her maternal ancestors hail from a small Khmer Muslim village in the Cambodian countryside. The village, unchanged for generation upon generation, was in a region known to have the best cuisine in all of Southeast Asia.
So when the Army of Siam invaded Cambodia near the turn of the 19th century, the village was subject to a sort of reverse ethnic cleansing. The entire population of villagers, along with their culinary secrets, were forcibly relocated to a crowded neighborhood along a canal near the center of Bangkok. The people were made to cook for the royal court and this part of town became known as Baan Krua: The Neighborhood Of Kitchens.
My girlfriend, Melissa Dara, was born in Washington, DC . Had she been born just a decade earlier, it would have been in that fabled neighborhood. Her mother, as well as the previous dozen generations of Khmer-style Thai Muslim chefs, was born in that unique place on earth.
(A small part of the family back in Baan Krua; Notice Melissa with the huge smile in the middle and King Bhumibol with the suit on the wall in the back)
When I met Melissa, she had been learning the techniques of the Neighborhood of Kitchens from her mother for only three years. But Melissa and I were just friends, and it was kept a secret from me. I recall only vague memories of incredibly inviting smells each time I dropped by to pick her up or watch movies. I never had the opportunity to sit down to eat with the family.
About two years ago, Melissa and I began going out. She spoke of her mother’s cooking often, and soon I was invited to dinner. I was treated to a feast that to this day ranks as one of the best meals I’ve ever had. I have only a fuzzy recollection of the spicy shrimp and ginger soup, fried chicken with garlic and white pepper, and shredded beef jerky with palm sugar and shallots because my pleasures synapses were firing so fast I actaully got a physical high. I told her mother that she shouldn’t have gone through all that extra trouble just because I was coming over, but the whole family was quick to point out that they feast like that about six days per week for as long as anyone could remember.
At that point, Melissa had spent nearly a decade as an apprentice in her mother’s kitchen. And she diligently kept a notebook in both Thai and English of family recipes and cooking secrets. But she’d never cooked without her mother by her side.
Finally, just about a year ago, she tried her hand at cooking on her own in her Soho apartment. She bought a mortar and pestal for the occasion, and she used it to crush the shrimp that she mixed with the ground beef and peas so that it would achieve an ideal level of moistness. She served it inside at perfectly formed pocket of fried egg. Melissa had succeeded in making Kai Yudt-Sai (which translates to “egg-stuffed with stuffing”). We sat down at her counter on Vandam Street to a meal perfected over centuries, a meal quite literally fit for a king. And it was every bit as good as her mother’s.
(The chef gets ready to taste her Woonsen Ob, bean thread with chicken and shrimp in her New York kitchen)
Since that inaugural home-cooked Khmer-style Thai Muslim feast, my culinary life has been a waking dream. Melissa makes her mother proud about three times a week. And she’s already mastered more dishes than I can remember the names of, though her mother claims to have more culinary knowledge than she could possibly pass on in a lifetime. I can’t decide which is my favorite, the Nua Sawan (”heavenly beef”) with roasted coriandor:
or the Pad macaroni, a childhood favorite of Melissa’s:
(Here’s the Pad Macaroni during the brief moment before the eggs are cooked in)
I have the feeling I’ll never decide.
The only problem is that Melissa refuses to go out for Thai food in New York. She can’t imagine that anything could compare to her or her mother’s cooking, and she has a point. But I keep telling her that there is a large, recent immigrant population of Thais thriving in New York, and there are plenty of restaurants that could be phenomenal. I thought she might even learn something. Still, she resisted.
Melissa often rides shotgun with me in my cab to keep me company and chat with or gawk at my kooky fares. And last week, she was with me while I took three Thai restaurant workers from their job at one of the big, corporate Thai restaurants in Williamsburg back to their neighborhood along Roosevelt Avenue in Woodside, Queens. She spoke with them in Thai, and I had her ask where they eat great, cheap Thai food in Queens.
They all agreed that Sri Pra Phai was the best restaurant in the neighborhood. I reasoned with her that she goes out to eat when she visits Thailand, so why not explore Woodside. Eventually she caved.
(Evidence of Melissa going out to eat in Thailand with her Aunt Pa Pah: eating a coconut milk dessert at Lantay outside Bangkok)
Today, we went back to Woodside. Melissa was apprehensive. She seemed to feel as though she was cheating on her mother’s cooking. But she started to relax as soon as we walked through the door and caught a whiff of the restaurant. It didn’t smell exactly like home, but it really did smell like true Thai cuisine.
Naturally, I let Melissa do all of the ordering. We started with Kanom Cheeb, delicate steamed dumplings filled with chicken and shrimp, mostly because she knew they are a pain to make herself so we might as well take advantage of the restaurant kitchen. I tasted one and decided they were delicious. I eagerly looked at Melissa to see her reaction, and I witnessed a reluctant nod of approval. Once the waiter was out of ear shot, she said, “My mom makes them much better. . . but these are good. Oh my God, you gotta try my mom’s.” It was a start.
The Thai iced teas came, and we agreed that they were the real deal. I drank mine much too fast and ended up ordering a second. “As sweet and refreshing as anything I’ve had back in Thailand,” Melissa said.
Then it was time for the moment of truth. The main courses arrived. She ordered two of the most basic dishes that her mother makes. Melissa had already mastered both. We were served generous portions of Pad See-ew and chicken with basil.
(Melissa’s reluctant first bite of chicken with basil in New York that she didn’t cook herself; That’s spicy Thai)
She took her first bite from the chicken with basil, and she spent at least two full minutes tasting it without looking at me before she spoke. I was ecstatic when she gave it the thumbs up. The chicken was tender and the spice allowed the flavor to come through the heat without being overpowering.
The Pad See-ew was more than adequate as well. The noodles were fresh and tasty, the chinese broccoli had been cooked in well, and the beef was flavorful. Obviously, Melissa could have done better herself, but Sri Pra Phai has proven itself a worthy substitute. Most importantly, Melissa left the restaurant with a smile on her face.
We will likely return to Sri Pra Phai relatively soon. And we might even try a different Thai restaurant if we get a solid recommendation. But tonight, Melissa will be busy mastering her mother’s Drunken Noodles. And I will eat like a king.
Sri Pra Phai, 64-13 39th Ave, Woodside, Queens
Check out www.famousfatdave.com for a snicker or to book an eating tour
Maybe my dispatcher Cha Cha is right: I’m too nice to drive the night shift. You’ve got to be a little hard-hearted to drive a cab at night. There is a lot of misery on the streets, but I’m not out there to do community service. Ideally, I’m making money. And to make money, I can’t be giving away free rides.
Twice before last night, I did give away free rides. One was to a kid, a few years younger than me, who hailed me at the foot of the Williamsburg Bridge. He told me right off the bat that he didn’t have a dime, but it was freezing and he just had to cross the bridge. I’ve walked across bridges in the the bitter cold before, and I was empty anyway, so I figured it would be a mitzvah. The second free ride, speaking of mitzvahs, I gave to a couple of Haitian nuns who hailed me in Washington Heights on another particularly cold day. They too informed me that they had no money, and only needed short ride. They actually had just walked across the George Washington Bridge (I didn’t know there was a pedestrian lane on that bridge, but who am I to question Haitian nuns). I was glad to drive them down through Washington Heights and Harlem, because I rarely get hailed in those neighborhoods anyway, and when I have been hailed, I generally end up wishing I hadn’t stopped.
Last night I saw something that broke my heart, though I guess I’m a softy anyway. I should tell you, there is something going on at North 4th Street and Driggs in Brooklyn. Every time I pass, for years now, I see a lone, gnarly-looking female eyeing the passing cars. She is usually in her 30s or 40s, dressed not exactly like a hooker, but never bundled up no matter what the weather. There is always one, and she is always really sketchy, but she never hails cabs.
Last night, she hailed me. Actually she hailed each of the three cabs in front of me, each of which slowed down to take a look and then peeled out. When I slowed down, I saw she was nothing to be afraid of. She just looked scared.
When she got in, the first thing she said was, “I only have 13 cents on me. That’s it.” This is the point at which a real New York cabbie would tell her to get out very loudly, maybe showering her with curses in his native tongue, probably gesticulating wildly. But I don’t have the heart. Plus I noticed in my rearview that her nose and lip were bleeding, and she was shaking.
“I gotta to get to Jackson Heights,” she said. At that point I did consider kicking her out, because it would take an hour to get to Jackson Heights and back to the city. But I’ve always said that I believe in karma, so we took off.
During the ride, I tried to see if she would tell me what it is that is going on at that corner every night, but she didn’t understand what I was asking her. She was a native English-speaker, but she was very slow, possibly retarded. She told me her brother had dropped her off there, but she wouldn’t tell me why. He was supposed to come back and get her, but he hadn’t, and she didn’t know why. She’d been waiting for five hours. Then “some guys” came by and beat her up for no reason.
I didn’t care if her story checked out. All she wanted to do was get back to her dad who she lived with in VAN DOWN BY THE RIVER underneath the 59th Street Bridge. But today, as was sometimes the case, he was parked up near Roosevelt Avenue in Jackson Heights.
When we got there, sure enough, I saw an old van parked just off the avenue. She thanked me profusely, and started to get out. I can’t say I’m proud, but I told her, “That’ll be 13 cents please.” Her face froze, and she started reaching for her pocket. I think the joke went over her head.
Before she got the change (which she really did have; I heard it jingling) I apologized for messing with her, and asked, “What is there to eat around here?” figuring if anyone knows where the inexpensive food is, it would be her. She told me, “I eat hot dogs and spaghettiOs.” I did’t know if she was offering me some, and we had an awkward moment before I asked, “No, I mean, is there anything cheap to eat in this neighborhood?”
(Ever wonder where homeless people eat out?)
She directed me to Tacolandia on the next block. She told me they have $2 tacos and a fixin’ bar you do yourself. She said she loads up on radishes.
I figured, as long I was out there, I might as well give it a whirl. I bought two, one pollo and one chorizo, and I put a ton of radishes on one of them. I can’t say they were as good as anything you could find in a taco truck in East L.A. (I certainly can’t say the ton of radishes was good), but they were tasty. They tasted pretty much how I imagined a $2 taco in Jackson Heights would taste. But I’m still waiting for the karmic payoff from this latest mitzvah. I’m hoping that will be very sweet.
Tacolandia, 77-04 Roosevelt Avenue, Jackson Heights, Queens
Check out www.famousfatdave.com for a chuckle or to book an eating tour on which we don’t have to load up on radishes at Tacolandia
