Delikatessen

Lunch Is Elsewhere

2011-09-25T14:42:00.013-04:00

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

2010-03-03T21:31:00.019-05:00

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

2010-03-03T12:49:00.005-05:00

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

2010-02-21T15:21:00.031-05:00

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

2009-08-22T21:26:00.017-04:00

"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

2009-07-29T20:42:00.001-04:00

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

2009-07-26T15:33:00.029-04:00

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

Look Up!

2009-04-23T14:22:00.018-04:00

It is typical urban behavior to keep one's eyes on the ground; whether rushing down subway steps or hurrying past tourists, city dwellers often prefer a view of pavement to potential eye contact. I'm guilty of this but am often rewarded when I do look up—by the Chrysler Building's crown glinting in the sun or the blossoms finally bursting on the trees or someone smiling at me (or these days, usually smiling at my expectant belly).

Philippe Petit is a master of getting people to look up. In 1974 he walked a high wire between the Twin Towers, an event documented in Man on Wire. Adeet and I recently saw a benefit screening of the film at the Cathedral of Saint John the Divine, followed by a question-and-answer session with Petit. Petit's dynamic character is evident in the documentary, but in person he's even more charismatic. He took several minutes to answer each question, his enthusiasm never flagging, and he ended the evening by balancing flowers on the tip of his nose.

More than one person asked him how it feels to be so close to death when he's on the high wire. He scoffed, "You Americans have a death wish!" and asserted, "I have a life wish!" He claimed he doesn't think about dying when he's wire walking and distanced himself from "daredevils" who scale tall buildings for the mere stunt of it. To him, they're interested only in the death-defying aspect of their work and have no artistry. Petit emphasized that he views his wire walking as an art. When he's on the wire, he wants people to look up and feel inspired. It's poetry, not a circus trick.

He has plans for another wire walk in Manhattan this fall. It will benefit literacy and various writers will read under the wire while he's walking. When asked where it will be, he responded coyly, "You all know libraries are associated with literacy, so where do you think?" Chances are good it will be in Bryant Park this October, so look up! You might see an artist on wire.

Man on Wire with Philippe Petit • April 15, 2009

The Cathedral Church of Saint John the Divine

New York, NY

photos by Adeet Deshmukh

Holi!

2009-03-15T20:53:00.076-04:00

At first glance, Richmond Hill's Liberty Avenue looks strikingly similar to 74th Street in Jackson Heights. Both streets boast colorful sari shops, restaurants that dish up curry at recession-friendly prices, and religious goods stores with smiling Ganeshas in the window. But when Adeet and I ordered lunch at Sandy's Roti Shop, we suddenly felt that we weren't in Little India anymore. I enjoyed an aloo pie stuffed with potato curry, a Trinidadian take on the samosa, and Adeet had oxtail, peas, and rice. And instead of the Bengali or Hindi we often hear in Jackson Heights, our fellow diners spoke with a West Indian lilt.

After the West Indies abolished slavery in the 1830s, plantation owners needed a new labor source and subsidized workers from India. The Indo-Caribbean community in Queens continues many of the traditions their ancestors brought west, and Adeet and I came to Richmond Hill to celebrate the Indian festival of Holi, or Phagwah.

Holi is celebrated with a riot of color—revelers streak each other with red, pink, orange, and green powder or splash each other with tinted water. It's fitting that the the festival is celebrated in spring, when nature is again saturated with intense hues. One legend associated with the holiday tells how the blue-skinned god Krishna smudged color on his beloved Radha's fair complexion. Krishna famously cavorted with the gopis, or female cowherds, and today's merrymakers can emulate the god as they playfully "attack" each other with Super Soaker water guns and bottles of baby powder.

Adeet and I missed the Phagwah procession, but we followed the parade route to Smokey Oval Park. The streets were littered with bits of white paper and smeared with color. A woman stopped us and asked, "Do you play?" and when we nodded, she smudged pink powder on our cheeks. We paled in comparison, though, to most of the people around us. Even a dog had its white fur tinged with red.

In the park, hundreds of children and adults chased each other and smeared anyone they caught with technicolor powder. Several people ran a brisk business selling baby powder, and clouds of perfumed talc filled the air. A group of musicians danced in a circle and laughed at everyone's antics. Some of the children targeted Adeet, who soon looked as though he'd stood in the way of a Jackson Pollock canvas. A couple of people dabbed powder on my cheeks, but as we were leaving, a teenager exclaimed, "You're too clean!" and sprayed me with purple water. I shrieked and ran down the sidewalk, happy to play along.

Before heading home, we stopped in Anil's Roti Shop for more Indo-Caribbean treats. Adeet ordered a doubles—two rotis filled with chickpeas and tamarind sauce—and I had a currant roll, a flaky pastry flecked with small raisins. Later, when we got back to Jackson Heights, we went to Rajbhog for chai. I think we've discovered the best of two worlds.

To see all of the photos Adeet took during the Holi celebration, please click on my Delikatessen web album.

Sandy's Roti Shop

121-10 Liberty Avenue • Richmond Hill, Queens

Smokey Oval Park

12502 Atlantic Avenue • Richmond Hill, Queens

Anil's Roti Shop and Bakery

125-01 Liberty Avenue • Richmond Hill, Queens

Photos by Adeet Deshmukh

Free Poems

2009-03-11T20:22:00.041-04:00

Last Saturday I convinced Adeet we should do our shopping at the Union Square Greenmarket. The lure of fresh-from-the-orchard apples didn't sway him, but when I suggested we buy mergueza lamb sausage seasoned with pomegranates and ginger from the Catskill Merino farm stand, I immediately had his full cooperation. As we wandered the market, we avoided a group of overly exuberant girls brandishing "Free Hugs" signs. But then another free offer stopped me.

A very young looking man sat at a vintage Brother Valiant manual typewriter, clack-clacking on his classic QWERTY keyboard. He'd attached a sign offering "Free Poems" under his Valiant, though a nearby mug stuffed with dollar bills suggested donations would be appreciated. I hadn't seen any public typing since our trip to Bombay last fall, and I wanted to investigate.

A woman standing near me had just expressed interest in a poem, and the poet asked if she had a subject in mind. After some prodding, she shyly admitted that she'd like a poem addressing the beauty she saw in the world that went unnoticed by others. She was reluctant to offer any more details, though she did say she was from Maine and now attended college in the city.

About ten minutes later, the college student from Maine had a poem celebrating unappreciated beauty. The poet read it to her, causing her to blush. She seemed pleased when he handed her the typed page, or perhaps she was relieved to no longer be the center of poetic attention.

Adeet then asked the poet if he would write a poem for Flat Stanley. My six-year-old nephew James had sent us a laminated drawing of Flat Stanley with a letter requesting that we take his "flat friend" on an adventure. We had photographed him in Union Square, and I thought Stanley (and James) would appreciate a customized poem. The poet winked at me and asked if Adeet knew Stanely wasn't real. He agreed to write about Stanley's quest for adventure after I assured him it didn't need to rhyme. He then began typing what appeared to be nothing. He explained his ribbon didn't work, so he typed on carbon paper, the words invisible to him until he released the paper. I smilingly asked if he did this full-time, but he's a public poet only when the weather's nice. He spends the rest of his time in film school.

He wanted to know what I do for a living and laughingly brought up my job more than once as he questioned me about punctuation and spelling. However, I resisted any editorial urges when he gave me his poem; its whimsy made up for any orthographic liberties. My nephew might not appreciate it now, but he will someday. And on the next sunny Saturday, I'm going back to Union Square. Even if I don't get another poem, I'll enjoy hearing the clatter of typewriter keys.

click poem to enlarge

Benyomin Spaner: Poet/Typist

Union Square • sunny weekends

photo by Adeet Deshmukh

American Pie

2009-02-08T19:04:00.084-05:00

In Queens, the term "all-American" begs emphasis on the word all. As the nation's most diverse county, Americans of every nationality live here. Anyone wanting proof just needs to walk down Roosevelt Avenue. The street runs under the elevated 7 tracks, and the ambience is more gritty than urban romantic. But venturing under the grimy, rattling train tracks will reward you with an international smorgasbord. In Jackson Heights, Roosevelt Avenue is home to Colombian, Ecuadorian, Mexican, Chinese-Dominican, Korean, Bangladeshi, Tibetan, and Pakistani food vendors. This weekend, Adeet and I decided to go west on Roosevelt to Woodside, where Irish and Filipino flavors accent the neighborhood.

We started with Irish breakfast at the Stop-Inn, a nondescript diner outside the 61st Street train station. We sat at the counter, crowded by trays of danishes and muffins. Adeet ordered "The Traditional," or what I might call "The Widow Maker." His breakfast included a quartet of meats: Irish bacon, sausage, black pudding, and white pudding. This protein binge was balanced by a half plate of hash browns and a stack of buttered toast. I ordered the "Irish Special," which came with sausage, fries, and baked beans. I added grilled tomato to give the meal a hint of nutritional merit.

I can usually visualize my food before it arrives, but this meal's presentation startled me. Four small sausages framed a mountain of french fries, while slices of charred but pale tomato perched bravely on top. I know it's foolish to long for a robust tomato in February, so I didn't judge the anemic fruit too harshly. I am not shy around french fries, but the sheer quantity of chips proved daunting. However, they did make a handy mop for soaking up my side of baked beans. So, what was the star of this dish? The sausage—crispy on the outside and creamy on the inside. "Creamy" doesn't usually spring to mind as a qualifier for sausages, but these had a surprisingly milky taste. After I abandoned the fries, I kept enjoying "just one more bite" of sausage. The meat redeemed the meal.

After brunch, we crossed over to the 61st Street Deli, an Irish grocery crammed with canned baked beans, Barry's tea, HP sauce, and a deli case stocked with bangers and Irish butter. The wall of Cadbury products got my attention, and I ended up buying Smarties, far superior to M&Ms of any color.

We headed east on Roosevelt Avenue and turned onto 69th Street when we spotted a Krystal's Pastry sign. Bakery smells wafted into the street, and we watched hungrily as men stacked fresh buns on cooling racks. I immediately wanted one, but this was a kitchen, not a store. We turned back onto Roosevelt and found the customer entrance for Krystal's Cafe and Pastry Shop. Inside, tables full of families enjoyed their lunches while watching a Filipino T.V. show featuring young women who happily, and vigorously, shimmied around a room. Adeet had trouble looking away, but when we turned our attention to the pastry case, we settled on two savory buns (pork, chicken) to take home for dinner. At $1.50 a bun, this meal cost less than most street food.

Our last stop on Roosevelt was Phil-Am Foods, a Filipino grocery store. The checkout line took up a whole aisle, and we squeezed past other shoppers stocking up with baskets full of groceries. I was intrigued by bottles of banana sauce and bags of "Porky," pork-flavored snack chips. But I bought suman, a dessert made with cassava and brown sugar and wrapped in a banana leaf. As I waited in line, the middle-aged Filipina woman behind me sang along to the song on the radio: "American Pie." I caught myself singing along to the refrain. It was the perfect ending to an all-American day, Queens style.

Stop Inn

60-22 Roosevelt Avenue • Queens

61st Street Deli

39-67 61st Street • Queens

Krystal's Cafe & Pastry Shop

69-02 Roosevelt Avenue • Queens

Phil-Am Foods

70-02 Roosevelt Avenue • Queens

photos by Adeet Deshmukh

The Typists of Bombay

2008-12-07T16:57:00.079-05:00

During my recent trip to Bombay, I discovered an area I dubbed "Typists' Row." Adeet and I walked down Picket Road, where rows of men sat typing in open stalls. I stood enthralled by that inimitable clack-clack that no computer keyboard can replicate. (I often fantasize about writing posts on my antique Underwood and shamelessly romanticize typewriters.) I asked Adeet to shoot a video, but after a few seconds the typists shooed him away. "Maybe they think we're spies," he suggested. I wanted to ask them if they were typing love letters or novels or top-secret government dossiers and considered giving them notes from my Bombay excursions. Maybe they could turn my scribbled observations into respectable rows of neat serif type.

I've been hesitant to share my own Bombay stories since the recent terrorist attacks, afraid that my happy memories might seem trivial after such tragedy. I've appreciated everyone who's asked me if friends and family in Bombay are safe, but struggled to articulate what I felt. I've sat crying at work after viewing photos of the Taj and am enormously thankful that people I love—Papiyama, Prateik, Adeet's grandparents, his cousins, Mitali, Shahnaz, Tushar—and so many others are safe. And I can relate to my friend Sandhya's recent blog post, a discussion of her delayed blogging reaction to the attacks.

But we do need to share stories so that people and places aren't completely erased. During our honeymoon, Adeet and I spent several afternoons in the Taj's Sea Lounge, gazing out at the boats in the harbor. He teased me mercilessly for eating pani puri, classic street food, in such a posh setting and I laughingly ordered a second helping. When the Taj reopens, I want to go back and eat chat and remember.

Now I keep thinking of the men typing so earnestly, and I hope they are still there. Perhaps they are writing their own Bombay stories, remembering those who were lost, remembering their city as it was—as it never can be again.

photo by Adeet Deshmukh

Road Rules

2008-10-21T00:14:00.009-04:00

A truck is barreling toward us in the passing lane, and I am convinced that the last words I will ever read are “Goods Carrier”—the sign emblazoned above the oncoming truck’s windshield. Suddenly we swing back into our lane and the truck skims past us. Welcome to highway driving, Indian-style.

Drivers take every opportunity to overtake the vehicle in front of them. It doesn’t matter if their lane is bumper-to-bumper or that three trucks, two cars, a scooter with a family of five, and an auto-rickshaw are in the passing lane. There is no room for hesitation—seize any opening and speed forcefully ahead. Even on four-lane highways, traffic invariably ends up in the wrong lane, as cars suddenly cross the median, perhaps for a detour or simply a change of scenery. Oncoming traffic might be mere feet, even inches, away from causing a head-on collision. But then, miraculously, the passing driver returns to his lane, until it’s time to overtake the next car.

Cars and motorbikes often hover between lanes, as if it were a "Middle Way" to highway salvation. But drivers aren't alone in their roadway exploits. Dogs nonchalantly dodge speeding vehicles, while random water buffalo wander past on the shoulder. The only time traffic halts obediently is at railway crossings or when a herd of cattle has to get to the other side of the road.

The government has taken steps to urge caution. A sign might warn “Accident Spot, 200 Meters,” though it is unclear what distinguishes that particular area as more accident-prone than others. Some signs employ platitudes such as “Slow and Steady Wins the Race,” but my favorites attempt word play—“Safety on the Road Means ‘Safe Tea’ at Home”—or beseech, somewhat suggestively, “Be Smooth on My Curves.”

There’s good reason for promoting prudent behavior. However, highway driving here doesn’t strike me as a game of chicken but as an intense exercise in negotiation. There are so many people, all in a hurry, and there isn’t enough road for all of them. The system of constant overtaking addresses the problem, if not solves it. Bombay is far too crowded for such compromises and drivers there can sit for hours, barely moving. Drivers outside the city, however, have developed a strategy for avoiding traffic jams.

Of course, it helps that I am not the one behind the wheel. Adeet and I sit in the back as our driver expertly weaves between lanes. I trust him, and after an hour or two I can begin to relax. I enjoy the view—candy-colored temples, roadside dabas that serve fresh meals, and stalls selling everything from pots and pans to brooms to bangles. This all helps distract me from the trucks charging toward us, though I still hope “Goods Carrier” aren’t the last words to flash before my eyes.

photo by Kate Deshmukh, enroute from Nasik to Shirpur

Grief, Untranslated

2008-10-18T23:00:00.000-04:00

Today Adeet and I traveled to Shirpur, a village 400 kilometers from Bombay. We came to see Walmik, a driver for Adeet’s grandparents, who is more family member than employee. Although Walmik doesn’t speak English and my Marathi is rudimentary, we found ways to communicate during my first trip to India. Adeet and I had both looked forward to seeing him again, but shortly before leaving New York we learned that his wife, Vandana, had died unexpectedly. Walmik left Bombay for Shirpur, where his wife and children lived while he worked in the city.

When we saw Walmik, he was sitting cross-legged on a mat in the entrance to his home. His young teenaged son leaned into him. They had both shaved off their hair in mourning and this made their eyes look wide, allowing more room for the grief that welled up there. His two daughters watched us silently from the doorway.

I hugged Walmik but said nothing. I realized then that I know only positive words in Marathi. I can tell people how happy I am, exclaim over their beautiful homes and delicious food, compliment their children, and assure them that I love India. But I have no vocabulary for sorrow.

My parents had traveled to India in 2007 and quickly learned to rely on Walmik’s expert navigation skills and calm, confident demeanor. They had met Vandana at my Indian wedding, and when I told them about her death, they asked me to give Walmik their sympathy. What could I say?

I asked Adeet to write in phonetic Marathi, “My mother and father are thinking of you.” I practiced until I could say it from memory, but I kept the folded piece of paper with me for reassurance. We spent more time with Walmik later in the evening, and I said my line, nervous that it would lose all meaning when it left my mouth. Somehow he understood me.

I wanted to tell him, too, how happy I’d been to meet his wife at my wedding. How she immediately embraced me, and how youthful and beautiful she looked in her sari as we posed together for a photograph. Instead, I strung together all of my Marathi words with occasional English conjunctions to make small talk.

Then I stood next to him, quietly. It occurred to me that I struggle to express grief even in languages that I speak fluently. All I can ever say is, “I’m thinking of you.” Even if I were to suddenly become fluent in Marathi, I would remain inarticulate.

Walmik, I’m thinking of you. I wish I could say more.

Food, Memory

2008-09-28T11:49:00.063-04:00

Food is memory. We tie food to place, to holidays, to family. We eat certain foods out of nostalgia, or in an attempt to recapture the past. I recently bought a saffron lassi at a Midtown Indian deli, hoping to match the ones I drank at Swati Snacks in Bombay. But more than that, I wanted to relive the feeling of sitting across from Adeet in that restaurant, savoring our honeymoon and imagining our future. There are also foods that trigger memories, reminding us of repressed or unremembered events in our personal histories.

When Proust famously bit into a madeleine, it unlocked a forgotten childhood. I recently had my own "madeleine episode." I took the train down to the Financial District, where rival falafel vendors Sam and Alan battle for lunchtime revenue. I spotted Alan's cart first but arbitrarily chose to buy lunch from Sam. At least 20 other people had the same idea. I got in line behind them and had my $3 ready. One man (Sam?) took orders, while two others fried up the falafel. The service was brisk, with none of the banter I've heard from other street vendors. I didn't mind; the food smelled delicious.

I found a bench in Zuccotti Park and bit into my sandwich. It was a windy afternoon, and I struggled to hold onto my food while keeping my skirt from flapping immodestly. Despite the distraction, I couldn't help noticing how perfect this falafel tasted. It had been fried the right amount of time, crispy with no hint of grease. The tahini enhanced the falafel's chickpea flavor, instead of smothering it.

I hadn't had falafel like this in NYC, but it tasted familiar. And then I remembered.

In 1996, before starting graduate school, I spent several months in Jerusalem. I attended an ulpan, an intensive crash course in modern Hebrew, at Hebrew University. I lived with three Ukranian immigrants who had little patience for my shaky Hebrew and spoke to me in English. Our flat had a kitchen, but I seldom used it except to break open my emergency jar of peanut butter. I almost always had falafel for dinner. I was ecumenical in my selection of falafel stands, buying sandwiches from both Arab and Jewish vendors.

Eating this sandwich made in lower Manhattan, I suddenly remembered the taste of those Israeli falafels. Then I turned around, and the sight of construction cranes at Ground Zero startled me into another memory.

One February morning during my stay in Jerusalem, a suicide bomber blew himself up on a #18 bus, the line I rode to Hebrew University's campus every day. The blast killed 26 people, including two American students. I wasn't on the bus, but I felt shaken. This was the closest I'd been to an act of terror. My classmates and I consoled each other the best we could. "At least our bus line won't be attacked again." Fear has its own peculiar logic.

The following week, another suicide bomber blew himself up on a #18 bus, killing 19 people. Our logic had failed us.

I didn't want to leave my room. I stayed in bed and canceled plans. When I finally agreed to venture out, my friends and I debated transportation methods. "Let's take a taxi. It's safer." "But what if the cab's behind a bus that blows up?" someone would counter. We cautiously returned to routine, and I went back to the falafel vendors. It surprised me to see me so many people walking around, getting on city buses, eating at outdoor cafés—making new memories.

My "falafel flashback" occurred a week after the seventh anniversary of the attacks on the Twin Towers. As I looked around Zuccotti Park, I wondered at the number of people so close to the site. Tourists admired fruit pies at a farmers' market, and office workers considered their lunch options. But why should I wonder? People need to eat. And make new memories.

Sam's Falafel

Zuccotti Park (formerly Liberty Plaza) • NY, NY

photos by Kate Deshmukh

Saint Cannoli

2008-09-15T22:10:00.012-04:00

According to legend, Saint Gennaro, the patron of Naples, survived numerous persecutions before his head ended up on the chopping block. His tormentors threw him to lions, pushed him into an amphitheater full of hungry bears, and tossed him into a furnace. Sure, Gennaro was tough. But could he have eaten 20 cannoli in six minutes?

As part of Little Italy's Feast of San Gennaro, 10 men honored the saint by seeing who could eat the most cannoli in 360 seconds. George Shea, chairman of the International Federation of Competitive Eating (IFOCE), served as emcee. He'd hosted this summer's Nathan's hot dog eating contest and once again flaunted his hyperbolic wit. He intoned that we live in dark times, and cited as evidence "the four horsemen of the esophagus." A man standing near me exclaimed several times, "If that guy were running for office, I'd vote for him."

Gianni Russo, who played Carlo Rizzi in The Godfather, served as celebrity judge. Shea had forgotten to bring a timer, so Russo counted down with his gold watch. He stood off to the side of the contestants to keep his his pin-striped suit safe from flying cannoli debris. The competitors stacked their cannoli on paper plates and poured cups of coffee and milk to wash down the dessert. Crazy Legs Conti, a Nathan's contest veteran and member of the competitive eating circuit, went in as the favorite. He granted interviews beforehand and received the greatest applause during introductions. Conti wore a pair of gloves, and after several minutes of frantic eating, Shea remarked that Conti looked as if he'd been working in a "cannoli garden." His gloves, beard, and dreadlocks were smeared with ricotta. Shea cautioned Conti to clean up the "detritus" or face a penalty. The emcee focused on the rivalry between Conti and Allen "The Shredder" Goldstein, who wore an IFOCE T-shirt and stood to Conti's right. Shea should have looked down the table to Brad Sciullo. After the final countdown, the judges declared newcomer Sciullo the champion. The 21-year-old had devoured 20 cannoli, edging out Conti and Goldstein, who tied at 19. Sciullo never removed his headphones—Apple might want to consider a competitive eating-themed iPod campaign.When Shea announced the winner, Sciullo started to cry. It startled me to see such an emotional reaction, especially since there was no cash (or cannoli) prize, but Sciullo sobbed real tears as he held his trophy aloft.

Somewhere Saint Gennaro cried, too, as he wiped away the cannoli crumbs left in his honor. He hadn't suffered in vain.

Feast of San Gennaro

Little Italy • NY, NY

photos and video by Adeet Deshmukh

Go! Go! Curry!

2008-09-14T14:59:00.031-04:00

A restaurant with three exclamation marks in its name had better have the goods to warrant such emphatic punctuation. Fortunately, Go! Go! Curry! has Japanese fast food worth the hype. At least for some people.

"Go" means "5" in Japanese, and the double "Go" refers to New York Yankee Hideki Matsui—#55. The restaurant even incorporates Matsui's jersey number into its opening hours: 10:55 am to 9:55 pm, and 55¢ specials are offered on days when he hits a home run. The triple "!" indicates just how enthusiastically the place regards the left-fielder. Not surprisingly, baseball shows up on the menu. Instead of small, medium, large, or extra-large portions, diners can order a "walk," "single, "double," or "triple."

The curry is Japanese-style, which means it's savory, not spicy. It looks like brown gravy and is served with rice, cabbage, and a choice of panko-encrusted pork, chicken, or shrimp.

My friend Lidia is in town from Chicago with her husband, Sean, to see the Bronx Bombers play some of their final games in Yankee Stadium. We thought G0! Go! would be a fitting place to have dinner together.

Lidia is a talented designer and her Evil Kitty clothing line is stylish, playful, and sexy. Toyota recently asked her to design fashion that represents the concept behind their new i-Real, a "personal mobility device." They flew her to their headquarters in Japan, and one of my first questions was, "What did you eat?" She's a vegetarian, and I wondered how many non-seafood options she had. She told me it was challenging, but her hosts went out of their way to accommodate her.

If Lidia could find veg-friendly food in Japan, I figured she'd score at NYC's Go! Go! Curry! However, she didn't even make it to first base.

Lidia: Hi, I'd like something vegetarian.

Employee: OK! You'd like the chicken?

Lidia: Um, no chicken. I'm vegetarian.

Employee: How about the shrimp? It's breaded.

Lidia: No, thanks.

Employee: Oh. All the curry has pork in it.

Lidia was a good sport and didn't complain while the rest of us tucked into our plates of porky curry. She ended up with a dish of rice and fermented soybeans, certainly not deserving of any exclamation. However, Adeet and I gave our curries a 3-! rating. I had mine with shrimp dolloped with mayonnaise, a boiled egg, and fukuzinzuke-red daikon pickles-which added a tangy crunch. This is considered comfort food in Japan, which makes sense to me. It isn't pretty, but it's tasty.

Adeet is already planning a lunchtime curry run, and I'll happily join him. But the next time Lidia comes to town, we'll have to find a place enamored of a vegetarian ballplayer.

Lidia and I are both wearing Evil Kitty designs.

I've just enjoyed some curry. She hasn't.

Go! Go! Curry!

273 W. 38th St. • NY, NY

photos by Adeet Deshmukh

The Anna Copa Cabanna Show

2008-09-07T10:45:00.003-04:00

As a child, variety shows filled most of my television viewing time: The Sonny and Cher Show, Barbara Mandrell and the Mandrell Sisters, The Carol Burnett Show, and best of all, The Muppet Show. These programs informed my idea of what entertainment should be: a glamorous but funny star, à la Miss Piggy, surrounded by talented friends who perform brilliantly but (almost) never steal the spotlight. Where have all the variety show divas gone?

Enter Anna Copa Cabanna.

Anna Copa Cabanna is a self-described Australian go-go dancer, who also sings and plays xylophone. At her recent "Back 2 School" show at the Bowery Poetry Club, she opened with a "Dear Diary" voiceover bemoaning her awful classmates. Swearing she'd get revenge one day as a successful dancer in New York City, she segued into a routine done to Van Halen's "Hot for Teacher." Her four-member troupe, the Copa Cabanna Dancers (Breedlove, Honey Lingus, Mr Miss America, and Tosha Marqee), twirled and jumped around Anna, who tore off her schoolgirl outfit to reveal a white bikini. She'd make David Lee Roth proud.

After the first number, Anna self-consciously tugged at her bikini top, worried that she'd inadvertently flashed the audience. Remember, she runs a variety show, not a burlesque. She then stood at her xylophone and performed Metallica's "Enter Sandman." Of course, the performance drew laughs. But the childlike instrument and Anna's high voice suited the song, making it slightly disconcerting and eerier than James Hetfield's version. Anna also sang original numbers, including "Times Square" ("There's a long-haired jerk playing bad guitar/Says he's a Naked Cowboy/Why is he wearing underwear?"), "Mr. New York," and a rant about someone ruining her dinner at a local Thai restaurant.

Any variety show star knows she's only as good as her guests, and Anna's friends didn't let her down. Breedlove demonstrated he isn't only a talented Copa Cabanna dancer (and not afraid to wear Spandex), but also an accomplished singer. His "Love on the Telephone" was one of the evening's highlights.

The "Hula-Hoop Harlot," who deftly twirled multiple hula hoops around her arms, neck, torso, and legs to musical accompaniment, gave one of the night's most popular performances. She displayed considerable dexterity and timing, and didn't let a recording glitch throw her off balance.

Another audience favorite was Rachel Trachtenburg, star of her own morning show. The 14-year-old musician accompanied herself on the ukulele as she sang Syd Barrett's "The Gnome." Her mother, Tina, and a friend illustrated the lyrics with whimsical cut-outs on a felt board. Rachel also sang an original number urging New Yorkers to get along with their pigeon neighbors. The pigeons should feel lucky to have such a charming ambassador.

Some performances ended up more miss than hit. Lady Starlight's black-light dance didn't inspire a strong reaction, perhaps because so much of it was in the dark. And punk band The Homosexuals made only a brief screen appearance, despite their billing as special guests.

There was a considerable amount of self-aware kitsch in the evening's performances, which at times recalled the talent show scene in Donnie Darko. But hipster irony didn't overshadow the performers' considerable talents. Anna and her friends proved it's possible to put on a sincerely good show, even when dancing to "Xanadu."

The evening ended with Anna back in her schoolgirl outfit as she and her dancers cavorted to Adam Ant's "Goody Two Shoes": "Look out or they'll tell you/You're a superstar." It might be too late.

Anna Copa Cabanna

poster from Anna Copa Cabanna's MySpace page

videos by Kate Deshmukh

Point: Paella

2008-09-06T14:15:00.009-04:00

Although I'm a short train ride from Arthur Ashe Stadium, I haven't seen the U.S. Open in person. While eating at Shake Shack, I've caught glimpses of matches on the giant viewing screen in Madison Square Park. And at a Labor Day picnic in Central Park, I scrolled through digital pictures taken by a fellow picnicker who had spent a day at the tournament. I may be missing out on the thrill of seeing the action live, but at least I've enjoyed my food, which probably wouldn't be the case at the stadium's "Food Village."

Now Rafael Nadal has advanced to his first U.S. Open semifinal, giving me the perfect opportunity to combine tennis and food. What better way to cheer on the Spaniard than by eating paella, his country's national dish? New York City has no shortage of tapas restaurants, including the recently opened Socarrat Paella Bar. But there you'll pay at least $20 for your paella. Instead, I'll head back to Brother Fish Market in Washington Heights. It may be Dominican, not Spanish, but the paella tastes as savory as ones I've had at "authentic" Spanish places. And a generously sized portion is just $6 or $7—the menu board lists the dish twice with both prices. Either one's a bargain.

As the name suggests, Brother Fish Market sells fresh seafood, but patrons can also enjoy the catch of the day without having to cook it at home. Across from the cases filled with whole red snapper and salmon fillets is a counter with room for about eight people. There are also three tables, but the ones closer to the market side of the room smell a little "briney." Menu specials are written on pieces of brightly colored paper and taped above the steam table. Most of the diners speak Spanish, and male patrons get a server's attention by calling her mami. The female staff doesn't flirt back, but they usually remain on the friendly side of aloof.

We visited Brother Fish Market earlier this summer, and I asked for a shrimp skewer with a side of plantains. It was good, but I kept sneaking forkfuls of Adeet's paella. The rice was loaded with shrimp, mussels, and calamari, showing no signs of stinginess despite its low price. The presentation was simple, but flimsy paper plates and plastic forks were the only apparent signs of thriftiness. The paella tasted rich, as if the flavors had mingled for hours. Good paella takes time.

I've had frequent paella cravings since then but haven't found myself back in the neighborhood. So, ¡viva Nadal! for giving me a reason to get on the train...not to Flushing, but to Washington Heights.

Brother Fish Market

3845 Broadway • NY, NY

photos by Adeet Deshmukh

Unforgettable: Bollywood in New York

2008-08-23T16:00:00.009-04:00

New Yorkers aren’t immune to star power, but anyone ogling, gushing, or asking for autographs is immediately marked as a tourist. Indifference, even when feigned, is considered the proper response to a celebrity sighting. This blasé approach wouldn’t translate in India, where people openly and unabashedly worship their Bollywood actors—literally. In Bombay I saw pictures of the god Krishna displayed alongside photos of heartthrob Hrithik Roshan.

Adeet and I recently had the chance to join in the idol worship. A troupe of some of India's most popular Bollywood stars performed in New York as part of the “Unforgettable” tour. Amitabh Bachchan, his son Abishek, daughter-in-law Aishwarya Rai, Preity Zinta, Riteish Deshmukh, and Madhuri Dixit, danced and lip-synced for a sold-out crowd at Long Island’s Nassau Coliseum.

Thanks to the generosity of our friend Deepak, Amitabh Bachchan’s makeup artist, Adeet and I had backstage passes for the event. We wandered past tables piled with costumes and admired larger-than-life puppets propped against the wall. Dancers adorned in fake jewels and Day-Glo leotards ran past us. One of the production coordinators asked if we were hungry and led us to a room with a buffet table filled with samosas and tandoori mixed grill. Bollywood catering!

After we ate, Adeet and I passed Preity Zinta rehearsing her dance moves in the hallway and then found ourselves standing outside the stars' dressing rooms. Suddenly Aishwarya Rai Bachchan was standing in front of me, so close I could see the vaccination scar on her arm. A thick layer of glittery makeup set off her famous eyes and her hair fell in curls down her back. Adeet commented, “I thought she’d be taller,” but he also remarked that she looked just as beautiful in person as in pictures. We were both enjoying the very un-New York experience of acting star-struck.

Abishek, however, looked slightly less handsome close up, but my judgment might have been influenced by my husband’s own Bollywood good looks. He looked serious, while Aishwarya appeared bubbly and happy.

That evening marked the 61st anniversary of India's independence. Before going on stage, the stars stood in a circle and held hands as they sang their national anthem. Amitabh’s rich baritone carried the song, especially during the final "Jaya hē" ("Victory to thee"). The actors then paused for a prayer thanking God for their final performance in the States and the tour's success, despite some glitches. Sometimes even divine intervention can’t prevent technical difficulties.

Adeet and I had seats in front, off to the side of the stage. We usually had an unimpeded view, except when effusive fans tried to rush past us. Before each actor emerged from the wings, film clips played on giant screens. Then, in a Purple Rose of Cairo moment, the actor from the screen appeared on stage, ready to entertain thousands of screaming fans. Riteish Deshmukh, known for his comic roles, opened to a dance routine involving oversized dollar bills. (Wouldn't euros have been flashier?) When fans screamed, "I love you, Riteish!" he quickly responded, "I love you, too."

Abishek arrived in a caged platform that swooped over the crowd before descending. When he danced across the stage and encouraged the crowd to clap along, he appeared much more animated than he had backstage. Aishwarya appeared for her first routine wearing black pants and a silver bustier-type top. Although still attractive, her outfit seemed oddly unflattering. In later numbers she looked radiant in traditional Indian clothes.

Aishwarya took a few moments to make a pitch for the Green Globe Foundation, which hopes to provide villages with solar-powered lanterns. Her somewhat awkward appeal won’t lead to a public speaking tour anytime soon. She then introduced her mother-in-law, Jaya, who encouraged us to do our part to help reduce global warming and to donate a lantern.

Between the actors' routines, singers Vishal and Shekhar sang hits such as "Om Shanti Om." The song is ubiquitous in our Jackson Heights neighborhood, and I joined in the English refrain. The crowd kept the security guards busy as they left their seats to dance, and two especially exuberant women near us were eventually banished.

Amitabh is a firmly established deity in the Bollywood pantheon. Dramatic music accompanied his film montage, and the emcee made declarations such as, "The Indian the whole world recognizes." (He is instantly recognizable with his dark hair and white beard. But what about Gandhi?) The crowd didn't question the hagiography and roared when the actor took the stage.

Later Amitabh joined in some song-and-dance numbers, but for now he was more thespian than entertainer. The dance troupe got to rest from the relentless, near-manic choreography as Amitabh recited lines from his father's poem "Agneepath" and his film Deewaar. Although I couldn't understand the Hindi lines, I appreciated the resonance of his deep voice.

Despite the crowd's obvious adoration of Amitabh, the audience gave actress Madhuri Dixit one of the evening's most enthusiastic responses. Some women sitting near us left as soon as her performance was over—nothing else could surpass her. Madhuri danced gracefully, and even when Aishwarya joined her, she demanded the most attention.

For the final numbers, Preity joined Abishek for a “rock-and-roll” dance routine. She twirled expertly, evidence that her hallway rehearsal had paid off. I especially enjoyed one of the closing dances that featured Amitabh, Abishek and Aishwarya (see the video clip below).

The evening’s performance lasted four hours, but I hadn’t grown tired of it. As a child, I frequently enlisted my two younger brothers to join me in a dance line, my choreography consisting mainly of high kicks to Simon and Garfunkel's "The Boxer." For years, my family staged elaborate lip-sync performances every New Year’s Eve. Perhaps that's why I have a fondness for Bollywood, with its "Let's put on a show!" enthusiasm, flashy costumes, fervent dancing, and yes, lip-syncing.

When the lights went up, I turned to Adeet and said, "I never need to go to Las Vegas." How could anything there top the spectacle we'd just seen? But as much as I enjoyed the elaborate extravaganza, my favorite moment had occurred backstage. Jaya hē, jaya hē, jaya hē.

Unforgettable Tour

Nassau Coliseum • Long Island, NY

"Unforgettable" poster from: http://www.theunforgettabletour.com/home.html

photos and video by Adeet Deshmukh

You Can't Have That in the Workplace

2008-08-11T22:38:00.005-04:00

I could post this on Overheard in New York but why not serve it up fresh right here?

Woman talking on her Blackberry while getting a pedicure in a SoHo nail salon:

"I'm trying to be understanding...But she got naked and went into the ocean with our client, who happens to be my husband's boss!"

Dumplings vs. Dragons

2008-08-05T22:03:00.004-04:00

Which is a greater accomplishment? Consuming dozens of dumplings in two minutes, or racing a 40-foot boat across a lake?

On Sunday Adeet and I witnessed two very different competitions at Flushing Meadow Park as part of the Hong Kong Dragon Boat Festival: a dumpling eating contest and a boat race. We arrived just in time for the high noon dumpling-off. Emcees whipped up the crowd in both Cantonese and Mandarin, punctuating their Chinese with an occasional "Let's have a round of applause!" Sandy the Seagull, the Brooklyn Cyclones' mascot, did his part by soundlessly but enthusiastically hopping around the stage.

The contest was divided into heats, and men and women competed separately. Some women in the first round looked more like workers hurrying through a too-short lunch break than contenders for the dumpling purse (a $1,000 first prize). Others, though, demonstrated classic competitive eating strategy as they sprinkled their wontons with water, making them slippery enough to swallow without the inconvenience of chewing. The men ate ravenously, but their gusto didn't match the graphic gluttony of Nathan's Fourth of July hot dog eating contest. At Nathan's, contestants sent bits of bun flying, but I didn't see any dumpling debris here. Perhaps the dumplings' small size made the contest seem somewhat demure by comparison.

After the men's first round, Adeet and I felt too hungry to watch other people eat. We went to the makeshift food court and bought a steamed pork bun, sticky rice wrapped in leaves, and noodles. We tried getting a bubble tea, but the vendor apologetically uttered a sentence I'd never heard before: "I'm out of bubbles." We settled for plain watermelon juice, which was delicious and refreshing, but I would have appreciated a discount for the lack of bubbles. The drink cost $5, the same price as all of our food. As we finished our lunch, we overheard an emcee announce the number of dumplings devoured by the men's winner: 66. The only thing Adeet and I had managed to finish in that time was our bun.

Next we moved on to the boat races. No emcees stirred up the spectators, but a young boy standing near us did cheer on his father, who unfortunately finished second to last. Adeet and I didn't root for any one team but enjoyed watching the boats skim across the lake. Drummers in each boat kept rhythm, and rowers matched the tempo as they pushed their oars through the water. The narrow boats had little decoration except for the elaborately carved prows. As the boats glided past us after each match, we caught a close-up of the grinning dragon heads.

As we left the park, we passed a group of well-toned, muscled racers performing stretching and balance exercises. I wondered how the dumpling eaters had warmed up for their contest. However, I couldn't dismiss the dumplingvores' accomplishments, even if I questioned their training regimen. I knew I didn't have the stamina for dragon boats or dumplings.

The Hong Kong Dragon Boat Festival
Flushing Meadows Park • Queens, NY

photos by Adeet Deshmukh

Blame It on the Bacon

2008-08-03T17:35:00.024-04:00

Last night I crossed a line. Although my food choices don't always qualify as "healthy," I like to think I keep things in balance. For every greasy gyro, I have a salad, and despite my love for the Doughnut Plant, I eat more whole-grain snacks than sugary ones. But yesterday I headed down a dangerous path.

What happened? Adeet and I stopped at Crif Dogs on our way back home from a trip to New Jersey. As I scanned the menu, I briefly settled on the veggie dog, but my inner foodie chided me. "C'mon, you come to a hot dog joint to eat tofu?" Duly chastened, I found myself ordering the "Tsunami": a bacon-wrapped hot dog with teriyaki sauce, pineapple, and green onions. That sounded brazenly carnivorous enough to dispel any rumors of vegetarian sympathies. Adeet asked for a "Crif Dog" topped with baked beans and grilled onions. "Why not add a fried egg?" I um, egged him on. He agreed. Love and cholesterol will keep us together. I should mention that Crif Dogs deep fries their sausages.

When our food arrived, I immediately questioned what we'd gotten ourselves into. After my first bite, I started to panic. This tasted good. Too good. What if I started craving these things? For much of of the last 15 years, I didn't eat pork and seldom ate beef. Now I found myself savoring the crispy bacon that entwined the smoky sausage. The pineapple added a pleasant sweetness, though I couldn't help but wish it were fresh, not canned. The hot dog was skinny, which made me feel a little better about the fat piece of bacon wrapped around it. Adeet's hot dog looked like an English breakfast on a bun, and he devoured it with the same enthusiasm he does a traditional fry-up.

Adeet and I walked the long way back to the subway to offset some of the caloric damage, and I congratulated myself for at least skipping a side of french fries or tater tots. But I couldn't help but remember a former coworker who had a special phrase for the kind of meal we'd just eaten: "slutty" food. And then I blushed—I'd just lost my reputation at Crif Dogs.

Crif Dogs

113 St. Mark's Place • NY, NY

photos by Adeet Deshmukh

Did Someone Say "Falafel"?

2008-08-03T16:30:00.009-04:00

I am highly suggestible when it comes to falafel. When I spot the cheap eats staple on "Best of NYC" food lists, I clear my calendar and start mapping subway routes. If I overhear coworkers ordering falafel for lunch, I eavesdrop for details. These approaches have led to the delicious (Alfanoose) and the disappointing (Hoomoos Asli), as well as the reliably good (Mamoun's). When a friend recently raved about the falafel at Naomi's Kosher Pizza and Israeli Falafel, I knew Adeet and I would soon be visiting the restaurant in Kew Gardens Hills.

To get to Naomi's, we took the express train one stop past Jackson Heights and then caught a bus to Main Street. For a fairly short trip, we covered a good deal of cultural distance. The ubiquitous Hindi and Bengali of our neighborhood soon gave way to Hebrew. At Naomi's, Jewish prayers are posted above the communal sink, Israeli educational charts decorate the walls, and a news article in Hebrew is taped to the cash register. A faux palm tree and large mural of Jerusalem remind diners of falafel's Middle Eastern origins. However, I quickly remembered we were still in New York when I heard the staff speaking Spanish. The cashier didn't initially understand me when I ordered dessert, so I switched to español and got my chocolate pastry.

But we came for falafel, not rugelach. Adeet and I both had our sandwiches topped with tahini sauce and Israeli salad. I'd get the summery tomato and cucumber salad again, but next time I'll skip the tahini. It distracted from the falafel, which, in classic Iron Chef parlance, was "the real star of the dish." I pulled the chickpea balls out of the sandwich and ate them without the unnecessary bread and sauce. They tasted fresh and not at all heavy or greasy. The falafel had such a light texture that I had to double-check that it had been fried.

I'll go back to Naomi's, but I know other pitas will cross my plate. Last night, Adeet and I ran into an acquaintance having dinner with friends in Jackson Heights. After a round of introductions, our conversation quickly turned to food. As we compared notes, two men in the group recommended Sam's Falafel and Alan's Falafel, rival vendors in Liberty Plaza. I immediately started planning how to make it to the Financial District and back during my lunch break. It might be tricky, but I'll do it. Where there's a falafel, there's a way.

Naomi's Kosher Pizza and Israeli Falafel

68-28 Main Street • Queens, NY

photos by Adeet and Kate Deshmukh

Y Tu Mamá También

2008-07-22T21:47:00.013-04:00

As the days get hotter, I find myself walking more and more slowly. I may be burning fewer calories, but now I have time to read the numerous handwritten signs taped to shop doors and windows. This evening, as Adeet and I crept along Roosevelt Avenue, I stopped in front of a graphic "Before" and "After" photo display. And then I read the copy:

Why, Mother has the skin of a schoolgirl, thank you very much. If I did look older than Mom, I might pass for sixteen. I can only imagine how haggard you must appear, Miss Flawless Program, since your mother's complexion surely resembles a pair of rattlesnake cowboy boots.

When this heat wave breaks, I'll pick up my pace again. But I'll be sure to look out for any particularly impertinent signs. You don't expect me to let them talk about my mother that way, do you?

No Kulfi Allowed

2008-07-20T21:18:00.029-04:00

On one of my daily walks down 37th Avenue, I noticed a sign on a shop window at JMD Mall declaring: No Food, No Drinks, No Kulfi.

Kulfi is a frozen Indian dessert, denser than Western ice cream and often flavored with saffron or cardamom. I wondered why it didn't fall under the broad "Food" category. And why had it been singled out among all other frozen treats? A Mister Softee truck often parked down the street, but no one had specifically banned his cones. Would salespeople overlook Popsicles? Perhaps I could saunter into a sari shop and slurp a snow cone with impunity, while my kulfi-licking neighbors were escorted off the premises.

Today I saw another sign with an anti-kulfi bias. Khan Electronics has taken the additional step of prohibiting gum chewing, but kulfi is at the top of their "No" list. Shopkeepers might soon lobby the mayor, and we'll find groups of kulfi eaters huddled outside storefronts, furtively lapping up their dessert before running errands. We'll sigh as we recall a New York that wasn't afraid of people dripping on the carpet and reminisce about the days when you could have your kulfi and eat it too.

photo by Adeet Deshmukh

Bombay Frankie

2008-07-13T22:47:00.029-04:00

A sure way for a New York restaurant to get our business is to put the name “Bombay” in it. Adeet and I both associate Bombay/Mumbai with eating well, and any mention of the city triggers a discussion of our favorite foods. When we heard about a NYC spot called “Roti Roll Bombay Frankie,” we didn’t hesitate to give it a try.

A frankie is Mumbai’s version of the wrap. A griddled roti (flatbread) is piled with lamb, chicken, egg, vegetables, or paneer (cheese). Other parts of India have kati rolls, but Mumbai claims the frankie as its own. [Thank you for clarifying this, Mitali!] We overheard a customer ask, "Do they really call them 'frankies' in Bombay?" They do. Mumbaikers eat a fish called "Bombay duck.” Why not name a sandwich "frankie"?

Adeet ordered a chicken frankie, and I opted for unda, or egg. We watched the multitasking cook crack an egg on one side of the griddle and heat pieces of chicken on the other. He efficiently slid the fillings onto the rotis, added tomatoes, onions, and green sauce, and then wrapped them burrito-style. Adeet commented that in Bombay the sides are left open, but I appreciated the New York variation, especially since I had on a cream-colored top.

Frankies are street food, so the restaurant’s utilitarian décor didn’t surprise me. We sat on stools at a narrow metal counter and ate quickly. The atmosphere doesn’t encourage lingering, but at least the large front window allows for people watching.

We had asked for “medium spicy,” but my eggs could have used an extra dash of masala. Still, our meal was cheap and filling, and I imagine the wraps are popular with nearby Columbia students and late-night drinkers. The frankies don’t compare to the Bombay snacks we can get in Jackson Heights, and they’re no match for the gyros from Sammy’s. But we’ll go back, despite having to take two subways to get there.

Before we left, we told the owner how glad we were to find frankies in New York. It turns out he's from a Bombay neighborhood we know, and he and Adeet began chatting in Marathi. He appeared genuinely touched when Adeet complimented him and said it meant a lot that we liked his food.

We love the food in Bombay, in no small part because of the family and friends who share it with us. Our conversation with the owner gave us a Bombay connection here in New York, which is why we'll get his frankies again. Sometimes it’s the people, and not just the cooking, that bring us back.

Roti Roll Bombay Frankie
994 Amsterdam Ave. • NY, NY

photos by Adeet Deshmukh

Hats Off to the Dosa Man

2008-07-10T23:37:00.038-04:00

I first saw the Dosa Man in 2005, when Adeet and I were visiting New York from Chicago. As we walked through Washington Square Park, we passed a cart advertising "NY Dosas." We didn't stop, but after we moved to New York, I began hearing tales of Thiru Kumar, or the "Dosa Man." He's the 2007 winner of the Vendy Award and frequently makes "Best of NYC" food lists.

Dosas are often described as South Indian crepes. They're crispier than French crepes and made with rice or lentil flour. They can be filled with potatoes and vegetables, served slick with ghee, or eaten plain.

One evening this April, Adeet and I discussed dinner options as we walked to the grocery store. "Why not try the Dosa Man?" I suggested, not in the mood for shopping, cooking, and washing up. We headed to Washington Square Park but didn't see the cart. We walked around the park, through the park, and around one more time. No Dosa Man. We stayed and played Scrabble on our laptop before getting falafel and going home. A pleasant evening, but no dosa.

After a little research, we found the Dosa Man's phone number online. What is the Internet for, if not to help feed our insatiable appetites? Adeet called and the Dosa Man answered, apologizing for any inconvenience his absence had caused us. He said he was working on a project for the city and would return in May.

We waited patiently, tiding ourselves over with soup dumplings and samosas, tacos and gyros. When we rented a car in June to drive upstate, we detoured through Manhattan just for the Dosa Man. Stuck in traffic, we consoled ourselves with the thought of an award-winning South Indian lunch. When we made it to the park, we chided ourselves for not phoning first. No Dosa Man.

Another month passed, until we decided this would be our week. We discussed whether we should order masala (filled) dosa or sada (plain) dosa. Our menu planning turned out to be premature. Adeet called and the Dosa Man apologized again; this time his cart needed some maintenance. "Please try again tomorrow." Adeet called the next day, and this time the Dosa Man assured him he was there.

Adeet and I planned to meet in front of the dosa cart, and as I left work, I could almost taste the masala. I hailed a cab and just as I opened the taxi door, my hat flew off. My new, very fetching, chartreuse summer hat. Did I mention it was new? As it blew down Broadway, I dodged oncoming traffic, hoping I'd get my hat and make it to the Dosa Man alive. It tumbled under a delivery truck, eventually landing on the sidewalk. I snatched my hat before a crush of tourists unwittingly trampled it. I ran back to the street, and found the cab still waiting for me, the door ajar. The flustered driver said, "I didn't know what happened. First I had a passenger. Then I didn't." The hat drama proved so distracting, he didn't start the meter for several blocks.

I found Adeet and a line of customers waiting by the cart. The celebrated Mr. Kumar was flanked by two assistants, who took drink orders and promoted Dosa Man T-shirts. When it was our turn, the Dosa Man recommended the Pondicherry dosa, "the most famous one." I agreed to try it, but Adeet ordered a sada dosa. When the Dosa Man handed us our lunch, I felt as if we had just won a prize.

My Pondicherry dosa was filled with spiced potatoes, red peppers, and mixed salad. The salad balanced the potato filling, keeping it from feeling heavy. Adeet's sada dosa was light by nature, having no filling. The dosas were golden brown and crispy, and the sambar (curry) had a pleasant kick. But when we dipped into the chutney, the Dosa Man won our stomachs. It was thick and creamy, with a subtle coconut taste. We greedily scooped it up with our dosas. When our crepes were gone, we put spoons and fingers to work.

I had worried that the dosa might not meet my hopes and expectations. I shouldn't have. Next time, though, I'm asking for extra chutney. And I'm holding onto my hat.

The Dosa Man
Washington Square Park
West 4th St. & Sullivan St. • NY, NY
917.710.2092

photos by Adeet Deshmukh

The Mount Sinai of Mastication:Nathan's Famous Hot Dog Eating Contest

2008-07-05T17:31:00.092-04:00

I skipped the fireworks this Fourth of July. Pyrotechnics would only pale in comparison to the fanfare and spectacle of Nathan’s Famous International Hot Dog Eating Contest. Part Coney Island sideshow and part sporting event, the contest served up an all-American tradition of celebrating dubious accomplishments.

Adeet and I arrived almost three hours early, only to discover a large crowd had already beat us to the sidelines. We stood for an hour behind the press area, lamenting our limited view, when police removed several barriers and allowed us close to the stage. Now I hoped we weren't too close.

George Shea, the event’s emcee and chairman of the International Federation of Competitive Eating (IFOCE), recalled the old-school barkers of Coney Island's heyday. Sporting a boater and dapper suit, he demonstrated a flair for hyperbole as he welcomed revelers to the “Mt. Sinai of mastication.” He maintained a steady stream of carney banter, breaking character only to encourage donations to emergency food programs, after accepting a "check" for 100,000 Nathan's hot dogs made out to the Food Bank for New York City.

Musicians, trampolinists, dancing hot dog mascots, and even a marriage proposal distracted us from restlessly fixating on the giant countdown clock. Cheerleaders held our attention by firing T-shirt guns into the crowd, but the ESPN cameras that zoomed over our heads whipped up the most enthusiasm.

When Shea introduced the contenders, he enumerated the gluttony of their competitive eating careers—hard-boiled eggs, shoo-fly pie, oysters, cranberry jelly, Spam, jambalaya—ad nauseam. He flirted with the two female contestants, Sonya Thomas and Juliet Lee, and announced each competitor with exaggerated gusto. However, two men received the most attention: last year's victor, Joey Chestnut, and his main rival, former six-time winner Takeru "The Tsunami" Kobayashi. Chestnut possessed the champion "mustard belt," but Kobayashi looked like the true hot dogger, with his mustard-yellow and ketchup-red hairstyle.

The eaters engaged in various pre-gorge rituals. Crazy Legs Conti pulled on a pair of gloves and stretched his jaw, while Pete Davekos tied on a bandana sensei style and waited stoically. Most of the contestants appeared relatively fit, though none possessed the physique of Juris Shibayama, who flexed his body-built muscles. Kobayashi hugged most of the competitors. I wasn't prepared for what came next.

After Shea led the crowd in a countdown, Kobayashi tore through buns with ravenous efficiency and shoved hot dogs into his mouth. Others had red liquid streaming down their arms as they devoured buns dunked in juice. Some jerked their heads back, forcing the food down and fighting the gag reflex, but Chestnut's entire body twitched. Crazy Legs' face took on an unhealthy pallor and the veins in Chestnut's forehead throbbed menacingly. Only Kobayashi looked as if it weren't an entirely unpleasant experience. His face didn't betray any pain, only a determined concentration as he continued cramming hot dog after hot dog. Although I hadn't eaten anything all day, I started to feel queasy.

The contest clearly centered around Chestnut and Kobayashi. Shea shouted out their scores as first Chestnut, and then Kobayashi, took the lead. When the ten-minute competition ended, each had devoured 59 hot dogs. After a quick consultation, Shea declared a tie breaker: the first to eat five hot dogs would go home the winner. Both men ate with ferocious speed, but as Kobayashi pushed the last bit of bun into his mouth, Chestnut had already finished.

I had rooted for the Japanese Kobayashi, fascinated by his cool demeanor and charmed by his hair color. He accepted the second-place trophy graciously and when his translator asked him if he had anything to say, he thanked everyone in English for their love and support. Unfortunately, he also lifted up his shirt, flashing his distended belly. Shea presented Chestnut to us as an American hero and led the crowd in chants of "USA! USA!" Chestnut held his mustard belt aloft, clearly relishing his second victory over Kobayashi.

As the crowd dispersed, Adeet and I made our way to the boardwalk. We passed the abrasive barker at "Shoot the Freak" and stopped at Gregory & Paul's food stand for lunch. Adeet ordered a slice of pizza, and as I considered fried clams and knish, I knew I had only one choice.

I managed to eat half a hot dog, which I washed down with lemonade (no dunking). Maybe next Independence Day I'll eat a whole one, after I cheer on Kobayashi to reclaim his mustard belt. That is, if I can stomach it.

Nathan's Famous International Hot Dog Eating Contest
Coney Island, NY
photos and video by Adeet Deshmukh

Ghost Chili Cupcakes: Waiting for the Burn

2008-06-29T17:35:00.025-04:00

What do you feed a foodie friend with only a few days in New York? Brooke, a personal chef from Chicago, had enjoyed our weekly “Gyro Night,” eaten sweetbreads and tripe at La Porteña, and expertly slurped soup dumplings at Chinatown’s Shanghai Café. But she still hadn’t experienced an “only in New York” food moment.

“Guinea pig?” I suggested. I knew of an Ecuadorian café in Jackson Heights that served grilled cuy. She responded enthusiastically, but Adeet grew squeamish. Then it occurred to me:

Ghost chili cupcakes.

Pinisi Bakery makes chocolate cupcakes infused with ghost chili, the hottest pepper in the world. I had tried a cupcake in March, and it was a revelatory experience. I’d tasted chocolate and chili together before, but never in a way that swerved along the pleasure/pain border with such abandon.

Adeet called Pinisi to make sure they had the cupcakes available. It was a hot and humid evening, and we didn’t want to expend energy only to end up empty-handed. “Come by in 30 minutes,” a woman told him. We headed to the subway and made our way to the East Village bakery.

Bianca, the attractive woman behind the counter, greeted us with a smile, but when we asked for three ghost chili cupcakes, her face fell. She told us that Andy, the baker, had left to deliver a wedding cake. It was only her third day on the job, and she didn’t know where he’d left the recently made batch of spicy cupcakes to cool.

We stayed and admired the red velvet cakes and tiramisus on display. But as the bakery’s one fan waged a losing battle against the heat, we decided to take a walk and try again in another 30 minutes.

After a few blocks, we found ourselves at Pommes Frites. French fries may not be unique to NYC, but the expertly fried potatoes and dipping sauces make Pommes Frites a worthy destination for any food tourist. Not wanting to spoil our appetite for cupcakes, we split a small and shared a trio of sauces: Irish curry, Vietnamese pineapple mayo, and “war sauce” (European mayo, peanut satay sauce, and raw onion). The pineapple proved the most refreshing, but we made quick work of all three.

Now it was back to Pinisi, where Bianca informed us that Andy had called and was looking for parking. We settled in on a nearby stoop where we could people watch and critique the parallel parking skills of neighborhood drivers. After 20 minutes, I started to entertain disturbing scenarios: What if the baker had grown exasperated looking for a space and gone home? Or maybe a careless driver had rear-ended his van, and he was embroiled in a shouting match.

When he finally arrived, I had to resist the urge to run up and hug him.

Our quest wasn’t over yet, however. We had to wait several more minutes while Andy disappeared to get our cupcakes. Bianca seemed relieved that our mission was almost complete and chatted with us about her recent move from LA to NYC. She’d traded a modeling career for one in screenwriting, and I doubt that she’d anticipated placating a group of ghost chili seekers in her new life. At last Andy emerged with the cupcakes on a golden cake board.

My first bite into the cake was spicy, but not dauntingly so. However, each taste built in heat and culminated in the sinus-clearing chili jelly that filled the center of the cupcake. I ignored the cream-cheese frosting, wanting to prolong the not unpleasant burn. Andy pointed out that the cupcakes were now “jumbo” sized, and they were considerably larger than the first one I’d had. I don’t normally mind more of a good thing, but I think a smaller version might have a greater impact. A mini chili cupcake would pack an almost guilt-free punch, and could pair nicely with a single, bracing shot of espresso.

We chatted with the quick-to-smile Andy between bites. He and Brooke discussed the capsaicin levels of various peppers, and he explained his technique of soaking the ghost chilies in water and using the juice in his cupcakes. We compared notes on New York patisseries—he told us to try Payard, and we recommended Cannelle. Andy’s originally from Indonesia, and when we asked if good Indonesian food could be had in NYC, he laughed, “If I want Indonesian food, I just make it myself.”

When Adeet asked Andy about the name “Pinisi,” he explained that it’s a type of Indonesian schooner. He wanted to associate his bakery with the role ships have played in bringing food into port cities. I imagined people languishing in tropical heat as they waited for the latest arrival of goods and decided his bakery was aptly named.

Adeet and I exclaimed over the cupcakes a number of times, and Andy appeared touched by our effusive praise. When we left, he held his palms together in a quick “namaste.”

And what did Brooke think of her ghost chili cupcake? She bought two more to take back to Chicago.

I wonder how long she waited before taking a bite.

Pinisi Bakery

128 East 4th Street • New York, NY

photos by Adeet Deshmukh

Inti Raymi: Shifting Our Culinary Compass

2008-06-25T00:05:00.013-04:00

Our Jackson Heights’ compass normally points west of our apartment, toward the vicinity of 74th Street’s Little India. Last night, however, we ventured east and ended up at Inti Raymi, a Peruvian restaurant.

We stayed on the first page of the menu and ordered only entradas (appetizers). Often when I order an appetizer as an entrée, I’m left hungry and cursing my attempt at thriftiness. However, my ceviche entrada came with generous sides: two types of hominy—cancha (large, toasted corn kernels) and mote (boiled corn) —as well as a white potato and a sweet potato. I enjoyed the slightly sweet mote, and the crunchy, parched cancha could make its way into my regular snack rotation. Already full of starch, I left the potatoes.

My ceviche mixto arrived blanketed under so many onions that I wondered if I had misread ceviche as cebolla ("onion"). But underneath this purple layer was a liberal serving of fish, calamari, octopus, and shrimp. The seafood had a clean, fresh taste, accented by a lime marinade, which was also served on the side. It is one of the best ceviches I’ve had in New York and reminded me that we really are near the ocean.

Adeet ordered a tamal wrapped in a banana leaf. It didn’t come with any sides, but it proved filling on its own. As he discovered chicken, boiled egg, and olives in the corn masa, he commented that each bite was like a treasure hunt.

We’d also ordered a serving of fried sweet plantains and gamely dipped them in a fiery rocoto sauce, which our waiter cautioned us would be hot. We tend to react smugly when people warn us about heat, since we consider our taste buds well tempered by Indian spices. We discovered, though, that our tongues aren’t ready for Peruvian chilies.

Inti Raymi has been in Jackson Heights since 1976, and I doubt the décor has changed since opening day. The stucco walls are decorated with quaint paintings of village scenes, and a large, metal Incan god dominates the front window. The place has a homey feel, and the number of diners there on a Monday night attested to its welcoming nature. Customers sang along with a strolling, serenading guitarist and people clapped after each number. We joined in the applause. After all, we'd learned we could find good food on both ends of the neighborhood map.

Inti Raymi

8614 37th Ave. • Jackson Heights, NY

photos by Adeet Deshmukh

The Iron Triangle

2008-06-24T00:07:00.011-04:00

Somewhere in City Hall I imagine a giant list labeled, “Develop This!” Times Square? Check! The Bowery? Check! Harlem? Half a check! As the checkmarks in the Manhattan column begin adding up, the civic cleanup crew turns their sights to the outer boroughs. Coney Island? Wouldn’t you rather have a new condo than a sideshow? Willets Point? Why not build a convention center to battle what Mayor Bloomberg disparages as blight?

Willets Point, Queens, also known as the “Iron Triangle,” is NYC’s largest stretch of junkyards and auto-repair shops. The city charges that the area, just past Shea Stadium and the new Citi Field, is contaminated and has proposed a redevelopment plan that would replace existing businesses with a convention center, hotel, school, and other “exciting retail and entertainment offerings.” Years of spilled antifreeze and petroleum have undoubtedly left the Iron Triangle polluted. But to dismiss it as "blight" is to ignore the neighborhood's needs—the city has turned down requests to install sewer lines—and to overlook a vibrant commercial community.

When Adeet and I visited the area this spring, we felt as though we’d taken the 7 train to another country. A rooster darted in front of us as we walked down an unpaved road that was both dusty and filled with pools of standing water, prompting us to exclaim, "It's like India!" We hadn’t yet noticed the sign for “House of Spices,” manufacturer of Laxmi brand Indian food products. Then we saw the goddess of good fortune casting her gaze over the chop shops and scrap yards, and we knew it was like India, or at least some place far removed from the rest of the gentrified city.

Auto-repair, parts, and paint shops occupy much of the Iron Triangle's 13-block vicinity, but another economy, contingent on the body shops, thrives in the midst of the mufflers and motor oil. We watched as women carrying black plastic bags filled with DVDs scouted for potential customers and overheard a mechanic murmuring, “Nice, nice,” as he flipped through a selection of bootlegs. Mister Softee dodged potholes, and customers arrived for ice cream as soon as he parked. I bargained bilingually with men selling mangoes from the back of a van but declined their offer to peel the dusty fruit for me. I’d wait until I could get home and wash it. Two adolescent boys stood near the mango sellers, each one with a cooler full of drinks for sale. A woman grilled meat outside a body shop, but workers interested in a sit-down experience could dine at Master Express Deli & Restaurant. And we spotted the rooster again, this time with a pair of hens.

Like much of Queens, the Iron Triangle represents a diverse population. Latino and African American businesses border South Asian and Korean shops. Many of them demonstrate an eye for industrial aesthetics. Salvaged car doors serve as billboards and stacks of tires double as fortress walls. Rims look as if they’ve been lined up for target practice, their metallic bull’s-eyes glinting in the sun. If this were the Lower East Side, the mechanics might be awarded gallery space.

Earlier this month, with the mayor issuing threats of eminent domain, two Iron Triangle business owners agreed to sell. If the remaining companies are forced out, another gritty, unique New York community will disappear. I wonder, though, if the rooster will stay behind, strutting down new hotel halls, leaving a trail of oil and dust.

The Iron Triangle

Roosevelt Avenue near 126th Street

Take the 7 train to Shea Stadium

photos by Adeet Deshmukh

Pop(-Up) Art

2008-06-17T22:50:00.017-04:00

If Andy Warhol were alive today, he might switch from silkscreen to Hello Kitty Pop-Up toaster. This pink-and-white machine consistently reproduces the iconic feline’s image. A stack of slightly singed masterpieces is done within minutes, or until the smoke detector puts an end to the creative process.

Cheap, white bread from the bodega, not artisanal pain from Dean & Deluca, yields the best results. Bagels will work in a bind, but the uniformly square slices of factory-made bread make for a better canvas.

The three friends who gave me a Hello Kitty toaster couldn’t have anticipated the extent to which their gift would keep on giving. I find myself compelled to make toast, whether or not it’s breakfast. And I can’t bring myself to eat it. Although it’s doubtful that it will ever fetch $28,000 on ebay, in the future, my toast just might be famous for 15 minutes.

Hello Kitty Pop-Up Toaster

Thank you, Adam, Erin, & Susanna!

photos by Adeet Deshmukh

In These Shoes?

2008-06-12T00:14:00.011-04:00

Last weekend Adeet and I attended two weddings in upstate New York. On our way to wedding #2, we saw a sign beckoning us to Hill Cumorah in Palmyra: Only 5 miles away! The hill is the site where Joseph Smith is said to have found golden tablets left by the angel Moroni, which Smith translated and published as the Book of Mormon.

Adeet was keen to visit. After reading Jon Krakauer’s Under the Banner of Heaven, he grew interested in Mormon history and particularly in Mormon fundamentalism. He can cite dates, towns, and names of people associated with the religious movement and coherently explain Mormon practice and belief. His interest is academic, but he was curious to see the birthplace of this religion. I agreed, always ready for a field trip.

We thought it would take ten minutes to run to the top of the hill and have a quick look before heading to the next wedding. I should have known a hilltop experience would require a little more time.

We entered the Visitors’ Center, where an older man welcomed us enthusiastically. After an initial, “Where are you from?” he asked if we were members of the church. When I responded in the negative, he laughed, “Well, we can take care of that,” followed by a hasty, “Just kidding!” Then he called over two young women to give us a tour of the center. They wore nametags identifying themselves as “Sister Nielsen” and “Sister Friere.”

We told the Sisters we wanted to go to the top of the hill and asked if we could walk up. Sister Nielsen looked me over and laughed, “In those shoes? I think you better drive to the top!” My shoes were impractical—kitten heels adorned with faux foliage. I hadn’t factored in a hiking trip when I got dressed for the weddings.

We were ready to make our ascent, but first the women wanted to tell us about Joseph Smith and his discovery. They showed us a small replica of the forest where Joseph Smith said he received an angelic visitation; it resembled the type of dioramas found in older wings of natural history museums. Each time one of the Sisters started to share a piece of Mormon history, Adeet would finish their sentence or make a comment that indicated his knowledge of the topic. They were impressed: “A lot of people come here and don’t have their facts straight. Are you a religion professor?”

This amused both of us, and I couldn’t resist mentioning that I was the one who had studied theology.” Sister Nielsen giggled and said, “With those shoes, I thought you were going to say you had a degree in fashion!”

We listened respectfully to everything the Sisters had to say, but Adeet couldn’t help inquiring, “Has anyone ever found archeological evidence of the Nephites?” Mormons believe the Nephites were a group of people who left Jerusalem in 600 BCE and traveled to the Americas. Sister Nielsen smiled, “Oh, I don’t know enough about that, but I can give you the e-mail addresses of people who are doing some very interesting archeological research.”

“Now we’d like to take you to the Christus room,” Sister Nielsen smiled. The women led us into a small auditorium and closed the door. A large statue of a muscular-looking Jesus with prominent wounds stood in the front of the room. I sat near the door, but Adeet went for a center spot in the first row, thinking they might show a movie. Instead, they switched on a recording of a man speaking as Jesus, telling us in a deep baritone that we could come to him if we were weary or burdened (a verse from the book of Matthew). Earlier, the Sisters had talked exclusively about Joseph Smith but now they focused on Jesus. Sister Nielsen’s eyes grew wide as she explained how this Bible passage was a great comfort to her. I smiled and nodded, acknowledging her comfort but wondering if they were going to press us, at least a little, to convert. Instead they asked us if we’d like to visit their research room. We declined, and said we’d make up our way up the hill now.

It took only a minute to drive to the hill and park the car. As we neared the statue of the angel Moroni marking the sacred spot, we saw a woman look up at the angel and lift her arms in a victory salute. She appeared athletic and wore sensible footwear. When she turned to walk past us, she gave me a look that seemed to say, “Really? In those shoes?”

Hill Cumorah Visitors' Center
603 State Route 21 • Palmyra, New York

photos by Adeet Deshmukh

Bombay, American-Style

2008-06-10T22:11:00.031-04:00

Today I had Bombay flashbacks, perhaps induced by the heat. The temperature in NYC hit 97 ° F (36° C to the rest of the world), and my own unscientific calculations put the humidity at 98%. As I walked down 74th Street in Jackson Heights, women in salvar kameez hurried by me. I passed shops selling bangles (expensive gold ones and cheap flashy ones) and wedding saris, while speakers from a Bollywood music store blared into the street, providing my own filmi soundtrack. Stacks of mango boxes towered near the entrance to Patel Brothers' supermarket, and a row of sidewalk vendors sat behind tables piled with copies of the Qur’an, belts, vegetables, and flashing, whirring toys.

Since Adeet and I were feeling kitchen-shy from the heat, we decided to stop for chaat (snacks) at Rajbhog, my favorite place for Bombay-style food in New York.

I walked in expecting a 20-degree drop in temperature, but the a/c must have been overtaxed. Several fans were set up around the restaurant, and the women behind the counter looked deflated. They normally have at least a slight smile for us (especially when Adeet orders in Hindi), but now their faces showed nothing but suffering.

We ordered quickly: sev puri and khandvi.

Sev puri is the perfect combination of hot and cool, crunchy and creamy. I’m sure there are as many variations of this snack as there are chaat vendors in Bombay. This particular recipe included crispy puris the size of small, round tortilla chips, boiled potatoes, raw onion, tamarind chutney, and masala mixed with yogurt and sprinkled with sev, crispy vermicelli noodles. It is the culinary equivalent of jumping into cold water on a scorching day—heat and relief; you can't truly appreciate one without the other.

Khandvi resembles pasta. The noodles are made with chickpea flour, then rolled and garnished with mustard seeds and parsley. It is mild and soothing, but after finishing the sev puri, the khandvi was almost neglected. Almost.

We sat by a fan and as we ate, the room began to feel more comfortable. Perhaps the a/c had started to cooperate, or maybe it was a chaat-induced miracle. Soon Adeet even considered ordering chai, forgetting that hot liquids might not be the best thirst quencher. Instead he drank Limca, the Indian soft drink with which it is fair to say he is obsessed. I had a mango lassi (similar to a yogurt smoothie) that possessed Goldilock proportions: not too thick or too thin, too small or too big. Just right.

One of the guilty pleasures of eating at Rajbhog is the chance to watch a continuous loop of Bollywood music videos on a flat-screen television. We were slightly dazed by the sight of Sanjay Dutt dressed like a hip hop gangster but felt compelled to watch. It provided our empty calories for the evening.

When we left the restaurant, I heard people speaking Spanish and English, not only Hindi and Bengali. An Eastern European family strolled down the sidewalk, followed by a young Hispanic girl cruising in her "Power Wheel" mini SUV. On the walk home, we passed a Colombian restaurant, a Polish deli, and a Korean stationery shop. This may have burst my Bombay bubble, but it's why I love this particular New York City neighborhood. And Bombay is still in the picture. It soon started thundering and pouring rain, and I remembered—it's monsoon season.

Rajbhog
72-27 37th Ave. • Jackson Heights, NY

photos by Adeet Deshmukh

My Devi Days

2008-06-08T23:55:00.011-04:00

Adeet and I spent the winter of 2006–2007 in India. During that time, we stayed with his family, traveled, and had a traditional marriage ceremony. We will be returning for a visit this fall, and I find myself thinking often of India and my experiences there.

On December 15, 2006, I became a goddess. Not in a New Age sense of feminine self-affirmation. Instead, I entered the Mumbai home of my husband’s grandparents as a ghar ki Lakshmi, or “the Lakshmi of the house.” The devi, or goddess, Lakshmi is the bringer of wealth and good fortune. Traditionally, an Indian bride comes into her in-laws’ home with a dowry, and she might truly bring substantial wealth with her. I brought no material assets, but my new family still generously declared me their Lakshmi. They mixed kumkum, a scarlet powder made with turmeric and lime, into a pan of water and instructed me to step into it and walk through the house. I left a trail of vermillion footprints behind me, which signified the arrival of the goddess. Over the next few days, the footprints gradually faded, and I imagined that part of me had seeped into the tiles of the floor, literally making me part of the home.

What does it mean to be a goddess? Vijutai, the family’s cook, showered me with generosity. Nearly every day, she would call me into the pantry, open a drawer crowded with kitchen paraphernalia, and pull out a pair of earrings. Pink, purple, turquoise, orange, and green “gems” dangled from metal hooks, ensuring I had jewelry to match every outfit. When she learned that I had a craving for galub jamuns, she made dozens of the sweet, deep-fried dumplings. Vijutai also took me shopping, showing me how to bargain for saris and bangles and then sending me home with more treasures.

Vijutai has a quick laugh and is easily affectionate, betraying none of the hurt she has suffered. As a young wife, her husband beat her unconscious, landing her in the hospital. Her mother gave her an ultimatum: Stay with your husband, and consider your mother dead. Or return to your mother, and leave your husband forever. Vijutai chose her mother and later moved into my inlaws’ home, where she has worked for almost 20 years. She never had her own children but considers her employers’ family her own. My arrival meant she now had a daughter.

I learned that my role as Lakshmi went beyond receiving gifts. Vijutai has an altar in a small room to the side of the kitchen. It is crowded with gods–Hanuman, Ganapati, Mahalakshmi–as well as images of swamis and gurus. Vijutai talks to them, and her gods do more than bring wealth or remove obstacles. They listen to her. All homes have worry and heartache along with happiness, and as the ghar ki Lakshmi, I could offer empathy. My footprints had permeated the house, but all the love and joy and grief in the household had also become a part of me.

No longer in Mumbai, I often think of my devi days and long to be back, breathing in the spicy kala masala that fills the kitchen and listening to Vijutai. The altar might be cramped, but I know she would make room for me, her Lakshmi.

photos by Adeet Deshmukh

The Accidental Pilgrim

2008-06-08T23:18:00.011-04:00

The map of India is a lesson in sacred geography. Point a pilgrim, whether Hindu, Muslim, Buddhist, Sikh, or Jain in almost any direction, and she will have no trouble finding a holy site. However, I did not come to India with a spiritual agenda, but with a curiosity about my new family’s country. A few days after my husband, Adeet, and I arrived in Mumbai, we visited a Jain temple in Malabar Hill. We took pictures, carefully following the posted rule requesting that we not turn our back to any of the idols. Later, we visited a Hare Krishna temple in suburban Juhu and watched as people prostrated themselves before the deities. Worshipers swooned at the sight of an ornate Krishna and reminded me of devout Spanish Catholics I had seen weeping before bejeweled saints. I took off my shoes and joined the others who processed before Krishna and the other idols, but I was an outsider. Adeet and I visited these temples the way tourists to Europe wander through cathedrals, admiring the artwork and the architecture, but having no intention to enter the confession booth or attend services.

In late December, Adeet and I traveled 180 kilometers from Mumbai to Nasik with his father, Shank, to meet his relatives. According to the epic Ramayana, Lord Rama and his wife, Sita, spent part of their exile in Nasik. Our own visit lacked mythological significance, although the number of meals we ate each day and the photos we snapped with each family reached legendary proportions. The relatives welcomed me without hesitation, smudging kumkum, turmeric powder turned red from lime, on my forehead as a blessing and smiling at my broken Marathi.

On Christmas Eve day, Shank took us to the Trimbakeshwar temple outside of Nasik. The temple is a jyotirlinga, one of twelve shrines in India devoted to worshiping Shiva as a “lingam of light.” Lingam is the phallic symbol associated with Shiva. The Trimbakeshwar temple is different from other jyotirlinga because it houses a representation of Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva, instead of only Shiva.

When we reached the temple, we saw hundreds of people waiting in the type of line I’d seen only at museums and amusement parks. My father-in-law did not want to wait, and soon a guru-for-hire escorted us behind the temple, away from the queue. In the temple courtyard the guru instructed us to touch a stone representation of Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva. It was a model of the one inside the temple, which we would see only from a distance. I touched the stone, still feeling like an observer. However, as soon as we entered the temple, I realized that my husband and I were meant to be participants. Shank had brought us here to perform a puja, or ritual, to bless our marriage. We sat with the guru on the temple floor, and he flicked water on us. He then alternately placed water and rice in the palm of Adeet’s right hand. I was instructed to place my right hand on Adeet’s right forearm. My husband had to repeat a list of gods’ names, and I listened carefully to see how many I could recognize. I caught Lakshmi, the goddess of good fortune, but the other names were unfamiliar to me. Soon it was time for us to approach the front of the temple, where worshipers had waited to give their offerings. A crowd of people, anxious after waiting so long in line, shoved me forward, and Adeet fell behind. When he made his way to me, we hurried to the front and quickly peered down at Brahma, Vishnu, and Shiva before impatient pilgrims pushed us back toward the door.

Adeet and I were relieved to be outside, away from the fervent crowds. The guru led us to his home, a clean, quiet flat with a plant-lined terrace and open windows overlooking the dusty village streets. My husband and I sat on a wooden swing suspended from the ceiling, while the guru gave my father-in-law his business card. When we left, we headed to a bathing area where water from the Godavari River fills a shallow pool. It is said that bathing in the sacred Godavari cleanses a person from sin. Shank asked us to step into the water. I rolled up the bottom of my silk churidar to keep the purifying waters from staining my trousers and then quickly dipped my feet into the pool. Adeet was more hesitant and needed some convincing before he reluctantly stepped into the water. Once Adeet and I finished the rituals, we went back to honeymooning, taking photos and admiring the scenery.

On Christmas Day, we drove up into the mountain village of Vani with Shank and several other relatives to visit the Saptashrungi temple. The devi, or goddess, Bhagavati is said to live in Saptashrungi—“seven mountain peaks.” The temple is tucked into a mountain, at the top of 500 steps. I joined in the barefoot climb to the top, declining a lift in a long-handled doli. We entered the temple to find a number of people already waiting to see the goddess. The Christmas holiday had allowed more pilgrims than usual to visit this Hindu site, a benefit of a cross-cultural calendar. As we waited in line, two of the women in our group prepared an offering to the goddess: a green sari, a coconut, flowers, sweets, and rice, all carefully balanced on a metal plate. I watched this with interest, but then the tray was thrust into my hands. I had gone from being a spectator to suddenly taking the lead role.

When we neared the front of the temple, a guru took us to the side, away from the line of pilgrims. Adeet and I sat with him on the floor and repeated the type of ritual we had done the day before. There were several differences. This time we threw rice at the goddess, who stared wild-eyed, her 18 arms fanned out around her body. One of Adeet’s cousins told me the goddess’s image had appeared naturally in the stone. The devi no longer sported a natural look, however, since devotees had painted her body bright orange and given her black, dilated pupils. The sari we had brought was draped across her stone body, and I identified with a goddess who appreciated new clothes.

Temple workers escorted Adeet and me to a side room, where men wrapped an orange shawl around my husband’s shoulders. They led us to the goddess and instructed us to place our foreheads on her kumkum-smeared stone altar. Then we returned to the main temple area, our faces and hair streaked with vermilion powder. Shank considered this altar call auspicious and remarked that he had never been so close to the goddess. How then had I found my way to this devi?

Adeet and I stepped back, staring at the stone idol. “Ask the goddess for whatever you want, and she will grant it,” someone told me. What should I ask of a goddess I had only recently met? Should I focus on the greater good and request an end to poverty, so much of which I’d recently witnessed in Mumbai? Or could I risk impertinence and ask for personal wealth and fame? Perhaps it would be best to simply demur, “Really, I don’t need anything. Whatever you’d like to give me would be lovely.”

As we descended the 500 steps, Adeet and I both stopped to gaze at the Ghat Mountains. I understood why a goddess would want to live in these peaks, above the fields and villages, where even auto-rickshaws couldn’t reach and smog and petrol fumes didn’t choke the air.

The day after Christmas we traveled to Maral, the rural village where my father-in-law lived as a young boy. There is a small, brightly painted temple on his brother’s farm. Statues of the elephant god Ganesha and a small cow flank a figure of a family ancestor. We had come to ask the patriarch’s blessing. The guru obtained for this ceremony was annoyed because we had arrived late, and he grew impatient when I forgot to keep my right hand on Adeet’s right forearm. I felt emotionally exhausted from the previous pujas and wanted time to process the experiences of the past few days. As we sat on the temple floor, I fixated on a small black bug inching toward us and hoped it would find its way outside. During the puja, Adeet and I had to walk clockwise three times around the temple. As we turned a corner and faced a wheat field, I lingered before returning inside. I would have preferred watching the sun glance off the grain, but we had to go back, where the black bug still crept across the temple floor and Shank insisted it was safe for Adeet to drink the milky liquid the guru poured into his cupped palm. When we finished the rituals, the guru blessed us, but not without scolding Adeet for our late arrival. He then sped off on his motorbike, the wind catching his white khurta.

I had started the trip as a tourist but ended it as a pilgrim. I did not know the significance behind all the rituals or the list of gods’ names my husband recited, but I had caught glimpses of the divine—in the mountains, in the wheat fields, and in many of the people who welcomed me into their homes. And after climbing 500 temple steps, I did know what to ask the devi. But that’s between the two of us.

photos by Adeet Deshmukh
(except photo of Godavari River bathing area, by Kate Deshmukh)

Snake Gods

2008-06-08T23:00:00.008-04:00

The narrator of Kiran Desai’s The Inheritance of Loss complains about English writers writing about India, for “delirium and fever somehow went with temples and snakes and perverse romance, spilled blood, and miscarriage; it didn’t correspond to the truth.” Although temples did form an integral part of my Indian experience, I felt confident that none of the other “exotic” themes would feature in my travels. My husband, Adeet, and I had posed with a snake charmer and his cobra outside Jaipur’s City Palace. However, we knew this was a tourist attraction, more stereotype than archetype. I certainly didn’t intend for snakes to slither their way into my narrative. Then we went to Kerala.

Kerala is a small sliver of the subcontinent, a chili-shaped piece of land along the southwestern coast. The state is known as “God’s Own Country,” and although the appellation is derived from Hindu mythology, there are enough churches, mosques, and synagogues for worshipers to interpret “God” from a variety of theological angles. Kerala might also earn its heavenly reputation from its rich biodiversity. Mountains are carpeted with tea plantations, and tigers and elephants roam nature preserves. Tourists lounge aboard kettuvallams, Chinese-style houseboats, on a series of lagoons and canals known as the Backwaters. There are rain forests, too, where the infamous king cobra builds its nests.

Adeet and I traveled from Mumbai, Maharashtra to Thrissur, Kerala by the Konkan Railway. Our train tickets proclaimed “150 Years of Glorious Service,” but any glory was lost on me as I battled a cockroach infestation in our compartment. I ended up spending much of the 20-hour journey sitting in the open door of the train car. This is where the railway redeemed itself. Although I quickly grew sooty from the swirling dust and diesel fumes, I had a view unavailable from the tinted windows of our air-conditioned berth. The winter-parched countryside of Maharashtra eventually gave way to Kerala’s green rice paddies and coconut groves. Women with saris draped above their knees worked in the fields, and children waved as we chugged past their homes.

We disembarked in Thrissur and our host, Mr. Nair, drove us to the nearby village of Urakam. When we reached his home, he suggested in Indian vernacular that we “get fresh.” After a shower and nap we felt less train-lagged and were ready to go exploring. We walked with Mr. Nair down palm-lined streets and visited Krishna and Kali temples. I had seen people grow openly emotional in a Krishna temple in Mumbai, but Mr. Nair acted quietly respectful, as much tour guide as disciple. That evening we stood on his rooftop terrace and listened as he explained Kerala’s history of matrilineal descent. The state is unique in India for having a high female-to-male ratio, a reflection of the valued position women enjoy in Keralan society.

If we had left Urakam then, my lasting impression would have been of the village’s numerous coconut palms and of our host’s pride in his state’s history. However, before Adeet and I left for Athirappilly Falls, the next stop on our south Indian journey, Mr. Nair wanted to show us his childhood home. We walked to the large, multi-level house where he and an extended family of cousins grew up, and where his mother still lives. He took us to the backyard, a shady area of palm trees, and showed us a small temple set up in a clearing. Six snake gods sat coiled on the altar. I knew these were stone cobras but still felt wary of their flared hoods. The calmness Mr. Nair had shown at the temples the previous day was replaced with an intensity bordering on urgency. “Do namaste,” he requested. Adeet and I both folded our hands and bowed toward the altar. “Now circle the temple,” our host said. “If you don’t show the proper respect,” he explained, “you will have bad dreams about snakes.”

After my turn around the temple, I asked Mr. Nair if his devotion provides him protection. He told me that although snakes have bitten several of his family members, none of them died from the attacks. His temple allows him to exert a degree of control in an environment that might otherwise threaten him. The snake gods are confined to a walled-off altar, perhaps indicating the boundaries that both snakes and people must observe to coexist.

As Adeet and I continued our travels, we learned that snakes play a significant role in Keralan mythology. The tongue-twisting name of Kerala’s capital city, Thiruvananthapuram, refers to an important snake god. Snakes even insinuate themselves into boat racing. Every year the Backwaters teem with long snake boats, characterized by serpentine prows, that glide down the canals and lakes. I often thought of Mr. Nair’s snake gods and began to see how they fit into this cultural context. I realized, too, that my walk around the temple had taught me a lesson that’s as valuable in New York City as it is in Kerala: Respect what might hurt you, but don’t let its lethal potential overwhelm you. After all, the snake gods might raise their regal heads not to menace, but to bless.

photos by Adeet Deshmukh

An Embarrassment of Fishes

2008-06-05T22:43:00.053-04:00

Entering Morimoto is like stepping into the belly of a very elegant whale, one that recently swallowed a trendy Japanese restaurant. The ribbed ceiling, dim lighting, and absence of windows all contribute to the sensation of being inside a leviathan. This is not a criticism, however, especially since the restaurant features one of the most strikingly chic examples of recycling I've seen: a scintillating wall made of clear glass water bottles.

Adeet and I sat at the sushi bar, where we admired the chefs' knife skills and calm efficiency. We wondered if this was for our benefit, or if the scene would have been as cool and confident behind kitchen doors. As I scanned the menu, I couldn't decide on sushi or maki, ramen or udon. Then the waiter suggested the omakase, the chef's tasting menu. The luxury of indecision! I wouldn't have to deliberate over maguro or tempura. It was all up to the chef, and an Iron Chef at that (at least in theory), so I willingly abandoned my autonomy for the evening.

The first course was toro tartare, with caviar, crème fraǐche, wasabi, and soy. The server instructed me to spread the caviar across the toro with a small, metal paddle and then to run the tuna through the various sauces. Eating with the tiny paddle proved very charming, as if I had found myself having dinner in a dollhouse. A yamamomo, a Japanese fruit resembling a raspberry, but firmer and less sweet, contrasted nicely with the fish.

The next two courses featured sashimi with salad greens. Yellowtail had the most appealing texture, while fluke seemed too chewy.

The foie gras portion of the menu arrived next. The dish on the left is an exquisite foie gras custard. The liver's richness infused the "pudding," but it had a surprisingly light texture and consistency. The foie gras on the steamed oyster, however, seemed like gilding the lily. When I eat oysters I seldom add hot sauce or lemon juice. The oyster itself provides all the flavor and doesn't need any enhancement.

The sushi looked like candy.

For the "intermezzo," a waiter whisked green tea in my cup with a wooden brush. The red bean macaroon provided sweetness without feeling like dessert.

I suppose the previous dishes had been designed to build up to this course: lobster, Wagyu beef, and a dish of airy lemon crème fraǐche. However, I had room only for the crustacean. The roasted lobster was seasoned with garam masala, and the server advised me to balance the heat with the crème fraǐche. I didn't detect any heat, though my expectation of a traditional Indian spiciness might have skewed my perception. Still, it was cooked perfectly. Adeet ate most of the beef, which I admit was tender and flavorful, and happily spooned up the creme.

Skipping the red meat meant leaving room for dessert. The sweet potato cake resembled an airy bread pudding and provided a sweet, but not too sweet, ending. Adeet ate the brown sugar ice cream but left the red beans for me.

Next time I'll choose my dinner myself, but for one night, I enjoyed being told what to eat.

Morimoto

88 10th Ave. • New York, NY

photos by Adeet Deshmukh

Gyro Night

2008-06-05T00:32:00.012-04:00

Some people order their days by meetings and appointments—status reports on Tuesdays, therapy on Thursdays. Our week is marked by Gyro Night.

Last winter Adeet declared that every Wednesday should be Gyro Night. This doesn’t mean making gyros ourselves or picking them up from any random vendor. It requires getting lamb sandwiches from Sammy’s Halal cart on 73rd Street in Jackson Heights.

Sammy’s is well-known in the street-food scene, having won the 2006 “Vendy Award.” According to a plaque on Sammy’s cart, his victory appeared not only in the New York papers but on CNN, the BBC, and Japan TV. The fame is justified. He serves chicken and lamb over rice, but it is the $3 lamb sandwich that gives purpose to our workweek. The meat is well-seasoned and tender and is topped with grilled onions, and gloriously, with cilantro (upon request). You can have your sandwich streaked with a tricolor of sauces: red, green, and white. The red, of course, is spicy and the white is mild, but it’s the mysterious green (cilantro?) that is the most flavorful.

We’ve become friendly with Zaman, the Bangladeshi gyrowallah who works every Wednesday. While cooking he looks intently serious, but when he sees us, a smile engulfs his face. It may be time to reconsider our calendar: why limit ourselves to Wednesdays?

Sammy's Halal Cart

73rd St. at Broadway • Jackson Heights, NY

photos by Adeet Deshmukh

The Lemon Ice King of Corona

2008-06-01T23:47:00.012-04:00

The name is iconic, like “Soup Nazi” but less threatening. And of course, a place called "Corona" is a fitting spot for a king to set up shop. Although Adeet and I live in Jackson Heights, a neighborhood known for its food, we took the 7 train a few extra stops to Corona Plaza to try the fabled ices.

Dessert and chocolate are usually synonymous in my culinary thesaurus, but I decided my first ice from the King should be lemon. Starting with any other flavor might be akin to visiting Champagne and drinking only Bordeaux. Still, I couldn’t help noticing that among the 36 flavors on the menu board, there were several chocolate options.

I ordered a small lemon ice. It tasted like a near-perfect glass of lemonade, a good balance of sugar and citrus and completely refreshing. Adeet had a medium watermelon, which won points for its color, but we both found it a little too sweet. Now I could move on to chocolate. I went back to the counter and ordered a small mint chocolate chip, which tasted like a frozen Andes mint.

As in any kingdom, there are rules: No flavor mixing. Although I wouldn’t mind getting my chocolate ice in some peanut butter, I’m willing to play along. It wouldn’t be wise to risk banishment, even if I would like two different ices in one cup.

As we walked back to the train, we considered turning around and getting just one more. After all, we have 33 flavors left to try.

The Lemon Ice King of Corona
52-02 108th Street • Corona, NY

photos by Adeet Deshmukh

Queens for a Day

2008-06-01T16:07:00.063-04:00

The annual Queens LGBT Pride Parade marched down 37th Avenue in Jackson Heights this afternoon. Adeet and I watched most of the parade from our corner, joined by a number of children, parents, and senior citizens. I overheard women chatting in Spanish, mentioning that they'd just come from Mass, and a little girl exclaiming over a rainbow made of balloons. Although Vegas-style show“girls” provided plenty of camp, it never crossed the PG-13 line. This was family-friendly flamboyance.

Activists waved placards thanking Governor Patterson for his recent order to recognize same-sex marriages performed outside of New York, and many people chanted for marriage rights. Several marchers held signs equating immigration and gay rights. That message should resonate in Jackson Heights, one of the NYC neighborhoods with the highest number of immigrants (per 2000 census data). It makes sense to me that immigrants struggling for housing, employment, and voting rights might be sympathetic to the gay community's campaign for fair health care and family rights. However, the crowd seemed most taken by the parade’s elaborately dressed drag queens; looking glamorous and female may prove to be a greater outreach tool than political statements.

Latinos made up the majority of the parade population—both as participants and spectators. A group dancing to a recording of Mexican pop star Thalia's "Amor a La Mexicana" grew loud applause, as did a troupe of "Aztec" dancers. Even the parade's sole South Asian group slipped in some español, perhaps capitalizing on a linguistic coincidence. Their acronym, SALGA (South Asian Lesbian and Gay Association), can mean "come out" in Spanish.

The rest of Jackson Heights' diverse demographic did join in the party, especially closer to 74th Street's "Little India." We saw women wearing hijab taking pictures of befeathered drag queens and men in kufis craning to get a glimpse of the divas. Today, at least, we were all Queens.

photos by Adeet Deshmukh

Qu'est-ce que c'est?David Byrne's "Playing the Building"

2008-05-31T22:27:00.043-04:00

Clanging radiators and whistling pipes are more often the soundtrack to insomniac nights than to downtown art openings. But David Byrne's new installation, "Playing the Building," transforms the noise into music.

The installation is on the second floor of the Battery Maritime Building, at the corner of South and Whitehall Streets, in Lower Manhattan. It's an ideal setting for the experiment. The 9000-square-foot space has the feel of an abandoned warehouse, the type of place where one might expect to hear mysterious creaking and clanking. The requirement that visitors sign a waiver before entering gives the sense that the building might be slightly dangerous. However, the skylight running across the ceiling is reassuring; strange noises are less disconcerting in sunlight.

The room's centerpiece is the organ, which looks like a mad scientist's gift to Philip Glass. It sprouts wires and tubes leading to the building's pipes and columns. Striking the organ's white keys pumps air through the tubes and activates clapper mechanisms attached to the pipes. Adeet and I lined up with other would-be industrial musicians for the chance to play. When it was my turn, I experienced a momentary disconnect between the sounds I was hearing and the keys I was playing. My brain still expected to hear typical organ sounds, not the mechanic humming and banging of the infrastructure. As I watched others play, I started to imagine all old buildings with master organists hidden away, playing the furnaces and plumbing.

Later, at a reception on the main floor, people drank bottles of Grolsch from paper bags and ate hot dogs messy with ketchup. We saw David Byrne standing off to a corner, by himself, looking slightly uncomfortable. He made his way out of the room and headed back toward the installation. Perhaps the building had more to say.

photo and video by Adeet Deshmukh