The Eating Adventures of a Checker Cabbie
After a last minute flight to LA, I’ve been cruising around California for the past couple weeks:
(It’s been a whirlwind)
Check back in soon to hear tales of the eating adventures of a NYC yellow cabbie who is OUT OF HIS ELEMENT on the west coast. And then it’s back to dreary old Manhattan for me.
In the meantime, pick up a Saveur Magazine and check out #15 on this year’s Top 100 list!
Hi folks. Adam B. here, hoping to take a moment to go back in time with you and Famous Fat Dave. The month was March, the year was 2003: a tumultuous time for our nation. Scorn for America was building as the leader of the Free World abondoned reckless diplomacy in favor of a cool, calculated blitz to Baghdad.
Things were tense between worldwide anti-war protests mounting and Nicole Kidman duking it out with Rene Zellweger for best actress. With iTunes still a month away, what better way to escape reality than a trip to Portland, Maine to vist our friends Ian and Marin.
FFD and I hopped in the Maxima and headed to Maine from Maryland via Philadelphia, where we stopped for piping hot soft pretzels . . . and cheesesteaks . . . oh yeah, we stopped for hoagies too.
Once we got to Maine, we knew that no reunion with auld-tyme friend would be complete without a feast. And no feast in Maine is complete without lobster. So by the transitive property, Dave and I made it our mission to find the most succulent, meaty, fisty lobsters that we could afford. We set out on the streets of Portland on a cold, crisp, sunny day. Blue jeans and sweatshirts. Hand and hand.
We ended up at the creaky Harbor Fish Market where freshly caught seafood practically dances from the boat to your plate. Dave and I persevered through the anti-tourist tactics of black flies and ridicule (in a thick New accent) for lack of lobster knowledge. We emerged from the store with a cardboard cornucopia of crustaceans.
We arrived back at the house, and while the rest of the feast was being prepared, a pang of conscience came over us while staring into the box. We decided to give our main course a few more minutes of dignity in the master bathroom (unbeknownst to our hosts).
When the time came to transfer the lobsters to the kitchen, any dignity that remained was quickly erased by Dave in one fell schwing:
Thankfully our host Ian knew what the hell he was doing and took charge of the operation. With Cheshire grins, the three of us proudly pose with our prize catch just before the boil:
And a few minutes later, viola! The well-deserved reward for a hard day of deep sea shopping. The lobsters are served prete-a-mange along with all the fixin’s (don’t worry Marylanders, the Old Bay Seasoning was present but off camera).
Famous said grace. Then we toasted to health, good cheer, and a merciful Jewish G-d who hopefully understands the complexities and difficulties of abiding by all laws of kashrus in a modern, predominately gentile society.
Amen
Harbor Fish Market, 9 Custom House Wharf, Portland, Maine
Visit Adam B.’s Zone You Can Deal With! and tell him where Tupac is
There’s still beach weather to be had. So read Not For Tourists Guidebook’s DC section today:
Visit www.FamousFatDave.com for New York eating tours
Everyone who has the means gets out of New York City for as much of August as possible. The city empties. Traffic lets up. Business is slow. New Yorkers generally head out to the Hamptons in Long Island or down the shore in Jersey. Cab drivers often head back to the old country to see the family they left behind in Senegal or Bangladesh or Hungary.
But I am not a typical New Yorker. Nor am I a typical cab driver. My family hails from Chicago, but I spent my formative years in Maryland. And, like a good Marylander, I vacation in Delmarva (the DELaware MARyland VArginia peninsula).
When I was a kid, it was Ocean City, Maryland. But the family has moved on up to Bethany Beach in Delaware. So Melissa and I drove the five plus hours down through gnarly traffic last week, and we hit the beach. Melissa isn’t the one who dubbed the Freedenberg family “The FEEDenbergs,” but she knew what she was in for.
We aren’t the kind of family that sits on the beach drinking beer all day and then goes in for a sandwich or orders a pizza. We spend most of our beach time discussing what to eat next. In fact, we spend most of our eating time discussing what to eat next.
And being Marylanders for the three decades, a crab feast was the first thing on the list. For the past few years at the beach, we’ve dined at Mickey’s:
Mickey’s is officially north of the Maryland border, but it’s basically identical to a real Maryland crab shack. The only difference is that they don’t have Old Bay Seasoning on the table. However, that’s easily remedied by sneaking in a contraband container of Old Bay in my mom’s purse. The crabs are always steamed just right.
They’ve been getting smaller and smaller every year thanks to environmental degradation in the Chesapeake Bay and over-crabbing, but the meat is delicious no matter what the size. It just means even more work picking the meat during the only meal you can starve while eating:
Here, mother of Famous Fat Dave models some crabs and fried shrimp for the camera. Notice the open-mouthed pose at the right. You can see where I get it from. She’s the Hungry Mommy:
Not to be outdone, father of FFD tries his hand at some fried shrimp spokes modeling. A real crab feast always has a little fried chicken thrown in. My dad manages to model it without it actually being in his own hand.
I know they come out of waters a long way from the Chesapeake, but we ordered some King Crab Legs too. They are mentioned in the Famous Fat Dave theme song. Also, I just finished watching the second season of Deadliest Catch, so I considered it my civic duty to eat a few so that these crazy fishermen shall not have died in vain:
When the meal was done, this is what just one end of the table looked like:
Afterward, we were all ready to go into Ocean City for some frozen treats to wash the spicy Old Bay off our tickled tongues:
Now that she’s got the hang of it, my mom can’t stop modeling food. Although she didn’t realize that she was on camera in the photo on the right. While I was taking a picture of my mint chocolate chip scoop, you can see her in the back cheersing with her spoonful of ice cream:
We did spend a lot of time at the beach house though. The next night we decided to bring home a lobster dinner. Again, I know Maine is nowhere near Delaware, but we were all in the mood for seafood. Melissa was apparently in the mood to dance with hers:
She’s a Marylander, it’s true, but she’s also Thai. So she knows her way around a lobster. That, and she likes to eat the eggs. You can see her on the right searching for the tasty Eastern delicacies. Her dad would be proud:
Then she realizes she’s on camera so she decides to stop eating lobster eggs and just act cute, though I don’t think there’s anything cuter than eating lobster eggs:
Tracy, my sister-in-law, is originally from Massachusetts so we were hoping she’d bring some extra crustacean expertise into the family. She brings a lot to the table, but a knowledge of shellfish is not one of them. My mom, being a mom, picked Tracy’s lobster meat for her:
Alas, Tracy is not a fan of crabs. She tried gallantly to aquire a taste knowing she was marrying into a Maryland family, but she’s since given up. Still, we couldn’t resist having another crab feast:
Tracy got a filet of sole to eat as well as the spiced shrimp (we ate some of those too), and the rest of us had the pile of blue crabs and Old Bay:
My mom, being a mom, was in charge of handing out the crabs:
Tracy and Josh’s pride and joy Milo isn’t old enough to pick his own crab quite yet, but he seemed to like the little bits his dad Josh gave him (although he seems to like everything, including blue cheese). He is old enough to play with the hammer though. Looks like he’s going to grow up to be another crab-loving FEEDenberg:
Go to www.famousfatdave.com for fried whiting and king crab legs, egg cream ice cream and deviled eggs
What kind of son would I be if I posted those photos of my mom with all sorts of food in front of her face, called her The Hungry Mommy, and I didn’t put up at least one shot of her looking like herself
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
Chicago is where I learned how to be a cabbie. Not how to drive, but how to act. Visiting Chicago about once a year to spend time with my large (and growing) extended family has resulted in my taking countless cabs in that town. But the single most influential cab ride of my life came just before I got my own hack license in 2001. From downtown Chicago, I took a cab to the airport after my cousin Laurie’s wedding.
My Sri Lankan cabbie was keen to chat with me once I showed interest in the profession we were soon to share. We talked of life and love and Chicago winters. He told me about his Tamil mother and Sinhalese father, and how, even though he was half Tamil, he blamed the Tamil Tigers for the endless violence in his homeland. He hoped that now, after September 11th, America would understand Sri Lanka’s enduring plight and come to its aid.
Knowing that was an unlikely proposition, I tried to move on to a lighter topic, so I asked him where to find the greatest Chicago hot dog. With that, his sad eyes lit up. He told me we were about to pass his favorite place. I was ready to take a mental note and make a trip to this Superdawg the next time I was in town, but my super cabbie suggested that we pull off the tollway and grab a couple of dogs for the road.
I’d never heard of such a thing. Aren’t cab drivers always in a hurry? Aren’t they always grumps who just talk on their cell phones, drive recklessly, and never dream of taking a break to dine with a fare? I was shocked, but I accepted the invitation just in time for us to swerve off the highway and make the exit.
(Superdawg picture from their website because I didn’t have a digital camera back in the day)
I immediately saw Superdawg’s appeal to a cab driver: it was a drive-in. Not a drive-thru, but a drive-in. A hold out from 1948 complete with “Suddenserv” car hops. The hot dogs were, in a word, heavenly. But I couldn’t desribe them any better than Superdawg does:
“Not a wiener – not a frankfurter – not a red hot – but our exclusive… Superdawg™. On a poppy seed bun, we tenderly place the loveliest, juiciest creation of pure beef hot dog (no pork, no veal, no cereal, no filler), formally dressed with all the trimmings, escorted by our often imitated, but never equaled, Superfries™. Served with all the trimmings – golden mustard, tangy piccalilli, kosher dill pickle, chopped Spanish onions and a memorable hot pepper.”
My cabbie devoured his Superdawg in about 60 seconds flat, a skill I would have to master if I was going to be a real cabbie back in New York. I was still polishing off my second dog as we rolled into O’Hare with just minutes to spare. That Sri Lankan Superdawg-loving peace-loving kinda-smelly cabbie is my role model to this day. He’d fit neatly into my family too.
My uncle Norm is a major Superdawg fan, but the rest of the family is loyal to Big Herm’s Hot Dog Palace in Skokie. Usually, Big Herm’s is the first stop we make upon our arrival. Big Herm’s hot dogs aren’t as thick or juicy as that Superdawg I had, but they are more flavorful and have more snap. To me, Big Herm’s serves the quintessential Chicago dogs.
(A char dog on the left; a classic steamed dog on the right)
And unlike at Superdawg, Big Herm’s puts a couple slices of tomato on the dog (note to New Yorkers who put ketchup on their hot dogs: actual tomatoes are better). My family is never as comfortable and at ease with itself as it is when it’s chowing down at Big Herm’s. Chicago, more specifically Chicago hot dogs, are in my blood. Here, a small sampling of the family can’t be bothered to smile for the picture because everyone is too busy eating:
My cousin Anna eats her hot dogs with nothing but ketchup, and the shame of it all is stamped clearly on her face.
I’d been to Big Herm’s a couple dozen times, and I was in the mood to explore. So my cousin Jeremy Weinstein, back from Hollywood where he is on his way to collecting a mantle full of Best Editor Oscars, took me to The Wieners Cirlce after a night out on the North Side.
I’d heard stories about the Wieners Circle, but I had a hard time believing them. I’d heard that drunken hoardes of white Chicagoans descend upon the black counter girls every night to shout whatever wretched, base thoughts come into their meatheads.
If you give a counter girl $10, you could order a “chocolate shake” that is not on the menu. Now, I love milk shakes, so I was excited to hear of a special shake that’s not on the menu the way The In And Out Burger offers things not on the menu. But at The Wieners Circle, the chocolate shake is just a counter girl who lifts her shirt up and shakes her saggy boobs in everyone’s face for a nanosecond.
(This woman’s official job is to pour the melted cheese, but she also serves chocolate shakes)
When I arrived, I found the stories to be true. Actually, it was much crazier than I had heard. Racist comments are shouted out like orders Insults of every type are hurled back and forth. I was treated to a “chocolate shake” because the guy in front of me ordered one. I wish he hadn’t. I had my camera turned off when the “chocolate shake” came, but take a look at what happened just afterwards and you’ll get a better idea of the atmosphere in there:
Wieners Circle Vanilla Shake Video (18 seconds)
(A char dog that I bought “for the table,” and then proceeded to eat all but one bite of myself)
I noticed there was one black girl there eating hot dogs with her white friends at a picnic table out front. She did not look happy. Jeremy and I decided she must be dying a little on the inside. Appalled as I was, I got over it soon after a counter girl flicked me off and called me the “NEXT C*CKSUCKER IN LINE.”
(The screen is a new addition; They’ve taken their cue from the chicken wire protecting the Blues Brothers on stage)
The hot dogs, though they didn’t compare to Superdawg or Big Herm’s, were so good. After muscling my way through a dangerously drunk crowd of overweight Chicagoans, they really hit the spot. Any dog that comes with an entire pickle spear (or two on occasion in the Wieners Circle’s case) is just fine as far as I’m concerned. Chicagoans eat their hot dogs the way New Yorkers eat their pizza. So in my yellow cab, thanks in large part to my Chicago cabbie role model, I wouldn’t hesistate to stop and grab a slice with my fare.
Superdawg, 6363 N. Milwaukee Avenue, Chicago, IL
Big Herm’s Hot Dog Palace, 3406 Dempster St., Skokie, IL
The Wieners Circle, 2622 N. Clark Street, Chicago, IL
Visit www.famousfatdave.com for an eating tour on which we can stop for New York hot dogs/ Chicago style hot dogs/ and deep fried Jersey hot dogs
The odds were stacked against me. The car in front of me was a S.U.V. It had New Jersey plates. The driver was a woman. She was talking on her cell phone. She was Asian. And we were in Chinatown.
I could tell you the accident was entirely her fault, and I could probably get away with it. But I admit I wasn’t driving defensively. Still, legally I think it was her fault.
I was on my way to the Manhattan Bridge with a fare to Park Slope, and this woman in front of me clearly had no clue where she was going. She’d already made me miss a light by driving excruciatingly slowly down Ludlow Street where there is no room to pass. So when she slowed to a near stop underneath a green light in the intersection of Division Street and Pike, I saw room on her right side and made a move like a stock car driver who’d been drafting for 10 laps.
Even though I’d been behind her for blocks, she apparently had not the slightest clue as to my existence. At the moment I was swinging out from behind her, she decided to accelerate and turn hard to the right. I slammed on my breaks and turned with her as sharply as I could, but the collision was inevitable. Thankfully, since the speeds were just breaking the double digit barrier thanks to her ineptitude, no one was hurt and the damage was minimal (inperceptable on her behemoth).
As she leapt down to the street, cell phone in hand, she actually screamed, “Where did you come from” proving me right that she never even knew I existed. I was ready to reconcile and move on with my life, but my fare, a saucy native Brooklynite, was angrier than I was and beat me to the scene. By the time I emerged from the cab (I was held up because I had to button the top button on my pants and zip up; SHUT UP, I’D BEEN DRIVING FOR 8 HOURS) my fare and the Asian woman were in a face to face screaming match. There was nothing I could do. She was on the phone with the police before I had the chance to say a word.
The NYPD, however, did not find the matter as pressing as she did. We pulled our cars to the side of the road and waited well more than half an hour for a cruiser to arrive. My saucy fare could have easily taken the opportunity to hail another cab and head home. But he’d had words with this woman, and he was emotionally invested now, so he chose to linger.
As money hemoraged from my pockets while I stood there, the wait actually turned out to be the only good thing to come out of the whole sordid debacle. Standing next to my wounded yellow cab, now on the corner of Canal where Pike becomes Allen, I caught sight of a young Chinese boy holding a large sheet of beef jerky in a piece of wax paper.
Beef jerky holds a place of honor along with pickles, crabs, cannoli, fried chicken, sushi, and soft serve in my pantheon of foods that make my life worth living. I am now, and have always been, a card-carrying member of the Jerky Of The Month Club. On my cross-country roadtrip last year, I had to completely restructure my budget, because I hadn’t considered how incredible the jerky would be out west. I found myself stopping as many as 5 times in a day at roadside jerky stands, each of which seemed to top the last.
(New Mexico)
(The edge of the Grand Canyon)
(Texas)
But here in New York, I’d not found so much as a sliver of jerky that could stand up to anything I ate out west. I heard there is a man in College Point, Queens who converted his home into a jerky factor, but there is no trace of him on the internet or the Bobst card catalog, and I’ve begun to think I am chasing a ghost. He might be the Keyser Soze of cased and cured meats.
Convenience stores across most of the nation sport mammoth jerky sections. But most New York deli’s have jerky sections that look something like this:
(Meatless jerky, like tits on a bull)
So happening upon this Chinese boy with a sheet of delicious-looking beef jerky was like a stumbling upon Atlantis for me. Just a hundred feet from where I stood waiting for the NYPD, a short walk from where I’d spent years as a pickle man at Guss, on a block I’d traversed a million times before, was Ling Kee Beef Jerky.
It is not the dried out jerky of American west, but it makes my mouth water just the same. The jerky is made fresh behind the counter and barbequed before it goes into the case to be sold for about $1 a sheet. All sorts of options like pork, chicken, and spicy make Ling Kee a storefront I’ll be visiting often when I’m cruising that section of Chinatown.
As for the NYPD, they had a curious reaction once they ambled onto the scene. As I munched on a sheet of warm pork jerky, I asked if they would file a police report saying it was her fault (I had a saucy witness) so that I wouldn’t have to pay for my cracked bumper and busted headlight. The problem was that, even though the woman had called them in the first place, once she calmed down and realized that there was no real damage to her S.U.V. (not to mention that she might be the one at fault), she figured she’d be better off not filing a police report at all.
So now she was demanding that the police leave, and I was demanding that they stay to write a report in my favor. One cop pulled me aside and asked me, rhetorically, “How long you been driving a cab? You should know by now, if we file a report, it’s gonna say it was your fault. Even if it wasn’t. Get it.” I wish he’d just said, “Forget it Dave, it’s Chinatown.”
Interestingly, class had trumped race, and the NYPD felt compelled to protect the property of a rich suburbanite over the rights of a lowly yellow cabbie. She was the recent immigrant, and I am the white male. But the NYPD, not known for being particularly friendly to recent immigrants, was firmly on her side, because she had the nice Mercedes S.U.V., and I had the dirty yellow Crown Vic. Thankfully, I also had a new jerky joint.
Ling Kee Beef Jerky, Canal Street and Ludlow Street, Chinatown, Manhattan
Visit www.famousfatdave.com for a chuckle or to book an eating tour
(Jerky Country U.S.A.)
It is time to introduce the guy behind the guy behind the guy. It is time to introduce the man whose genius was responsible for a large chunk of this site in its infancy (a couple months ago). It is time to introduce Adam B.:
Adam lives on Oahu. He holds a very sensitive position for the United States government, keeping an eternal vigil gazing north over Turtle Bay in search of another squadron of Japanese Zeros on their way to Pearl Harbor. He also keeps the greatest old school site on the internet at www.adam.belsky.com (How is Tupac, and have you seen him lately?). But in the meantime, he will be posting from time to time on The Hungry Cabbie as my muse and my consigliere. Enjoy his first post here below:
BY ADAM-
You might wonder how Famous Fat Dave gets himself into so many different threatening-to-himself/ hilarious-to-readers situations. The answer is simple: dedication. Dave is so dedicated to chowhounding that he has been willing to risk it all on more than one occasion just for a bite.
One day back when we went to Herbert Hoover Middle School, he snuck into my house while my family and I were at synagogue, because he had noticed extra-lean corned beef in my lunch box and could not rest until he discovered the “gold vein.” We almost called the police because we thought our house had been robbed. My point is that Dave’s dedication to food supercedes common sense and, for that matter, the American code of justice. Indeed it supercedes any hope of a more stable career than taxi cab driving.
You, the reader, should be so lucky that he takes this burden upon himself and passes the spoils on to you in blog format. When Dave decided to visit me here in Hawaii for a vacation this year, I agreed to host him under only one condition: no grub-grubbing. I told him, “You are not here to drive all over the island looking for the best poi or spam and squid filet. You are here to relax.”
And relax he did, as evidenced in this Sports Illustrated Swimsuit Edition-esque photo of him at a waterfall high up on Oahu:
However, as the vacation progressed, it became increasingly apparent that Dave was physically and emotionally incapable of restraining himself from going far out of his way to seek superior sustenance. His palate needed pleasing, and he quickly devolved into a hunter/gather state, salivating at anything that even remotely resembled unique, exotic cuisine:
It was at this point that I decided to compromise. So I drove, and we braved the Honolulu traffic for what I feel is the best Hawaiian restaurant on Oahu: Helena’s Hawaiian Food. That fine eatery specializes in honest, authentic, simply prepared Hawaiian foods that are throwbacks to bygone days. Helena’s boasts Hawaiian island cuisine par excellence, prepared in the old ways and sprinkled with love.
Keeping true to the laid back aloha spirit of Hawaii, it turned out Helena has so much aloha that she doesn’t feel the need to share it on Sundays. The place is only open Tuesday through Saturdays, 10am to 7pm Hawaii Standard Time. Frustrated at my failure to deliver the goods, we decided on another nearby restaurant that has slightly more convenient hours:
Being a true east coaster, Dave had never been to a Jack In The Box. Here in Oahu though, the fast food chain is open 24 hours a day and can only be found on the corner of every major intersection in Honolulu. Dave was psyched for his debut burger and curly fries. Here is a picture of The Double F. D. with the former clown turned fictional founder, CEO, and ad spokesperson for the franchise:
At this point in a Hungry Cabbie blog post, I would normally describe and photo-journal the foods in which Dave and I partook. Unfortunately, we didn’t get that far at Jack In The Box. Dave forgot he was no longer in the melting pot of mainland America. He wasn’t in the frame of mind of a rather recently annexed Polynesian island. Being a history buff as well as an opinionated New York Jew, he managed to offend some Japanese customers with a loud rant about Japanese atrocities during World War II, and we were summarily kicked out of the Jack In The Box before getting our food (better than being summarliy executed before a squad of militaristic war mongers I suppose).
The incident made it painfully obvious that he needed to get back to New York City. But he loved the lifestyle in Hawaii so much he began studying the habits of Honolulu’s cab drivers, and inquiring as to how to get a Hawaiian hack license. I was particularly worried when he spoke irrationally highly of a cabbie he met while I was at work who told him that he has slept in his cab for almost 20 years just so that he could keep living on the expensive North Shore and surfing every day.
Dave’s vacation was officially over; he needed to get back to New York City where he could chowhound in peace. This photo with Melissa was supposed to be a final farewell, a classic shot of Waikiki Beach with the Diamond Head crater as a backdrop:
Jesus Christ Dave.
Helena’s Hawaiian Food, 1240 North School St., Honolulu, Hawaii
Jack In The Box, 535 Dillingham Blvd., Honolulu, Hawaii
Visiti www.famousfatdave.com for a smile or to book a five borough eating tour
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