Lunch Is Elsewhere

In college I bought a postcard that declared, “She was often seized with a desire to be elsewhere.” Restless? Yes. Discontent? No. Just curious to know firsthand how people live everywhere else. It’s fitting, then, that I’ve ended up in New York, a city of myriad “elsewheres.”

The five boroughs boast a league of “diminutive” nations, from Little Guyana and Little Russia to Little Sri Lanka and Le Petit Senegal, and more than one Little Italy. When I eat Guyanese doubles in Richmond Hill or varenyky in Brighton Beach, I get a taste, literally and figuratively, of another culture. But just as I start to imagine I’m in another time zone, I catch a glimpse of an NYC landmark or spot a Post headline. However, when I visit the decidedly not little Chinatown in Flushing, Queens, I check twice for a customs agent as I leave the subway station.

When I step onto Roosevelt Avenue, Chinese shops, restaurants, and newsstands engulf more familiar locations (Starbucks, Duane Reade), and predominantly East Asian shoppers hurry down Main Street. While Manhattan’s vibrant Chinatown is still more popular with tourists than its Queens’ counterpart, Flushing “rivals [Manhattan’s] Chinatown as a center of Chinese-American business and political might, as well as culture and cuisine.”

Until recently my husband, Adeet, and I ventured to Flushing to eat soup dumplings at Nan Shian Dumpling House or to slurp spicy cumin noodles at Xi’an Famous Foods. Then we discovered the New World Mall. The mall, which opened earlier this year, gleams unapologetically next to its stodgier looking neighbor, Macys. Its designers apparently adopted a “more is more” philosophy regarding the number of chandeliers hanging in the atrium, and they didn’t limit the mall’s tenants to clothing and jewelry stores. The New World Mall also houses a 30,000-square-foot Asian grocery store, a karaoke bar, and a dim sum restaurant. But the food court holds the most allure for me.

I’ve tended to consider food courts a culinary detour, not a destination, but this one dazzled me. I scanned the names of the more than 30 food stalls and happily didn’t spot a single Sbarro or Panda Express. Instead, I found signs advertising “beautiful memory desserts,” “infinite creamy ice,” and “tenderous ribs.” I imagined myself in one of the food courts Anthony Bourdain always seems to be enjoying in Singapore or Hong Kong. We heard little English, and flat-screen televisions played Mandarin-language news broadcasts. Unfortunately, the images on the TVs were all too familiar to us. It was the tenth anniversary of the attacks on the World Trade Center, and the program showed footage of the towers collapsing. We chose to focus on our food and were not disappointed.

While Adeet and I decided where to eat, our daughter, Zoë, danced from vendor to vendor and elicited a number of smiles from employees and other diners. We settled on Pho Bac, a Vietnamese stall, where I ordered spring rolls and grilled shrimp on vermicelli (Bun Cha Gio Tom Nuong). Adeet had pho, the traditional Vietnamese soup topped with rice noodles, and Zoë tangled with a plate of sticky vermicelli. For dessert, we skipped the infinite creamy ice, which looked infinitely overwhelming, and chose ice-cream crepes at Mojoilla Fresh. Separately, ice cream and crepes are two of my favorite desserts. However, I quickly learned that an ice-cream cone fashioned from a crepe is better in theory than practice.

A few days after this meal, Zoë and I rode the 7 train back to Flushing and had lunch at the mall’s food court. I carried her past each food vendor while I debated the merits of hand-pulled noodles versus hot pots brimming with fatty beef. I finally decided on a stall called Live Seafood, where my daughter waved to the lobsters bobbing in a large tank. I took my chances that the soft-shell “carbs” would turn out to be crabs, and for $8 I received a plate of crabs, fried rice, and salad. I skipped the anemic looking lettuce and enjoyed the pleasantly ungreasy rice and pan-fried crabs. We went back to Mojoilla Fresh for dessert, but this time we had our ice cream in a cup, not a crepe.

Adeet, Zoë, and I are going back to the food court tonight. We’ve discovered an elsewhere where we might end up staying awhile.

New World Mall

136-20 Roosevelt Avenue • Flushing

photos by Adeet and Kate Deshmukh

From Food to Friendship

Our daughter, Zoë, recently ate her first solid food. She consumed her rice cereal with such gusto that Adeet and I are convinced she’s ready for culinary school. We snapped photos, shot video, and applauded after she opened her mouth for more after each spoonful. Of course, we were excited that she’s achieved another milestone, but I was especially happy to think that soon she’ll participate in the communal experience of eating. I cherish the bond she and I have established through nursing, but I look forward to the joy she’ll experience when she shares food with others. For me, eating is a social activity. When I recall my favorite meals, I remember not only the food, but also the people who made it or who ate with me.

One recent meal in particular stands out. Earlier this winter, our friend Zaman, who cooks at one of Sammy's award-winning gyro carts, invited us for dinner at his home. We had expected that the food would be delicious, but we were impressed with just how much of it he had made: two kinds of rice, eggplant, salad, chicken, lamb, goat, and ilish, a popular Bangladeshi fish. The kitchen in his studio apartment is smaller than the gyro cart, and yet he had managed to create a feast.

When Zaman set the dishes on a blanket on the floor, they nearly ran the length of the room. We ate with our hands, which only heightened the pleasure of eating such good food—we could smell, taste, and feel the spices. He watched us carefully and kept track of what we had, or had not, eaten. “You haven’t tried the chicken!” he admonished me. No, but I’d had more than one piece of fish, two servings of each kind of rice, and several helpings of eggplant. But I tried it and was happy that he’d chided me. I don’t eat chicken often, but this was so flavorful and tender that I would happily make a habit of it.

Zaman held Zoë on his lap and wanted to give her a taste of his dinner. She was too young for solid food at that point, but I could understand his desire to share the meal with her. We had all come together that evening because of food—his food—and he wanted her to fully take part in the experience. And he was likely missing his young daughter, who is still in Bangladesh.

In a few weeks, Zaman will take the U.S. citizenship exam. When he gets his green card, he’ll apply to bring his family here. I can imagine the happiness they’ll feel when they eat together again, and I picture Zaman sitting with his daughter and sharing food from his plate.

We had enjoyed a delicious meal with Zaman, but we’d also learned about his home in Bangladesh, his early experiences in the States, and his take on street-cart politics. And in turn, he was curious to know more about us. I hope that sometime soon our daughters will eat together. Zoë will undoubtedly delight in the new tastes, from coriander and cumin to garlic and ginger. And even more importantly, she’ll savor the company of the person eating with her.

photos by Adeet and Kate Deshmukh

Honeymooning

The immensely talented Allyson Murphy has a web site called Real Honeymoons, which features, well, real honeymoons! I'm her guest blogger this week and am fortunate to have Adeet's photos to illustrate my posts. There's a new installment every day. Today you can get a little bit of Spain and a little bit of North Africa all in one place: Melilla!

My earlier posts are on the site or you can get to them here:

First installment:

http://www.realhoneymoons.com/cultural-honeymoons/2-weddings-3-month-honeymoon/

Second:

http://www.realhoneymoons.com/cultural-honeymoons/3-month-honeymoon-india/

Third:

http://www.realhoneymoons.com/cultural-honeymoons/3-month-honeymoon-england/

Playing Favorites: Soup Dumplings

My cousin Jennifer recently visited from Milwaukee and asked me a question that threw me for a loop. “What’s your favorite place to eat in New York?” Isn’t that like asking a mother to name her favorite child? She prodded, “Well, then, what’s one of your favorite kinds of food to eat here?” Ah, that made it easier. Soup dumplings! And the best place to eat soup dumplings in New York City is at Nan Shian Dumpling House in Flushing’s Chinatown.

A dumpling is worth its weight in dough, but a soup dumpling has the added burden of proving its broth is slurp-worthy. Nan Shian’s dumplings excel on both counts. The tender dumpling skins alone would make a delicious snack, but they’re also perfect vehicles for the kitchen’s savory golden broth. The soup strikes a perfect balance of flavor: not bland but not too salty, not watery but not greasy.

Last August, days before I had my daughter, Adeet, my parents, and I took the 7 train to Flushing for soup dumplings. The line at Nan Shian stretched out the door, but I decided to wait. A pregnant woman, especially one past her due date, does not enjoy standing. However, any discomfort I experienced during the wait dissipated with the steam escaping from the first bamboo basket of dumplings brought to our table. And the second basket and the third… Maybe soup dumplings would inspire my baby to make her long-awaited debut.

My parents needed a quick tutorial before eating their first soup dumplings. The rookie mistake is to put an entire dumpling in one’s mouth, which will lead to a burned tongue. Remember that the broth is inside the dumpling. It’s important to vent the dumpling by poking a hole in it with a chopstick or biting off a bit of dough at the top. You can then slurp the broth out of the dumpling. I usually hold my dumpling in my spoon to catch the broth, while Adeet picks up his plate and inhales any spilled liquid. Manners aren’t called into question. The only breach of etiquette would be letting soup go to waste. My parents quickly mastered the art of slurping.

I didn’t go into labor after that trip to Nan Shian, but I did go home very happy.

We hadn’t gone back to Nan Shian since I’d had the baby, and my cousin’s questions had made me hungry. So on President’s Day, Adeet hoisted the baby stroller onto the 7 train, and we took our daughter on her first trip to Chinatown. Once again the line at the dumpling house extended to the sidewalk. Adeet waited outside with the pram, while I squeezed into the restaurant’s narrow vestibule to listen for our turn to be called. I frequently had to flatten myself against the wall as a crush of would-be diners joined the queue. I gazed through the large window separating us from people with tables and eyed their dishes greedily. I wanted to ask them what they were eating. Maybe, I fantasized, they would offer me a taste. One table had ordered plates of long, crispy dough and what looked like an empanada. And almost all of the tables had baskets of dumplings.

I clutched a piece of paper stamped with a “3” and held it up hopefully when the hostess announced a number in Chinese. Success! Fortunately, the crowded restaurant has added another seating area since our last visit, and we were happy to find enough room for the stroller and for us in the new dining room.

As soon as our waitress came to our table, I told her we wanted two baskets of crab and pork dumplings (steamed buns). Then I quickly scanned the menu and impulsively requested an egg and chive fried bun. We waited and waited. And then a fried bun filled with scrambled eggs showed up and turned out to be the “empanada” I’d seen earlier. The hot, crispy pie unlocked my appetite and made me feel hungrier. We asked for some sweet sticky rice, but the waitress told us they had just sold out. Before I resorted to gnawing on my chopsticks, our dumplings arrived. Once again, they were worth the wait.


There are a few things to keep in mind if you visit Nan Shian. First, the restaurant’s name on the awning is in Chinese. Look above it to see a sign in English, or better, just spot the street number and the crowd of people. Be prepared to wait, both in line and after you order. It can take more than 20 minutes to get your dumplings, but know that you will be rewarded with a basket of exquisite steamed buns. Also, the service may seem rushed or even brusque, but the servers are not unfriendly. Pointing to the menu can resolve any miscommunications that might occur. And don’t be shy about slurping.

A few hours after this latest dumpling adventure, I saw my cousin again. She and her husband had also eaten soup dumplings for lunch but were not impressed. They’d gone to Joe’s Ginger in Manhattan’s Chinatown. Next time she should play (my) favorites!

Nan Shian Dumpling House
38-12 Prince Street • Flushing

photos by Adeet Deshmukh

Smart Girls

"Help Wanted" signs aren't especially common these days, so when Deshi Biryani posted one a few months ago, I took it as a positive economic indicator.

However, the restaurant didn't find the smart girl they were looking for, as evidenced by this sign a few weeks later:

Last month a new sign went up, this one searching for a "Nepalese girl." Then the management announced the restaurant is closing for repairs.

Could the smart girls have saved the place? Or are they too busy solving other problems? I hope they show up soon. Other restaurants in Jackson Heights serve biryani, but Deshi knew how to make it with the right mix of spice, vegetables, and protein. And what smart girl wouldn't like that?

Deshi Biryani

7518 37th Avenue • Jackson Heights

photos by Kate and Adeet Deshmukh

Eat, Eat, Eat for Tomorrow We Die

My desk is frequently littered with restaurant reviews or "Best of" lists (brunch, barbecue, bakeries) ripped from Time Out or New York. The clutter distresses my Virgo husband, so I slip the pages into an artist's portfolio, which I pore over the way others might ogle certain prurient magazines. "Oh, I want that!" I'll exclaim to myself as I drool over a photo of a perfectly poached egg. I keep mental checklists of places I want to eat, including one I've titled "Eat Here Before the Baby Comes."

Anthony Bourdain recently compiled a list of "13 Places to Eat Before You Die" for Men's Health. Although some of his choices are presently out of my reach (elBulli, French Laundry), I was pleased that I could already check off three of his picks: Russ & Daughters, Katz's Delicatessen, and Hot Doug's. Much can be said about the silky lox at Russ & Daughters and the tender bits of brisket the counter men at Katz's use to tempt customers. One Katz employee told me the brisket was tasty and healthy—"Clinton ate here all the time before his heart surgery," as if that would reassure me. But when I learned Hot Doug's had made Bourdain's list, I felt a surge of pride.

When Adeet and I lived in Chicago, we ate at Hot Doug's almost every Saturday. There was even a period when we'd go for lunch during the week, and photos from that time show our faces looking fuller than they do now. Bourdain explains his esteem for Hot Doug's: "This place convinced me the Chicago red hot is, in fact, superior to the New York hot dog. And it's home to two great innovations in American gastronomy: the 'foie gras dog' and the weekends-only practice of cooking French fries in duck fat. It's proof that food doesn't have to be expensive to be great."


I've enjoyed the foie gras dog, which defiantly stayed on the menu during Chicago's two-year ban on goose liver. Owner "Hot" Doug Sohn was the first to be fined for violating the ban and had to fork over $250 to the city. The dog is rich and decadent and delicious—slabs of foie gras on a Sauternes duck sausage with truffle aioli. But other specials, from the spicy Thai chicken dog to the smoked pork and crayfish sausage, never disappoint. And the dog must come with a side of fries, cooked in duck fat or not. Adeet usually orders a Chicago-style red hot along with a special such as the Mountain Man: buffalo, venison, elk, and antelope all encased in one sausage.

Part of Hot Doug's appeal is Doug, as much as his dogs. Doug, who holds degrees from both Columbia University (philosophy) and Kendall College (culinary arts), mans the counter and is quick to banter with customers. His wit can recall a Catskills comedian, and kitschy hot-dog memorabilia line the walls and crowd a large display case. The restaurant's atmosphere is playful, but the creativity and thoughtfulness that go into the sausages belie a serious commitment to good eating.

The line into Hot Doug's frequently stretches around the block, especially on Saturdays. Of course it's worth the wait, and Adeet and I try to stop in whenever we're back in Chicago. Full disclosure: for a couple of years a photo of me showing my love for Hot Doug hung next to the cash register. On a recent visit, I noticed it was missing and wondered if absence had made his heart grow fonder of another hot dogista. Instead, Doug informed me that my photo had been moved to his "Wall of Fame" (graciously located near the restrooms), so I now share space with glossy autographed photos of Styx, former Chicago Cub Ron Cey, and Saturday Night Live cast member Fred Armisen.

Perhaps I should eat at only new places instead of returning to old favorites like Hot Doug's. After all, there are ten other restaurant's on Anthony Bourdain's list I haven't tried and my portfolio is bulging with food reviews. There is so much to eat before I die, before the baby is born, before I decide I should really eat in more often...Still, when I'm in Chicago I'll continue to stand in line at Hot Doug's, daydreaming about where to eat next.

Where do you want to eat before your time is up?

Hot Doug's

3324 North California • Chicago

Russ & Daughters

179 East Houston • NYC

Katz's Delicatessen

205 East Houston • NYC

photos by Adeet Deshmukh

Sharing the Love

The streets of Manhattan are crowded with gourmet food trucks. Cupcakes, Belgian waffles, artisanal ice cream, even schnitzel—whatever your craving, chances are you can get it from a mobile vendor. Not surprisingly, many of the old-school kebab and hot dog vendors feel these newcomers are encroaching on their territory. But instead of engaging in turf wars, these nouveau vendeurs should look past the East River. Some trucks do pull over in Brooklyn, but where are the fancy food trucks in Queens?

I don't wish to appear ungrateful for the food vendors we do have. Adeet and I still enjoy weekly dinners from Sammy's gyro cart, and Roosevelt Avenue is lined with tempting taco and torta stands. But why should Manhattanites get all the haute dogs?

Recently La Gamin truck decided to share the love at the Jackson Heights Greenmarket. Le Gamin serves classic bistro fare—merguez sandwiches, croque monsieurs, pommes frites, and crepes, bien sur. As Adeet and I read the menu, we felt we'd won the food truck lottery since French cuisine is missing from our international neighborhood's dining scene.

Then a woman in front of us started meddling with the French truck mojo. She demanded to know why they were serving Nutella crepes. Didn't they know Nutella contained hydrogenated oils, a clear violation of NYC's trans fat ban? The cheery woman taking orders smiled, "Why, no, I didn't know that." The anti-Nutella woman continued to protest and finally the French chef suavely held aloft a jar of Nutella and read the label. "No, no trans fat in Nutella," he declared.

Adeet and I had grown nervous during this exchange. What if the woman annoyed the chef so much he decided he didn't want to come back to Jackson Heights? However, he appeared more amused than irked and even teased the woman, who had blushingly backed down.

We gratefully placed our order, relieved that the truck hadn't sped off in a Gallic huff, crushing our dreams of Sunday mornings filled with crepes and cafe au lait. Adeet got the merguez sandwich—spicy lamb sausage, melted Swiss cheese, and onions on a baguette. I had the lamb dog, the same merguez sausage and onions, but served on a hot dog bun. We split an order of pommes frites. We ate at the truck's narrow metal counter and savored every bite of our lunch. The sausage had the right amount of spice, enough to please our well-seasoned palates, but not so much as to make my soon-to-be-born baby kick in protest. The frites were cooked perfectly, and it distressed me that I couldn't finish them all.

I wanted a crepe but didn't have room, so we walked across the street to the Greenmarket and shopped for dinner. After buying peaches, cherries, lettuce, and quiche, we decided we had worked off enough calories for dessert. We returned to the truck and ordered a lemon and sugar crepe, but not before telling the chef how glad we are the truck came to Jackson Heights. We don't want to go back to our crepeless days!

The thin crepe, dusted with powdered sugar, didn't disappoint. But next time I'm getting mine with Nutella.

Le Gamin food truck

Jackson Heights Greenmarket • 34th Avenue and 78th Street

Sundays, from around 9:30 am to 4:00 pm

photos by Adeet Deshmukh