07.20.07

Well Use Me, Use Me, Cause I Ain’t That Average Cabbie

Posted in Italian, Manhattan, Seafood, West Village at 8:52 am by Administrator

You’ve got to understand something. I’m not a cab driver. I’m just a guy who drives a cab.

If I were a cab driver – one like most of those guys you find behind the wheel when you open the door to your yellow chariot in New York – I’d be working six days a week. So I’d have many more stories with which to update this blog.

Have you ever gotten into a cab and it smelled AWFUL, like the cabbie has been living in there? Well it’s because the cabbie has been living in there. Cabbies can make the most money by leasing the car for the whole week and just driving 18 or 19 hours a day. I’ve never done that, but I’ve considered it. I did try a 24 hour shift once but a little over half way through I realized those hours didn’t agree with my constitution. I managed to enjoy taking 5 or 6 lunch breaks on that shift before I quit around hour 20.

If I were an average New York cab driver, I’d have a family to support, maybe in Jackson Heights. And I’d have an extended family to support, maybe in Karachi. But I’m just a guy who drives a cab. I have just myself to support, so I drive only when I am broke, or I need money to pay the rent. If you want to sit there outside your building telling me about your favorite soup dumplings in Queens, I’m all ears. Try to do that with a real cab driver. He’d act like you’re taking food out his children’s mouths. Because time is money, and when you have people who depend on you, you’re not doing this job for fun.

If I had to drive for a living, I’d probably not be in a chipper mood chatting you up about the food in your neighborhood anyway. I’d probably be on my hands free device all the time (which are illegal for yellow cab drivers to use, so if you want your cabbie to stop talking on his, he should stop- but first ask yourself why you find it so annoying. Is it because the sound of a language you can’t understand bothers you? If that’s why, then maybe you ought not live in a city in which most of the residents weren’t even born in America). And on my hands-free, I wouldn’t be talking to my friends about where everyone is hanging out tonight, I’d be talking to other cab drivers who speak my language about which bridges are jammed, what avenues are open, which airports need cabs. I’d be working.

But I’m just a guy who drives a cab. I drive when I feel like driving. I used to drive more than I do now. But it’s a terrible job. I’ve been robbed. I’ve been attacked by a junkie. They told us in Taxi Academy that driving a cab is the second most dangerous job in America aside from being a deep sea fisherman off the coast of Alaska (I never looked it up, I could just feel in my gut that it’s true).

There is a reason that it’s only immigrants who usually do this job. The muscles in your back and legs stiffen and knot as you sit for 12 hours at a time. And there are no health benefits for cab drivers. When you have to go to the chiropractor after twenty years on the road, take a guess who pays for that.

The old timers tell me that there used to be a union, but the only thing it did for drivers was if you had a flat or broke down and you couldn’t work for a minimum of three hours, you’d get $5. Now, the Taxi Workers Alliance speaks on behalf of cabbies, but I’ve never witnessed them achieve anything significant either. They were against the GPS system being put into cabs. But all cabs have to have GPS by October.

I haven’t driven a cab in well over a month now. And I’m so happy about it. I haven’t had to scarf down my meals in five minutes so I could get back on the road to try to scratch out a profit on the night.

To me, that is one of the defining differences between people who are cab drivers and guys who drives cabs. Cab drivers always have to eat and run (not to mention pee and run) because every minute spent lingering over a meal is a minute not making money. Guys who drive cabs every once in a while have the luxury of eating like a European.

My new favorite place to kick back and enjoy a meal like a man who has no place to be (or a European who has nothing to do but eat dinner for three hours) is Palma on Cornelia Street. I’d eaten lunch there on a number of occasions and enjoyed the homemade gnocchi with ricotta salata, an inexpensive, fresh-tasting rindless cheese which happens to be one of my all time favorites from my days working at Murray’s just a few steps away from Palma.

And the green cerignola olives that arrive at the table just after you’ve been seated might be the most perfect olive I’ve ever eaten. They’re firm, yet it’s easy to pull the meat off the it. I usually ask for seconds and thirds on my olives until the waiter makes fun of me (although he always brings me more).

But when I went for dinner for my first time a couple months ago, right about the time I starting really slacking off on driving the yellow cab, I found that they serve linguine with clam sauce on the dinner menu.

Now, I love linguine with clam sauce. Rather, I LOOOOOVE linguine with clam sauce. It’s the first thing I order at any Italian restaurant. I’ve lived in Italy. I’ve lived in Italian neighborhoods in Brooklyn and Manhattan. I’ve eaten more linguine with clam sauce than a lot of native Italians have (I’d like to imagine). And Palma’s linguine with clam sauce ranks as some of the best I’ve ever had. Top three maybe.

I’ve eaten it about five times now, and every time the linguine is boiled perfectly al dente, the clams are plump and fresh, and the sauce is light and delicious.

Last time I ate there I never felt less like a cabbie. I spent hours relaxing and eating. I lingered over my espresso.

While I sucked on my sugar stick like a lollipop, I gawked at Tom Brady and Gisele as they dined next to us (Melissa’s email to Page Six is quoted word for word here). You could see Gisele’s ribs through the back of her shirt, but I think she was eating. Apparently, she’s known as one of the bigger models, but she looked half dead.

The waiter/manager, who’d noticed how many times I’d shown up and ordered linguine with clam sauce in the past few weeks, was starting to think of me as a regular I suppose. So we chatted as I was on my way out of the garden in the back. “What do you do?” he asked. “I do eating tours . . . And I write . . . And I’m going to grad school,” I told him. “. . . Oh! And I’m a guy who drives a cab.”

Palma, Cornelia Street Between 6th Ave and Bleecker, West Village

Visit FamousFatDave.com for fun and food tourism

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06.01.07

National Public Radio

Posted in Bronx, Caribbean, Famous Fat Dave's Five Borough Eating Tours, Fried Chicken, Harlem, Manhattan, Seafood, South Bronx at 4:51 am by Administrator

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.

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04.29.07

New York Public Radio

Posted in Astoria, Bronx, Famous Fat Dave's Five Borough Eating Tours, Fruits and Veggies, Hunt's Point, Italian, La Pizza, Manhattan, Middle Eastern, Queens at 7:38 pm by Administrator

The Famous Fat Dave experience has managed to attract a good deal of media attention. But until this morning, none of the stories delved into my psyche or explored my passion. Mark Phillips (the musical genius behind the pop sensation Sono Oto) worked for months on a New York Public Radio story that aired on WNYC 93.9’s “Weekend Edition.” Mark tagged along on a couple eating tours, rode shot gun in my yellow cab picking up fares late at night, and ate a LOT of food with me. In just four minutes and forty seconds, he manages to capture the essence of what I do, why I do it, who I am, and why I love this town.

You can listen to the New York Public Radio piece and download the mp3 here

Or you can listen on Www.FamousFatDave.Com by clicking here

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03.01.07

The Big Vashinsky Part II

Posted in All-U-Can-Eat, Manhattan, Seafood, Sushi, West Village at 2:37 am by Administrator

“If you will it, it is no dream.” Theodore Herzl. State of Israel. If you will it, Nigiri, it is no dream.

And that is precisely what Nigiri did. He willed it. His eyes, just moments before glazed over and drooping nearly shut, lit up. His posture improved. His upper lip literally stiffened. And he began to eat once again.

“Did I blow it?” The Big Vashinsky mumbled as he bit off half a yellow tail. I studied my cell phone’s stop watch. It had been more than a minute. Jack counted the pieces remaining on the plate. It was still possible to break the record. Because he started out so strong, because he downed about 30 pieces in the first seven or eight minutes alone, Nigiri still had an outside shot.

“No, you can still do it,” Jack told him as he rubbed his shoulders like a prize fighter between rounds. And so Nigiri ate. And ate. And ate. He’d hit his brick wall, and he’d smashed through it. True, he’d come out slower on the other side, but he was still downing pieces, one after the other. No time for chop sticks. No room for soy sauce. Nigiri was running on pure will power.

Meanwhile, behind the scenes, a problem arose. The buzzer that George the sushi chef and the waitress brought out was running fast. Compared with the stopwatch on my cell phone, it was a good two minutes off. This could pose a problem. Do we contest the clock during the heat of competition? That might break Nigiri’s concentration. And even if we did challenge the false clock, we still might end up like the American basketball team of the 1972 Olympics (not to compare Yummy Village to the Evil Empire).

Jack made the decision: don’t let our champ know. Just tell him to keep eating and have him beat the official clock.

The water, which was just a luxury at the start, became a necessity between each bite. The remaining pieces, which ranged from average to slightly larger than average, looked gigantic even to me. And then came the final thirty seconds:

VIDEO OF THE PANDEMONIUM (with an unfortunate audio delay I cannot fix)

With no time left on the clock (yet just over 2 minutes on my clock) Nigiri did it. He swallowed the last piece as the clock hit the buzzer. Pandemonium broke out at Yummy Village.

I couldn’t believe what my eyes were telling me. It was the most impressive thing I have ever witnessed. No, I ain’t never seen no queen in her damn undies. But I have seen the Sistine Chapel. And I have seen the great pyramids at Giza. And I have seen the 1998 Yankees. And I have even seen Takeru “The Tsunami” Kobayashi eat a similar number of hot dogs in just 12 minutes.

But The Big Vashinsky is not a professional. Yummy Village, though it should be, is not on the competitive eating circuit. What Nigiri did that night was something no one could ever take away from him, even if his record falls which, like sands through the hour glass, it surely will. Takeru, a Japanese man, came from Japan to eat a record amount of the ultimate American food- hot dogs- in Nigiri’s neigborhood. And now Nigiri, a Brooklynite, comes to Manhattan to eat a record amount of the ultimate Japanese food. The irony should not be lost.

Nigiri faced a Wall of Fame full of dozens of challengers, some losers, some champions, and he defeated each and every one of them by sheer force of will.

VIDEO OF THE WALL OF FAME

He did not come out of it unfazed. After achieving his sushi immortality, he stumbled out onto MacDougal Street and tried to throw up (I told you I refuse to sugar-coat what we’re really dealing with here). But he couldn’t. It was as though he stomach was saying to him, “NO! We’ve come this far, we won’t lose our honor now.” When he returned from the frigid lower Manhattan elements, he couldn’t get warm for ten minutes. Clearly, all of Nigiri’s blood was in his belly.

During the ceremonial pinning up of the Polaroid, he was still in extraordinary pain.

VIDEO OF THE PIN UP

But even after all that, Nigiri abides.

Nigiri abides. I don’t know about you, but I take comfort in that. It’s good knowin’ he’s out there, Nigiri, takin’ her easy for all us sinners.

PART II OF THIS TALE IS ALSO PUBLISHED ON SUPERSIZED MEALS DOT COM,THE DIRCET LINK IS HERE

YUMMY VILLAGE SUSHI IS LOCATED ON MACDOUGAL STREET BTWN BLEECKER AND MINETTA LANE IN THE WEST VILLAGE, MANHATTAN

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02.23.07

The Big Vashinsky

Posted in All-U-Can-Eat, Japanese, Manhattan, Sushi, West Village at 9:46 am by Administrator

“A way back east there was a fella. Fella I want to tell you about. Fella by the name of Gary Vashinsky. At least, that’s the handle his lovin’ parents gave him, but he never had much use for it himself. This Vashinsky, he called himself “Nigiri.” Now, Nigiri, that’s a name no one would self-apply where I come from. But then, there was a lot about Nigiri that didn’t make a whole lot of sense to me. And a lot about where he lived likewise. But then again, maybe that’s why I found the place s’durned innarestin’.”

“They call New York the Big Apple. I didn’t find it to be that exactly, but I’ll allow as there are some big meals there. ‘Course, I can’t say I seen London, and I never been to France, and I ain’t never seen no queen in her damn undies as the fella says. But I’ll tell you what- after seeing New York and thisahere story I’m about to unfold–well, I guess I seen somethin’ ever’ bit as stupefyin’ as ya’d see in any a those other places, and in English too. So I can die with a smile on my face without feelin’ like the good Lord gypped me.”

“Now this story I’m about to unfold took place back in early February– just about the time of our conflict with Muqtada Al Sadr and the Eye-rackies. I only mention it ’cause sometimes there’s a man- I won’t say a hero, ’cause what’s a hero?- but sometime’s there’s a man.”

“And I’m talkin’ about Nigiri here. Sometimes there’s a man who, well, he’s the man for his time n’ place. He fits right in there- and that’s Nigiri, in New York City.”

“And even if he’s a lazy man, and Nigiri was certainly that- quite possibly the laziest in Kings County- which would place him high in the runnin’ for laziest worldwide. But sometimes there’s a man. . . Sometimes there’s a man.”

“Well, I lost m’train of thought here. But – aw hell, I done innerduced him enough.”

Yes, this Big Vashinsky is the very same man I profiled a few months back during my all-you-can-eat sushi in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn expose. So it is not surprising, with all of those untold hours of training under his belt, that he felt it possible to take down a sushi-eating record here in Manhattan. It’s called the Yummy Village Sushi Challenge. Eat one more piece than anyone ever has within 20 minutes, and the meal, now valued at somewhere around $150 depending on what’s ordered, is free.

Last week, during Nigiri’s birthday celebration, well after 3 in the morning, the Big Vashinsky decided to go for the gold. The previous record: FIFTY TWO PIECES. But for a guy whose nickname (rarely employed, I admit) IS Nigiri, for a guy who comes from a neighborhood in which all-you-can-eat sushi has gone from craze to way of life, for a guy who never says never, FIFTY THREE nigiri in 20 minutes seemed, somehow, within reach.

And so, with his friends Jack, Melissa, and me to support him along with the waitress and George the sushi chef, he went for it. The support team was ideal. Jack, who recorded the Famous Fat Dave theme song while stuffing himself with sushi from this very Yummy Village, knows what makes The Big Vashinsky tick, and thus knows how to talk to the man even during the most trying of times. Melissa, who lives and dies for sushi and has eaten at Yummy Village late at night many times and so knew what best to order (7 eel, 20 yellow tail, and 26 of some of the tastiest salmon in town), has a calming effect on Nigiri like music on a savage beast. And I have a digital camera and a blog.

When the clocks started, Nigiri started off so furiously, within the first few minutes he put himself IN the game through sheer will power. Fifty three pieces in 20 minutes would not be easy. And most of the winners on the Wall Of Fame noted on their polaroids that they’d broken the record in far less than the alotted time. If The Big Vashinsky didn’t start off strong, there’d be no hope. And he was doing EXACTLY what he needed to do:

VIDEO OF THE FURIOUS PACE

The pace at which Nigiri began consuming nigiri was staggering. The concentration on his face was intense. The determination in his eyes was inspiring:

While Jack did most of the coaching, Melissa ate her own meal alongside Nigiri’s so as to make him feel like less of a spectacle:

But his concentration was so strong, I have the feeling that it wouldn’t have broken had he been under a spotlight in front of a stadium full of angry, drunken Sed Sux fans. He was a man on a mission.

Even George the sushi chef, who stood to lose quite a bit of money late on a random Tuesday night, was altruistically encouraging. Probably assuming that Nigiri would be no match for his Sushi Challenge, George was all smiles as he posed for a picture while the challenger pressed on behind him:

And when it came time (later) for Nigiri’s stomach to revolt against the unwelcome intrusion of raw fish and expanding white rice after much beer and whiskey during a part of the night when he is normally fast asleep, George told The Big Vashinsky he could stand up from the table (something George’s own printed rules forbade). George even encouraged him to do like Takeru “The Tsunami” Kobayashi, the six time Coney Island Hot Dog Eating Champion who has never been beaten in competition with a human (a Kodiak bear once defeated him), and shimmy his belly loose:

VIDEO OF THE TAKERU SHIMMY

No folks, I’m not going to sugar coat this. The event was not a pretty sight. There was a moment somewhere around piece 29 when Nigiri nearly lost it. His cheeked puffed out. His eyes shut tight. His belly let out a great roar and a whine as if an ocean liner was capsizing on the high seas. He put his fist to his pursed lips. We all held our breath in fear and wonder. And then . . . with his fist still pressed to his lips . . . he gave a slow, authoritative wag of his index finger as if to say, “Fish, I love you and respect you very much. But I will kill you dead before this day ends.” We were witnessing the event turn from something out of The Big Lebowski to something out of The Old Man And The Sea. It was now man versus nature.

Nigiri shot an angry glare at the sushi before him. With a flash of his eyes, I understood him to communicate with his adversary, “Fish, you are going to have to die anyway. Do you have to kill me too?” And with a determined grunt, Nigiri picked up another piece of sushi and downed it in seconds.

Had he been looking at a copy of The Old Man And The Sea (like I am clearly doing now), I’m sure he would have said, “I think the great DiMaggio would be proud of me today.” Of course the great DiMaggio couldn’t be there that night, but Jack, his eating coach, was most certainly proud:

Now, George and the waitress began to watch in awe as Nigiri forged ahead. At this point, I think, they were starting to believe, as we all had from the start, that he might actually do this. Nigiri was, again, making rapid progress. And they were starting to sweat:

But then, suddenly and for no apparent reason aside from the obvious one, Nigiri couldn’t eat another bite. It was like watching a thoroughbred pull up lame. He’d reach for a piece, and then stop just short of picking it off his plate. Then he’d shake his head as if he didn’t understand what was wrong. I was reminded of the moment Bo Jackson crumbled to the turf upon trying to stand after sustaining the hip injury that ended his career.

VIDEO OF THE INTERNAL STRUGGLE

He’d been my friend for many years already. But the performance I witnessed in just those first 10 or 11 minutes made him my hero. I know I asked, “what’s a hero?” at the start of this piece. But this Big Vashinsky had become my personal hero regardless of whether he would go to finish his 53 pieces or not.

Like the kid who asked Shoeless Joe to “Say it ain’t so,” I asked Nigiri if could eat any more. He shook his head no. I shook my head no in response. I hung my head. My heart sank. I asked if he would mug for a photo while his body refused to cooperate with his heart. The pained image that my camera captured says it all:

But there was still time on the clock. . .

COME BACK NEXT WEEK TO FIND OUT IF NIGIRI CAN FINISH THOSE LAST FEW NIGIRI IN TIME

AND IN AN EFFORT TO ENSURE GARY VASHINSKY BECOMES THE FOLK HERO HE DESERVES TO BE, THIS STORY WILL BE POSTED SIMULTANEOUSLY ON AN AMAZING SITE KNOWN AS WWW.SUPERSIZEDMEALS.COM

THE DIRECT LINK TO PART I ON SUPERSIZEDMEALS.COM IS HERE

YUMMY VILLAGE SUSHI IS ON MACDOUGAL STREET BETWEEN BLEECKER AND WEST 3RD, WEST VILLAGE

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02.16.07

Blame It On The Curry

Posted in East Village, Manhattan, South Asian at 7:23 pm by Administrator

Yeah, I got a Milli Vanilli tape. What’s it to you? And when I get a cab with a working tape deck, I blast those jams. . . when I’m cruising around empty. I admit that when I stop for a fare while I’m listening to my “Girl You Know It’s True” cassette, I usually turn down the ruckus. After a few years of hacking, I found that most people aren’t ready to listen to Milli Vanilli immediately upon getting into a yellow cab.

But the other day I was in no mood to curb my enthusiasm. I was right in the middle of “Baby Don’t Forget My Number” when I got hailed in front of The Bitter End on Bleecker Street. By what I could see from the curbside, this was a jovial group of 30 something Indian guys in dress shirts and overcoats who had had more than enough to drink. I figured if they didn’t appreciate Milli Vanilli, they would at least tolerate it. In fact, they’d probably be oblivious to it.

Before they even all piled into the back seat, the one who got into the front seat was belting out, “BA BA BA BA BA BA BA BA BABY. DON’T FORGET MY NUMBA. LOVE WILL SEE YOU THROUGH.” Wide smiles were spread across all of our faces before I had a chance to hit the meter.

“68th . . . I’VE BEEN SEARCHING HIGH . . . and York . . . I’VE BEEN SEARCHING LOW,” the one in the front seat sang to me. “WANNA SPEND MY LIFE . . . WITH YOU.” They were howling with glee.

We fast forwarded through “More Than You’ll Ever Know” to get to “Blame It On The Rain.” Now the whole crew was singing at the top of their lungs. I joined in on the chorus, “GOTTA BLAME IT SOMETHING” the two of us in the front sang. “GOTTA BLAME IT ON SOMETHING,” the three in the back echoed. “BLAME IT ON THE RAIN THAT WAS FALLIN’ FALLIN’. BLAME IT ON THE STARS THAT SHINE AT NIGHT. WHATEVER YOU DO, DON’T PUT THE BLAME ON YOU. BLAME IT ON THE RAIN, YEAH YEAH,” we all crooned.

They were my new best friends. While the ones in the back sang along with “Take It As It Comes,” the guy in front chatted with me. He told me they were all born in India, but they became friends during medical school in Bahrain. And apparently, Milli Vanilli was what they used to dance to all night during their med school parties 15 years back. They couldn’t believe their luck finding a cabbie who was playing their old battle hymns.

As he spoke to me in his thick, upper class British accent, the three in the back kept singing. Without missing a note, they all sang, “TAKE IT AS IT COMES GIRL. Don’t let him bring you down, yeah. Keep your motor runnin’. You know you own this town, yeah” as we pushed the reds up 1st Avenue. Now, that one wasn’t even a hit. They were actually starting to weird me out a little.

When they demanded that I fast forward to the “NY Subway Extended Mix” of “Girl You Know It’s True,” I broached the topic. “You know Milli Vanilli didn’t actually sing these songs right?” I asked. No one was singing because we were on fast forward, so there was an awkward silence in the cab. I was a little worried that they might burst into tears. “Oooooh, yes, yes, I know, I know,” the one in the front seat said with genuine pain in his voice. “When I heard that, I was so upset I didn’t eat curry for 2 days.”

That statement gave me a profound insight not only into this man, but into the Indian character. I figured he would have been upset, but I’d never imagined that an expression of that would come in the form of refraining from curry. And that also shows how much he loved curry. He was so upset that he couldn’t eat it, yet it is so much a part of his life that he only went two days before he was off the wagon again. Fascinating.

They were all joining in a rousing rendition of “Girl You Know It’s True” when we arrived at 68th and York. I told the guy in the front seat as he paid me, “I usually stay away from curry because it’s addictive, and I’m already addicted to enough foods that upset my stomach, but where do you go for your curry when you are in New York? Do you think Jackson Diner really is the best in town?” I was expecting some great tip out in Jackson Heights, Queens where so many of my cabbie colleagues reside. But this guy said he never leaves Manhattan when he comes to New York. I should have guessed that because he hangs out at The Bitter End.

As his friends started to walk off singing, “I’M IN LOVE GIRL. . . I’M SO IN LOVE GIRL. . . I’M JUST IN LOVE GIRL . . . AND THIS IS TRUE. EW EW EEEEW I LOVE YOOOOU,” he quickly told me he goes to Banjara in the East Village with a big smile and a little Milli Vanilli shoulders up, fists by his side, swaying dance move before he ran off to catch up with his friends.

I’d been to Banjara before and enjoyed it immensely. At the edge of Little India, I found Banjara to be totally worth the extra few dollars that they charge over the other spots on 6th Street. The chicken tandoori is moist and smoky simultaneously, which isn’t an easy feat:

And their Palak Ghost, boneless pieces of lamb cooked in a puree of spinach, tomatoes, and ginger tempered with cumin seeds, was so tasty mixed with the generous pile of basmati rice they serve up. I probably could go more than two days with out eating Palak Ghost, but there’s no need to.

Banjara pretty much puts every other Indian restaurant in Little India to shame. And next time I go, I think I may throw caution to the wind and take the chance of getting hooked on curry. MMM MMM MMM MMMMM GIIIIIIIIRL.

Banjara, 97 1st Avenue at 6th Street, East Village, Manhattanc

Visit www.famousfatdave.com for a laugh or to book an eating tour

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12.15.06

Jewish Penicillin

Posted in BBQ, East Village, Jewish, Manhattan, Meats, Posts For Not For Tourists, Seafood at 7:24 am by Administrator

If your Jewish mother puts the chicken through the deflavorizor, read today’s Not For Tourists Guidebook New York page for renewed hope. Also read it if your Jewish mother cooks a mean brisket like mine does. Go ahead and read it even if you don’t have a Jewish mother at all.

Mara’s Homemade

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