06.01.07
National Public Radio
Weekend Edition ran a story on the Famous Fat Dave experience.
To listen, click here.
To book a tour, click here.
And don’t worry. I am back from Zihuatanejo, ready to chow down.
01.11.07
Saveur
I’ve finally returned from my west coast swing, and I picked up a Saveur Magazine at the news stand on 6th Avenue and West 3rd Street. I had no idea the Saveur 100 covers the entire planet, so now I am even more honored to have been included.
(click here for a bigger image in my fun-filled “Dave in the Press” page on FamousFatDave.Com)
I also had no idea what Zankou Chicken was while I was out there. Apparently, it’s Lebanese garlic rotisserie chicken in the LA area (all things that I love including, after this trip, the LA area), and it’s blurb number thirteen in the Saveur 100. Had I bought my Saveur before I got back, I would have made a bee line straight for it.
I did, however, manage to make it to Roscoe’s House Of Chicken And Waffles during my stay in LA. I’d scoured Harlem in search of great fried chicken and waffles for many years without finding anything worth writing home about. Finally, I discovered Londel’s, and it has become my new favorite. And finding great fried chicken alone is not a problem in New York. But that didn’t make me any less eager to try Roscoe’s. I’ve heard so many good things about it, my mouth was watering the moment I woke up on the day we planned to go.
My cousin Jeremy (respected resident of LA, big shot Hollywood editor), my girlfriend Melissa (Khmer-style Thai chef, international lover of me and fried chicken), and I planned to hit the Roscoe’s location in Oakland on our roadtrip because Jeremy had heard it was more “authentic.” We made it up to the Bay Area on our roadtrip only to find that Roscoe’s had closed. So we had to wait until we made it back to LA.
On New Year’s Day, we woke up at 3pm to face 2007 fresh. We devoted the rest of the day to Roscoe’s. What better way to kick off a new year than with food that will kill you as soon as look at you?
The experience began with a half hour wait on the bench outside which was quite memorable. First because the weather on the 1st of January was 75 degrees and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky which was shocking to me as an east coaster (although it was almost as nice in New York that day I heard, it’s just that in LA that kind of weather on the first of the year doesn’t signal the end of the world as we know it as it does in the east).
Secondly, the wait was memorable because a gold-toothed, wife-beater clad, bandanna-wearing rapper in a nice car rolled into the parking lot, blasted his beat from the stereo, and rapped into everyone’s face on line to try to sell his cds at $10 each. The part that was really surprising was when he left his car in the lot for ten minutes with the door ajar and the keys in the ignition and the beat still blasting to go inside Roscoe’s to rap at each and every table. I almost stole his car just to teach him a lesson.
Then we waited another half an hour because the waitress forgot about us in the corner of the restaurant, a wait a little less memorable because we all grew delirious from hunger. So I was really anxious to eat by 5pm when the food finally arrived. I’d been smelling it for more than an hour, I hadn’t eaten a thing all day, and I’d been wanting to go to Roscoe’s for more years than I could recall. The fix was on. There was no way I wasn’t going to love it.
And I loved it. I orderd the Carol C. Special: “succulent breast, one delicious waffle.” The fried chicken was perfect- crispy, juicy, tender, flavorful, felt like I was committing a crime by putting in my mouth. The waffle, full of butter and syrup (the syrup was my doing, the butter showed up on the waffle in the form of a great, white, melting ball), really was “delicious.” Although they are much fluffier at Londel’s in Harlem I must say, these waffles actually went with the chicken even better. It was as much of a delight to take a bite of waffle and then tear off a piece of fried chicken as it was to synchronize the two in one bite.
(the self-timer function on my camera was a constant during the trip)
The sides – rice, mac n’ cheese, candied yams, and potatoes in gravy – were all amazing, although I couldn’t eat much of them because when I haven’t eaten until 5pm, my stomach is too tight to do much gorging. The corn bread, as it can be even at the best soul food spot, was a little too dry for my taste, even after a healthy application of butter. The biscuits, however, were so doughy and flaky and moist and buttery all at the same time that I almost ordered another even after I was stuffed, but I thought better of it because I figured it’d take another painful half an hour. Even the Arnold Palmer (which Roscoe’s calls “Lisa’s Delight”), half lemonade and half iced tea, was tastier than I’ve had it at most places in the deepest of the deep south.
(That’s my cousin Jeremy who made himself the first member of the 911 Nanny Army)
My wild expectations had been met, surpassed in some cases, by the LA institution. We all spent the last few hours of the first day of 2007 either laying flat on hour backs trying to digest our Roscoe’s feast or playing Guitar Heroes II. Next time I make it out to LA, I’m going to make sure I go to Zankou, but I’ll also be hitting up Roscoe’s again. Maybe twice. I’ve got a feeling 2007 is going to be a very good year.
Visit Famous Fat Dave . Com For Five Borough Eating Tours Back East
10.19.06
How Much For Just One Rib
When I’m out there on the mean streets in my cab, I’m risking my neck for food tips. More than monetary tips or even a good story, I want to know where my fares eat. And I’ve got a long list of foods that I’m in the market for.
Second Avenue Deli closed, so I’m in desperate need of a tip on a good corned beef sandwich. I haven’t found too many great burritos in this town, so I often test my Spanish skills in hopes of finding one to rival a west coaster. And I’m slightly obessesed with pickles, so I tend to nudge the conversation in that direction if I sense someone might know his way around a full sour.
But I usually do NOT go out of my way to get tips on where to find fried chicken. Although fried chicken is one of my favorite foods on the planet, I get enough of it right here in the comfort of my own home. My special lady friend Melissa, drawing on the techniques of countless generations of Khymer-style Thai Muslim chefs from her mother’s “Neighborhood of Kitchens” in Bangkok, fries up chicken at home like no New York City fry cook ever could.
She guards the family recipe with her life, but I can tell you she fries it first and then puts it in the oven so as not to burn it in the oil but still cook it all the way through. She also makes a dipping sauce for it with lime juice, fish sauce, hot pepper, and some other secret ingredients. And she serves it over jasmine rice.
The results are heavenly every time. I’ve never had fried chicken with skin so crispy or meat so juicy, much less both factors combined perfectly. The eating experience Melissa provides makes your eyes light up, as evidenced by this shot of Melissa’s friend Melanie going in for her second bite:
But there is something about me that makes people think I want to know where to get fried chicken. Most likely it’s the shape of my face, which, precisely BECAUSE of fried chicken, is round. I used to be skinny, believe or not. My ribs actually showed until I was 8 years old.
It was then that I discovered the joys of that sacred deep fried bird and began riding my bike to Roy Rogers multiple per week. I used my allowance, and when that ran out, I sold baseball cards to finance my fried chicken expeditions. This continued unabated for a few months, and I steadily gained weight without understanding why. My mom noticed the startling weight gain too, but she didn’t know why either. I wasn’t telling her where I went after school every other day, and she chalked up the second chin to our purchase of a Nintendo, which occured simultaneously.
Finally, as I was chowing down on a drumstick one afternoon, my mom and brother walked in to my Roy Rogers on the way home from my brother’s swim practice. “What are you doing here?!?” my mom asked, very surprised to see my greasy face. “What are YOU doing here?” I replied. “I come here all the time.”
My body never recovered. My ribs never showed again. But I never lost my love for fried chicken. My mom took it upon herself to teach me well that I can’t continue to eat fried chicken two or three times a week if I wanted to live to see the next century. So nowadays, I try to keep my fried chicken consumption down to that Thai fried chicken that Melissa cooks when the mood strikes her.
Still, I cannot resist good old soul food style fried chicken every once in a while. I’ve been known to stop at Popeye’s from time to time (a step up from Roy’s, I believe). And, as I say, people tend to tell me where to get fried chicken without my asking. After I cross the Manhattan Bridge, I keep getting told to go to Ruthie’s Restaurant a couple blocks east of the Fulton Street Mall in Downtown Brooklyn. Not only did I get multiple recommendations from my fares, but the great Robert Seitsema of the Village Voice gave Ruthie’s a favorable nod as well.
Our friends Mark and Jack, who like to squeeze into our tiny apartment whenever Melissa is frying chicken, came along for the Ruthie’s run when they heard Melissa wouldn’t be cooking. We were immediately welcomed with open arms and friendly smiles by everyone from the counter girl to the waiter to Ruthie herself as she did the cooking in the back. We all felt right at home. And when the food came, we were feeling even better.
The chicken looked perfect. But it was too hot to eat, having just come out of the oil. It was practically still snapping and popping like it was in the pan. So we dug into the sides. PHENOMENAL. EVERY ONE OF THEM. The mac n’ cheese was cheesy and crispy just like i like it. The collard greens were flavored with bits of smoked turkey which made the vegetable as tasty as a good plate of meat. The black-eyed peas were delicious as well, exuding an almost pickled aroma. And the candied yams were better than any I’ve had during my 26 Thanksgiving dinners.
Finally, the chicken had cooled down enough to tear into without giving ourselves second degree burns. It was everything we hoped it would be. The skin was crispy and bursting with flavor. And the meat, even the white meat, was tender and juicy. I want to make clear that I still prefer Melissa’s Thai fried chicken, but I could see myself getting back into my Roy-Rogers-8-years-old-selling-baseball-cards-to-eat mode with Ruthie’s.
After all that, dessert didn’t disappoint. The red velvet cake might have been a little dry, but the sweet potato pie made up for it and more. I didn’t think anything could be sweeter than those candied yams, but this pie took the cake. The crust tasted homemade and buttery, and the filling was silky smooth and sweet like Melissa. Mark modeled it for me:
Even though we felt like we were at home, I have to say that eating at Ruthie’s isn’t quite as comfortable as actually eating at home. Her food is so good, it attracts everyone to her door, including the local junkies. As we ate, the man pictured here hovered in the doorway begging for some collard greens:
He wasn’t so much begging for them like a homeless person on the street would, but he was begging for them like a child would from his mother. They are that good. When he got to his feet, he stood in the doorway pleading with Ruthie, “Just a little a your greens Rootie. Pleeeeease. Just a little Rootie.” He seemed to know her.
One of the things I love about that woman is that she didn’t just say, “Get the hell outta here” like most owners would. She told him, “Don’t come here LIKE THIS. Don’t disrespect my place.” She wasn’t saying he could never have her collard greens. That would be cruel. Her greens are the stuff of life. She was just saying that he couldn’t have them “like this.”
Finally, he proved to be too much, and she took it upon herself to kick him to the curb. Take a look at this video (no sound necessary because you can’t understand what the junkie is saying), and watch closely at the end as Ruthie comes to our rescue: Ruthie To The Rescue On Youtube
Don’t tell my mom, but I think I might start eating more fried chicken.
Ruthie’s Restaurant, 96 DeKalb, Downtown Brooklyn/Fort Greene
Visit www.FAMOUSFATDAVE.com for five borough eating tours
09.05.06
A Theory Of Relativity
My two favorite minorities in the world are the Kurds and fat people. Although I’ve never picked up a Kurd, I’ve been hailed by many, many fat people. Some cabbies have told me that they refuse to pick up obese people on the grounds that they take too long to get into and out of the cab. My response is that it is just as immoral to refuse fat fares as it is to refuse black fares. But I’ve found that those weak-minded cabbies who won’t take the big ‘uns, generally don’t take black people either.
I, of course, jump at every opportunity to take both obese and black fares. My reasoning is simple. Both groups tend to take eating seriously. I’ve had a lot of luck matching taste buds with both fat people and black people. So when I saw a 300-pound black woman in front of Barnard College recently, I swerved across two lanes of Broadway to grab her.
Once she’d gotten inside my taxi, she told me to go to 137th Street and Adam Clayton Powell Boulevard. PERFECT, I thought. Who better to ask where to find good soul food in Harlem? But it was a delicate subject, and I couldn’t decide exactly how I would bring it up.
We made small talk about traffic and the yellow cab business. “Used to be, just a few years ago, yellow cabs wouldn’t come to Harlem,” she pointed out. “Yeah, things are changing. Bill Clinton’s had his office on 125th Street for years now. There’s money to made up here these days,” I replied pleasantly. “Rents are going up. Black people can’t afford to live in Harlem anymore,” she said. The chit chat came to a halt, and we both just stared out the window as we sat at a red light on 132nd Street.
We were ignoring the fact that we’d both witnessed two or three empty yellow cabs pass her by before I swooped in to pick her up. We were also ignoring the fact that there wasn’t a single face on the street that wasn’t black.
Now we were fast approaching her house. I felt the opportunity slipping away. We caught some lights, and, before I knew it, we were there. She was paying me. She was slinging her bags over her shoulder. She was scooting to the curb side. We hadn’t really been totally honest with each other the entire conversation, so I didn’t know how to broach the soul food topic without sounding offensive.
I was worried that it would seem presumptuous. But I could tell she had the kind of body you get from eating fried foods and way too much butter, not Twinkies and Ho-Hos. Plus I’d run out of time. So I just went for it. “Where do you get your soul food?”
She stopped gathering herself, looked me in the eyes through the rear view, and stated very authoritatively, “The only place I go out for soul food is Londel’s.” JACKPOT. I’d never heard of it.
My friend Nate has been living in Harlem for a few months and told me he’d always be up for an eating expedition. I went off duty, picked him up, and sat down at Londel’s within the half hour.
I hadn’t asked my fare the price range, so I was a little thrown off when I saw that they charged more than $10 for the entrees. But it was the type of place at which the waiters wear tuxedos, so it made sense. Even though we were the only people in there at 5:45pm, we felt underdressed.
But the waiters, even the busboys, were so friendly that we felt right at home before our food even came. And when it did, we felt even better. I went with the fried chicken and waffles because I had a good feeling about the place.
I love the concept of chicken and waffles, but I’d never had a really great dish of it. I’ve eaten at Pan Pan, the old chicken and waffle lunch counter on 135th and Lenox, and I wanted to think it was delicious. But I couldn’t get past the fact that it tasted as if I was eating two things that didn’t naturally go together. Like peanut butter and hot dogs (I’ve had that too: Hagerstown, Maryland minor league game circa 1995), the fried chicken just doesn’t seem to go with the waffles, whether taken in the same or separate bites. I had been considering flying out west specifically for Rosco’s. And then I ate my first bite at Londel’s.
The taste sent me straight to the moon. The flavors and textures blended like I’d always wished they had. It made me reevaluate my whole worldview. If chicken and waffles could be this good, what else have I been missing? There must be so much else out there that I don’t understand.
Likewise, Nate fell head over heals for his mac n’ cheese and collard greens. I was right there with him once I stole my first fork-full. His cornmeal-dusted fried whiting was good too, though both of us had tasted better.
We didn’t really have room for dessert, but our waiter was giving us the hard sell. We almost went with the sweet potato pie, but Nate is a semi-professional pie chef and he nixed the order when the waiter admitted that the crust wasn’t homemade.
We went with the bread pudding instead, and it might be the greatest thing that ever happened to me. I’m not even a dessert person, but I went absolutely bonkers for the bread pudding. The consistency was like something from another planet. The sweetness would explode into every corner of my mouth with each bite. It was classic comfort food cooked in truly gourmet fashion. Nate and I sat in silence, occasionally shooting each other wild-eyed looks, until the plate looked like it came right out of the dish washer.
(notice the rum and caramel sauce expertly drizzled)
I knew that restaurant tip was going to pay off. I could tell how wise my 300 pound fare was. She clearly had a handle on good eating. But she also had a grasp on the subtleties of life.
After she’d gotten herself out of the cab, she leaned back in the window. With more than a bit of suspicion in her voice, she asked, “Why are you so interested.”
“Well, I love soul food. But I also take people on eating tours of the five boroughs,” I told her. “I call myself Famous Fat Dave.”
She sized me up with her eyes, looked down at her own body, and said, “Well Famous Fat Dave. . . Everything’s relative.”
Londel’s, 2620 Frederick Douglass Blvd. btwn 139th and 140th, Harlem
Visit FamousFatDave.com for five borough eating tours and we can hit Londel’s on a Sweet Tooth Tour, a Fried New York Tour, or a Famous Fat Dave’s Faves Tour
