07.26.06
Posted in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, Hamburgers, La Pizza, Lower East Side, Manhattan, Meats, On The Open Road, Pickles, Soul Food, There's A Beverage Here Man, West Village at 7:08 am by Administrator
Even in my ancestral homeland of Chicago, a town that is stamped on my D.N.A and etched in my heart, I have to face angry questions about my loyalties from New York haters. When I’m visiting with my extended, deep-dish-loving family, people know that I’ve declared New York my adopted hometown. They know that I have a warm place in my heart for Chicago, but I am fully in LOVE with New York.
As I ate my second Wieners Circle hot dog at 2 a.m. last week, one of my cousin Jeremy’s friends from high school started talking pizza. I wanted to concentrate on my delicious hot dog, so I wasn’t about to start debating. But this guy, fortified with a few Jager bombs and a Chicago accent, forced the issue.
I tried to explain to him that Chicago food is in my blood, that grease runs thick in my veins (and arteries), and there was no reason for him to be defensive. But by this point it was more of a monologue on his part. I let him go for a while, but the last straw was when he broke into a Vinnie Barbarino style over-the-top New York goomba voice, bobbed his head like a chicken, and mocked me with, “Hey, OOOH, Dis pizza is good, yeah sure, but it ain’t as good a Ray’s on 59th Street no how.”
First of all, Ray’s on 59th Street, if it exists, is not good. Second of all, I am a lot of things, but I am no food snob. I’m always open to trying new things. And if I find the taste is superior, I’m not afraid to change my mind about what’s better. Plus, I never even said New York has better anything as far as this guy knew.
But since he brought it up, I thought I’d indulge this New York hater. So today I’m going to compare a few of the foods I ate in Chicago recently with some similar foods I ate in New York recently. And since he dropped the pizza bomb, I’ll start with that.
I am well aware that many of the denizens of each city harbor very strong, often irrational, feelings on the pizza issue. And not everyone will be happy with the pizzerias I’ve chosen to compare. But Due’s is where the majority of my family recommended I eat when I was in Chicago (although certain members of my family urged me to go elsewhere- Lou Malnati’s, Edwardo’s, Baccino’s, or Gino’s to name a few). And John’s is where I last ate pizza in New York solely because it’s around the corner from my house.
I have had great deep-dish pizza in Chicago. It is amazing. The sheer amount of cheese is staggering. The flavor of the sausage has made my heart skip a beat. The thick crust can be delicious.
But at Due’s none of those things were true. The crust, though my Aunt Linda loved the buttermilk quality of it, was way too thick and dry for my (and my Chicago-born mother’s) liking. The bland crust overwhelmed the whole pizza. Deep-dish offers the possibility of voluminous cheese, sauce, and sausage, but the proportion of crust to everything else was way out of whack at Due’s.
(LOOKS really good right? But even with all that cheese the pizza was too bready)
John’s, though all anyone seems to write about it anymore is that it isn’t as good as it used to be, is a classic New York thin crust pizza. Maybe it’s not as good as an authentic Napolitana pizza, but the proportions are right on. The crust is thin but not floppy, the cheese is plentiful but not so much as to overshadow the rest of the pie, the sauce is spread to the edge but the pizza isn’t swimming in it. My John’s pie just had more flavor than my Due’s pies did, even though there was less of everthing on my John’s pie.
Plus, if you so desire, you can find a perfectly proportioned, cheesey, saucy, chewy thick slice at L&B Spumoni Gardens in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn.
(Spumoni goes so well with a thick slice no matter where you are from)
I admit, however, if you crave great Chicago pizza, Spumoni Gardens won’t do.
I also tried a cherry lime ricky at Due’s. This drink, had at an old-fashioned soda jerk like Tom’s in Brooklyn, can be incredibly tasty and refreshing. A classic New York cherry lime ricky is just selzer, syrup, ice cubes, and a lime slice. Due’s made their’s like a frozen smoothie.
(Chicago on the left; New York on the righ)
Generally I love smoothies, but the one I had at Due’s was weak. It melted way too quickly, and it left me in the mood for a real New York style cherry lime ricky.
Billygoat Tavern is a famous old Chicago institution from the 30s on the level of Tom’s Diner in Brooklyn. Billygoat was even parodied on Saturday Night Live in the 70s (because all the good cast members on SNL in New York came out of Second City in Chicago), yet my branch of the family had never been there. The moment we walked in, I immediately realized that it had been a terrible mistake that it’d taken us this long.
(smoke obscured the view of our “doubles” on the grill)
The grill man actually did yell “Cheezeborger, cheezeborger, cheezeborger, cheezeborger” the way John Belushi did in that SNL sketch. Classic old Chicago characters in suspenders and fedoras sat in every dark corner watching the Cubs getting slaughtered by the Mets. And the burgers were delicious.
(Here is my branch of the family, every member with a full mouth of Billygoat burger aside from Milo whose mouth is full of Goldfish)
(Milo will move onto burgers soon enough if I do my job as his uncle)
The host suggested we (and everyone else who came through the door) order “doubles.” My sister-in-law didn’t come up to the counter to see that each patty was McDonalds thin, so she ordered a “single” and ended up being fairly disappointed. The doubles, with cheese between the patties and a fixin’ bar of chopped onions, relish, and sliced pickles, were tasty for sure. But I think, like the Due’s pizza, there was too much bread. My sister-in-law and I decided to go back for a second round and split a “triple,” and we were both duly impressed.
(Melissa shows off the “double” and I show off the “triple”; I think it is clear who makes the better spokesmodel)
The “triple” was delightfully meaty and cheesy, and I think the host should be recommending those. But I must say that even a “triple” can’t compare with a Corner Bistro “bistro burger.” The bistro burger is the premier burger in New York if not the world. Admittedly, it has a leg up on a Billygoat burger because the bistro burger comes with three stips of bacon. But the real difference is in the beef.
I saw the Billygoat burgers come out of stacks of patties with slices of paper in between before they hit the grill, making me suspicious that they had been frozen at some point in their history. Corner Bistro ground beef is stored in a vat. I used to order mine medium, but one night at around 3am I witnessed the owner drop by, put a rubber glove on, grab a handful of ground beef out of the vat, and eat it raw. Since then, I always order my bistro burger rare.
One thing Billygoat has on Corner Bistro is that they offer much crunchier, tastier pickle chips (I think the above pictures make that clear). And crunchy pickles go a long way toward a good burger experience for me. So now might be a good time to compare New York pickles to Chicago pickles.
Let me begin by saying Chicago wins the prize for best utilization of pickles. If New Yorker put a entire pickle spear along side each of their Sabretts, they’d be a much happier bunch. But I can’t say the Puckered Pickle Co., “Made With Pride In Chicago,” that my Aunt Linda keep in her fridge are as good as the Gus Pickles I keep in mine. And I know of no place in Chicago that sells pickles out of the barrel on the sidewalk the way nature intended.
It seems like I’m saying Chicago’s food is inferior to New York’s. But I assure I think no such thing. It so happens that I like John’s better than Due’s, Corner Bistro better than Billygoat Tavern, and Gus Pickles better than Puckered Pickles. But Chicagoans can take for granted some foods that New Yorkers can’t even hope to find at near that quality (Italian beef sandwiches for one).
And more importantly, Chicagoans know how to eat. Where else can I go where people don’t bat an eyelash when I eat ribs for breakfast:
(You can tell it’s breakfast because my hair is wet from the shower)
(My aunt Linda makes sure to bring ribs home from the black part of town)
Had I picked different places, Chicago might have come out on top in every category. But I did give Chicago a fair shake. The places I review here are institutions in that town. And I didn’t even bother to compare hot dogs or ribs because I think Chicago takes those columns with no competition. So you New York haters need to cool out. Still though, New York is a great place to come home to.
Due’s, 619 N Wabash, Chicago
John’s, Bleeker Street and Jones Street, West Village, Manhattan
L&B Spumoni Gardens, 86th Street and West 9th Street, Bensonhurst, Brooklyn
Billygoat Tavern, 430 N Michigan Avenue Lower Level (SERIOUSLY, GO DOWN SOME STAIRS THAT DON’T LOOK LIKE YOU SHOULD GO DOWN THEM, DON’T BE DISCOURAGED IF YOU CAN’T FIND IT AT FIRST) Chicago
Corner Bistro, West 4th Street and Jane Street, West Village, Manhattan
Gus Pickles, Orchard Street and Broome Street, Lower East Side, Manhattan
Hecky’s, 1902 Green Bay Road, Evanston
Visit www.famousfatdave.com for an eating tour of New York City
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07.05.06
Posted in Dave's Faves, Famous Fat Dave's Five Borough Eating Tours, Manhattan, Seafood, Sushi, West Village at 7:58 am by Administrator
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)
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05.04.06
Posted in Brooklyn, Carroll Gardens, Gravesend, Manhattan, Meats, Middle Eastern, Posts For Not For Tourists, Sandwiches, West Village at 6:04 pm by Administrator
I’ve bridged the cultural divide between East and West, and all it took was meat on a stick. In today’s Not For Tourists Guidebook “On Our Radar” section, read my article about four of the juiciest shawarma joints in town.
And then, if you still haven’t gotten in the mood shawarma, read an article I wrote for Attache Magazine about a Kurdish shawarma stand in Madrid that would make Saddam Hussein feel like a schmuck in the “Published Food Writing” section of the Famous Fat Dave Five Borough Eating Tour On The Wheels of Steel website. Long live Kurdistan.
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05.01.06
Posted in Cannoli, Italian, Manhattan, Sweets, West Village at 6:13 am by Administrator
Sometimes it takes a guy from Jersey to teach you about your own neighborhood. Yesterday, during one of the most beautiful days I’ve ever experienced in New York, I was taking a happy family of day trippers to the PATH station at 9th Street and 6th Avenue for the journey back across the Hudson River. They’d spent the glorious, sunny day showing the kids the old neighborhood. The grandfather sat in the front seat with me, his son and three young grandchildren in the back.
The grandfather, I suppose still in nostalgia mode, decided to tell me about growing up on Carmine Street in the Village in the 40s and 50s, and how it used to be a great Italian neighborhood. I told him about my discovery of Euro Cafe out on Cypress Avenue last week, and I lamented that there is no place left where you could get hand-piped cannoli in his old hood anymore.
He was VERY quick to correct me. He told me Rocco’s still bakes their own shells and hand-pipes their ricotta. I was stunned. I told him I’d just been to Bruno, the Italian pastry shop that shares a wall with Rocco’s, and they most certainly do not make their cannoli to order.
(The cannoli at Bruno sit neglected in the case)
I had, wrongly, assumed that the neighboring shop did likewise.
(Bruno and Rocco’s have shared a wall for generations)
I live around the corner from the twin pastry shops, and I can sometimes smell baking sweets through my courtyard window. So as soon as I got home today, I wandered past Bruno and into Rocco’s. There I found Frank, a friendly, mustached man who works the kitchen and the counter with his daughter. I asked him if what the old man told me was true, and he just pointed to a pile of fresh shells sitting on a baking sheet.
(Cannoli shells at Rocco’s without ricotta in sight)
I’d spent years looking for hand-piped cannoli in New York, and here they were LITERALLY in my own backyard. I tried two mini cannoli, one regular, the other’s shell dipped in chocolate. They were both wonderful. I still like the ones out on Cypress Avenue better, but now that I know I can find real, hand-piped cannoli around the corner from my house, I’ll be crossing the bridge a little less often.
(Frank mugs for shot with his cannoli before wieghing them)
Rocco’s Pastry, Bleeker btwn Leroy and Carmine, The Village, Manhattan
Check out http://www.famousfatdave.com for a chuckle or to book an eating tour
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04.30.06
Posted in Chic, Fruits and Veggies, Manhattan, On The Open Road, West Village at 2:51 pm by Administrator
I picked up a fifty-something blond woman in Chelsea, and we drove in silence across the 59th Street Bridge toward LaGuardia Airport. I had been listening to a Dylan mix tape when she got in, and once Tombstone Blues was over, I popped in a Springsteen tape.“Who is this?” she asked. “This is The Boss . . . and before that we were listening to Dylan,” I told her, happy to break the silence. “Oh, I know that was Dylan, I used to live with him,” she said with a smirk. That is the type of comment I don’t just let go. She was a little reluctant to talk about it, but I threatened to pull the cab over if she didn’t give up the story.
It turns out she lived with Bob Dylan in The Village during the Gaslight coffee house era of early 60’s. She admitted, without a hint of shame in her voice (good for her), that she’d been a Playboy bunny at the now long-defunct Playboy Club. Dylan took a liking to her, and they had about a six month fling.
Other old New Yorkers have told me, and she confirmed, that housing was much more fluid back then. People moved in an out of apartments all the time. Living together was not nearly as big a deal then as it is today. I wanted to know if he sang to her, and she responded very abruptly “no.”
She also went on a few dates with Woody Allen around the same time. She must have been one hell of a bunny. The real kick in the ass was, not only did Dylan not sing to her, Woody Allen never told her jokes. What was the point?
Anyway, she told me about getting a $10 tip from Peggy Lee while she was the coat check girl at the Playboy Club, and how much that meant to her. So when we got through the traffic to LaGuardia, she couldn’t very well stiff me, and she forked over a $25 tip.
That fare was a couple of years ago now. Just like she always remembered Peggy Lee, I remembered her. She had told me that she had a gallery in Santa Fe (that is where she had been heading that day), so during my road trip a couple months ago, I looked her up. She remembered me as soon as I walked into her gallery. We had a laugh, and she showed me some of her art.
(The femme fatale and me in front of her giant gold grenade in Santa Fe)
Because I asked, she told me where to find a good green chili cheese burger in Santa Fe, and where to find some great food back in her old stomping grounds: The Village. I took the day off today, so I decided to finally take her advice and go with my girlfriend to Jane, even though it is a little out of my price range.
(The best cook in New York sits down to a chic Village meal)
The passion fruit limeade sparkler with a bottle of sugar water to dribble in for customized sweetness didn’t sound like it would be my style, but I LOVED it. The lemonade, which IS my style, was watery. When the food arrived, I was unimpressed. It looked bland. But once I got it in my mouth I was astounded.
The California Vegetable sandwich with goat cheese, plenty of avocado, sprouts, tomato, cucumber on multigrain bread might have been the tastiest sandwich I’ve ever had that no cognizant being had to die for. And the Grilled Chicken Salad with roasted corn, bacon, bleu cheese, plenty more avocado, tomato, and romaine in an aromtic shallots and sherry lemon vinaigrette tasted better with each bite, and the first bite was delicious.
The atmosphere at Jane is chic, but we sat in the window and focussed our attention on the usual parade of pedestrians walking by, many of whom were tripping over an inperceptable step in front of the restaurant. I’m glad I took the day off, because on a beautiful spring day, no one would have gotten into my cab, and this meal was a treat. Had Jane been been around back when Woody Allen and Bob Dylan walked these streets with their Jew-fros and blonde arm candy, The Village would have been a different place.
Jane, Houston btwn Thompson and LaGuardia, The Village, Manhattan
Check out http://www.famousfatdave.com for a chuckle or to book an eating tour
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04.29.06
Posted in All-U-Can-Eat, Japanese, Manhattan, Seafood, Sushi, West Village at 8:47 am by Administrator
Never trust a junkie. I’d say that’s generally good advice. But the price of gas has gone through the roof, taking money straight out of my pocket, so l’ve been in the market for a less expensive sushi joint. Last night I had a guy in my cab who was clearly strung out on something, mostly not making much sense, but he did make one intriguing comment. He was telling me his sad life story when he said, “About ten years ago I had to give up my $200 a week coke habit because I picked up a $300 a week sushi habit.”
He had also apparently picked up a heroin or oxycotin habit since then. But I wondered where he got his sushi fix now that he clearly was spending the bulk of his money on drugs again. He admitted that he rarely ever goes for sushi anymore because he doesn’t have any spare cash. But this was a clever junkie. He told me he gets more than enough sushi at all-u-can-eat nights at Funayama on Greenwich Avenue.
I used to take my private car all the way down to Bensonhurst, Brooklyn to get all-u-can-eat sushi at one of the many competing Japanese spots along 86th Street and Bath Avenue. It was as cheap as $18 tax and tip included, but the sushi was merely average, and now that gas is more than $3 a gallon and the price of sushi went up a buck or two at all those places, it hardly seems worth it. So I took the junkie’s advice and stopped for an extended pit stop at Funayama on Greenwich Avenue.
Every Monday and Thursday nights Funayama serves all-u-can-eat sushi for $23.10 (I did not get a straight answer out of anyone there as to why the ten cents) which comes out to about $30 with tax and tip. I didn’t have time to really get my money’s worth the way I used to in Bensonhurst where I once ate fifty pieces of sushi spread out over a three hour period when a meal with a couple friends degenerated into an eating competition. But I did my best last night:
Just as they are at Yama (the restaurant Funayama spun off from), the negeri pieces are cut huge. And the oversized hand rolls compliment the massive pieces perfectly. The white tuna was not good, but nothing had to be spit out which is more than I could say for the first all-u-can-eat sushi I had in the Village about 8 years ago which had a 10 to 1 ratio of edible to inedible pieces. They charge you $3 for pieces you don’t eat so I had to pocket a couple pieces, but that’s all part of the cat and mouse game that goes on at all-u-can-eat sushi places. Once in Bensonhurst I had to hide an entire dragon roll in my miso soup.
All in all, Funayama was a pleasure. The negeri was fresh and moist, the seaweed and shrimp tempura maki came warm. And I spent the rest of the night in the cab gleefully stuffed. It probably doesn’t sound like much to you, but Funayma wins the prize for best restaurant recommendation by a junkie, and to a cabbie who has met more than his fair share of junkies, that’s saying something.
Funayama, Greenwhich Avenue btwn West 10th and Charles
Check out http://www.famousfatdave.com for a chuckle or to book an eating tour
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04.24.06
Posted in Fruits and Veggies, Korean, Manhattan, Pickles, West Village at 12:43 am by Administrator
Osama is a flaming homosexual vegan dancer from the Panshir Valley. I found him just after sunset at the corner of Roebling and Metropolitan. He was staggering drunk, wearing a black and white checkered headdress around his neck, and frantically hailing me. He told me he was heading back to The Village to meet “one of my lovers,” and boy did he have a chip on his shoulder.
The traffic on the Williamsburg Bridge afforded me time to learn many (but I’m sure not all) of the trials and tribulations one goes through when his is born a flamer in Afganistan in the early 60s and lives with the name Osama in New York in the 00s. His mother wore mini-skirts when she visited Kabul with him during his youth. He was adamant that he was not a terrorist, though I had not accused him of being one. He said, “I’ve always been gay. I grew up playing with barbies not bombs.”
Thankfully for Osama, he did not have to liv through the Taliban era. I can’t imagine he would have made it very far. In fact, he did not even have to endure the Soviet occupation. He, his sickly sister, and his mother managed to make it to New York just in time for Osama to enjoy the burgeoning disco scene. He told me he remembered learning of the Soviet invasion as he walked out of a gay porno theather on 42nd Street on Christmas day in 1979. In his words, it was a “buzz kill.”
Osama told me the US reconstruction effort in Afganistan is a joke. He recently returned from a trip to Kabul, and, according to my increasingly agitated fare, the only visible sign of progress is a newly paved road between the capital and Kandahar. And even that is only used by heavily armed UN and NATO troops because the bandits are prevalent.
What’s worse, he meets people all the time here in America who tell him they hate his name, or hate him for his name. Osama claimed that is the equivalent of an Afgan hating all Westerners named John. I will admit to you that, when I trekked through Morocco’s High Atlas Mountains soon after September 11th, I named the mule that carried all of my heavy, stinking bags “Osama” out of spite. I didn’t mention this to Osama last night, because I didn’t think he’d see the humor in it.
He had worked himself into a tizzy, and he felt it important to tell me, “Let me tell you, I cried harder than you did when the World Trade Center collapsed, because you were born here but I had to work to become an American.” Before Osama got out of my cab in a huff, I asked him where his favorite cheap place to eat in The Village is.
Without hesitation he told me he’d been going to Temple in the Village for more than 20 years. The Temple serves the healthiest buffet in the city, if not the world.
The lengthy buffet table consists entirely of vegetarian, vegan, and macrobiotic (foods that occur naturally in the local ecosystem according to Osama) selections. Osama declared that he had lived on a macrobiotic diet since his youth back in the Panshir Valley.
My belly was pleading with me for some veggies after my giant, late-night slice of pizza the night before. I was more than satisfied with this meal. I grabbed myself three quarters of a pound of seaweed, pickle spears, collard greens, bean sprouts, bok choy, sesame broccoli, olives, zucchini tempura, broccoli rabe (a personal favorite) and spicy cabage kim chi. At 6 bucks per pound, my whole meal was only 5 dollars including tax. I asked the shy owner why the kim chi was so good, and he told me it was because he is Korean and he makes it himself in the back.
It was one of those places I couldn’t believe I’d never been to after all the time I’d spent in that neighborhood over the years. I’ll be eating at the Temple in the Village again I’m sure. I won’t, however, be making fun of anyone’s name again anytime soon.
Temple in the Village, West 3rd Street between LaGuardia and Thompson, The Village, Manhattan
Visit www.famousfatdave.com for a laugh or an eating tour
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