10.19.06
Posted in Brooklyn, Fried Chicken, Soul Food, Southeast Asian, Thai at 9:47 pm by Administrator
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
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05.15.06
Posted in Dave's Faves, Queens, Southeast Asian, Thai, There's A Beverage Here Man, Woodside at 4:31 am by Administrator
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
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