The Eating Adventures of a Checker Cabbie
Corona is a neighborhood in Queens. In today’s Gothamist, I review the Mexican sweet bread at The Corona Bakery . . . in Astoria.
www.gothamist.com/archives/2006/07/20/the_hungry_cabb_11.php
Famous Fat Dave’s Five Borough Eating Tour On The Wheels Of Steel
Before your 4th of July BBQ, you might want to read today Gothamist column for exotic ideas on what to grill:
www.gothamist.com/archives/2006/06/29/the_hungry_cabb_7.php
Visit www.famousfatdave.com for exotic eating tour ideas
David Wain and Ken Marino of The State went on a Famous Fat Dave’s Midnight Munchies Tour last week for a www.gawker.com story. I cannot express to you how overjoyed I was that I had, in my cab, the man who said, “I got soooooome babaGANOSH!!!” and the man who responded, “I wanna dip my BALLLLLLLLLLS IN IT.” Coolest thing ever.
The direct link is: http://www.gawker.com/news/gawker-walker/gawker-walker-midnight-munchies-with-famous-fat-dave-179379.php
(Famous Fat Dave never looked so fat or so famous)
(David Wain rarely smiles, but I assure he loved the bulgogi)
(Ken Marino, next to the cab parked on Avenue T, expressed his feelings on the adventure)
Visit www.famousfatdave.com to take virtual eating tours without comic geniuses
Read about the pasty Irishmen, pickle barrels, and messy heroes of Rockaway Beach in today’s installment of The Hungry Cabbie Eats The Outer Boroughs at www.Gothamist.com. The direct link is:
http://www.gothamist.com/archives/2006/06/03/the_hungry_cabb.php
Visit www.famousfatdave.com for a laugh or to book an eating tour.
I’ve begun a twice weekly column in www.Gothamist.com as their outer borough food writer. Take a look at the very first post ever today at:
http://www.gothamist.com/archives/2006/05/31/new_park_pizzer.php
Visit www.famousfatdave.com for a laugh or to book an eating tour.
I lucked out and caught a fare to JFK Airport early in my shift yesterday. Some cabbies hate going to JFK because it can take forever to get there and even longer waiting in line for a fare back. But I am always psyched.
After dropping off a fare at JFK, cabbies usually pull into the Central Taxi Hold. The massive lot is designed for us to pull up at the end of the last of about 50 lines with around 20 cabs in each. The result, on a busy day like yesterday, is a sight that is something almost biblical to behold:
Since gasoline has become a commodity akin to the spice (read that in a breathy whisper) in Dune or gasoline in Mad Max: Road Warrior, I was glad to give my engine a rest yesterday. Once parked, I ventured into the cafeteria for my 6 p.m. breakfast of champions.
Nothing looked particularly good, so I asked a portly cabbie nearby if the chicken he was eating was tasty. “It’s just plain chicken and rice,” he told me. Sometimes they’ll have some good biryani or Haitian potato soup, but yesterday they just had plain chicken and rice:
The guy I asked about his chicken turned out to be quite friendly. His name was Dejonge, and he’d had his hack license for 28 years since he arrived from Guyana. He told me he used to drive the cab only rarely because he’d made a career as an orderly at Mt. Sinai Medical Center on Madison Avenue and 101st Street. But they’d recently fired him because his salary “had gotten too high.” So here he was, eating chicken with me at JFK because he was the only Guyanese there and I was the only Jew. We made an odd pair in a place where people break off into ethnic groups like it’s 1991 in the Balkans.
The Russians always stand outside – no matter what the weather – and play backgammon over a metal trash can. The Nigerians usually stand around inside and argue loudly about politics in Africa and life in New York and occasionally American Idol. And the Haitians are always inside playing rowdy games of dominos and shouting their French over the Nigerians’ English. It is all very intimidating:
When I walked outside into the bright late evening sunshine, I saw a few Indians in the adjoining lot beginning a friendly game of cricket. I’ve never played cricket, and I don’t know the rules, but, as a fan(atic) of the game of baseball, I am fascinated by the sport.
On past visits to the Central Taxi Hold, I’d witnessed epic matches in that adjoining lot between well-organized Pakistani and Indian squads who had come with everything short of uniforms. So when I saw that they could use an extra player, I was quick to offer my services as an old NYU Fightin’ Violet (NO, I’m not ashamed of that name) outfielder.
I asked the Indian cabbie in the suit and tie who seemed to be the one in charge how to play. He told me, “You just play.” I did, and I had a blast. I played a little in what would be known in baseball as right field, and then mostly in what would be known in baseball as left field. I was feeling pretty good running around chasing down batted balls, especially because I was officially at work. It sure beat sitting on my butt feeling my body waste away beneath me.
But then it was time for me to bat. I’d never held a cricket bat before, so the whole experience was very exciting for me. I know they don’t call it a “pitch” in cricket, but everyone was speaking in Hindi so I didn’t pick up any of the lingo I would have if my first game had been with Englishmen. Anyway, the first pitch I saw bounced high and nearly caught me in the throat as I swung wildly. I guess it was the cricket equivalent of chin music. They saw I was not good, and I was thrown a slow easy one. This, I’m sure, was the cricket equivalent of a meatball, but I whiffed terribly anyway.
It was embarrassing, but not nearly as embarrassing as my first collegiate baseball at bat (That day, I thought the first pitch was going right for my ear so I jerked backwards and fell down, only to realize it was a curveball when the umpire called it a strike as I sat in the dirt; the second pitch actually was thrown right at my ear but I swung anyway and nearly got decapitated; the third pitch was nowhere near the strike zone but I took a mighty hack because I knew I was no match for a real college pitcher by that point, and I wanted to go down swinging rather than looking). I failed to protect my wickets, but the Indian cabbies were nice about it and told me “not bad.” It was bad though.
The game quickly evolved into a real hard-nosed match, and I was glad to be a part of it. Once the Sikh guy showed up, people really began playing for keeps, and he was a legitimate power hitter. We actually drew a small audience of people walking their dogs on the road behind us and cabbies on the other side of the fence in front of us:
I managed not to embarass myself too much more and was enjoying myself immensely when the game degenerated into a Hindi shouting match over something I couldn’t begin to understand. I thought we were supposed to “just play.”
I actually hoped that the line of cabs would move slowly so I could play longer, but just as the arguement ended, my line began to move and I had to run off. I don’t think they believed I was a real cabbie until I proved it to them by actually jumping into a my yellow taxi as they watched. At JFK’s Central Taxi Hold, there aren’t many Jewish kids playing cricket. But I shouldn’t pretend I’m some kind of pioneer. There aren’t many Guyanese orderlies eating chicken and rice there either.
Visit www.famousfatdave.com for a chortle or book an eating tour
If you want to go to the Central Taxi Hold, drive into JFK Airport and then out on the JFK Expressway. Look for the small sign saying “Cenral Taxi Hold” at the bottom of a list of other things. Park in one of the “15 Minute” spots just as you enter the lot (they are generally used by Muslims while they pray). Let me know if the Haitians let you play dominos with them.
(This is how you’re supposed to protect your wickets)
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
I finally got a new garage. I’d been going to my old cab stand in Greenpoint, Brooklyn for about four years and never made it off the bottom of the totem pole. Cha Cha (accent on the second Cha) is the dispatcher there. He looks like he is under more stress than most generals who stand on a bank of computers and order men into battle (to quote Colbert).
He is from Bombay and lives on India Street in Greenpoint. So he is, naturally, partial to Indians. Plus, the owners of the garage, in the most Polish neighborhood in New York, are Polish. My first day, the owner’s wife said hi to me and asked, “So, do you live around here?” I didn’t realize that was code for, “Are you Polish?” Stupidly, I told her “nope” and she hasn’t talked to me since. I could pass for Polish. Part of my ancestry come from Poland. But really, her great grandfather probably beat my great grandfather up.
Anyhow, it all adds up to a situation in which I show up at the garage, wait for an hour or hour and a half for a cab, and get sent home. . . Repeatedly. The last straw was today, when I woke up at 5am to go to the garage for the day shift, something that should be no problem as it is the night shift that is over loaded with Indian and Polish drivers, yet I was sent home AGAIN.
Fed up, I crossed the Pulaski Bridge to Long Island City and walked into the biggest garage in town:
Midtown Garage in a no nonsense, strict, by the books operation, so I have high hopes that ethnic divisions won’t enter into the picture with their dispatcher. Within an hour, I had access to the biggest fleet of taxis in New York.
Still, there are a lot of Indian cabbies who drive for Midtown too (I didn’t see any Polish drivers though), and I asked a couple of them where to eat in my new work neighborhood. They enthusiastically informed me that just down the block, Five Star Punjabi serves an all-u-can-eat Indian buffet(s?) lunch inside a retro 60s style diner that I doubt began its life as a Sikh cabbie haunt.
I went back for lunch and the pickings were a bit slim, but $8 for all-u-can-eat of any kind is a deal. I chowed down on a smorgaasbord of Indian food tastier than anything I’ve had on 6th Street in Manhattan’s Little India (save Banjara, although Banjara is about twice as expensive and not twice as good). The chcken tikka masala was to die for (until they ran out and didn’t replace it):
And everything they had with chickpeas was especially delicious, particularly the cholley pishori (chickpeas with tomatoes, ginger, garlic, onions, spices, and herbs):
(chickpeas roasting on an open fire)
All-u-can-eat Indian food sounds like a great idea, but it really fills you up before you feel like you’ve taken advantage. Plus, I don’t know if I’ll be going back before my 12 hour shifts of sitting on my ass in the cab. But they are open all night according to my new cabbie colleagues, so I might stop in for a samosa or two after my day is done, assuming I don’t get sent home before I even start.
(my new work neighborhood)
Five Star Punjabi, 1315 43rd Ave btwn 21st St and 13th St, Long Island City, Queens
Check out http://www.famousfatdave.com for a chuckle or to book eating tours
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