Roving Gastronome: The Blog

No, really.

And for once, I didn’t say it. John Vinocur did, in a lovely essay in the International Herald-Tribune.

The only part I’m not so keen on, predictably, is his suggestion to drive a car. And he even admits you can’t get all the way to the beach in a car, because of the parking regulations–so why even start? Though if you were to ride a bike instead, you might not want to bother switching to a horse midway through the trip, as he directs you to.

Wonderful story in the NYT about the president of the Greater Astoria Historical Society. He’s a doorman! Who knew? And he rides his bike to work. We even own some of his books.

Back in Astoria, alhamdulillah. Back in the US, meh. After eating all kinds of fresh tastiness in Mexico, I’m reminded of the idiocy of US farm subsidies by an op-ed in the New York Times: “My Forbidden Fruits (and Vegetables),” in which a Minnesota vegetable farmer relates how he actually had to pay fines for growing produce, rather than commodity crops like corn and rice. How can American government praise free markets everywhere but on the country’s own farmland? File with a similar question re: democracy. Grump, grump, grump.

In good news, however, I ate at Philoxenia last night–the reincarnated Philoxenia. The old one was up on 23rd Avenue, and it felt like eating in someone’s living room. One night I dug into a big plate of the heartiest kind of pork stew with hints of orange and cinnamon, the kind of thing you’d normally only get in someone’s house, while a table of 20 people celebrated a birthday. I thought the party was winding down when an older woman got up and put on her floor-length fur coat–but then she went on to sing and dance for the whole crowd.

Well, it turns out Philoxenia maybe was in someone’s living room–there were some permit issues, I heard. Now it’s all legit, and settled into my dream restaurant space on 34th Avenue, near 33rd Street. In the years when I was considering opening a cafe, that space seemed ideal, quiet but on a well-walked block–with an apartment above, even. It has been host to a couple of Mexican restaurants, and an excellent Peruvian bar. The whole time, the back room has been weird and shadowy and not very well used.

The Philoxenia team has opened up that back room and done it up like…a living room. Complete with a rocking chair sitting by the gas fireplace in the back. Totally adorable, and a good choice, considering it’s a pretty big space that in the wrong hands could feel a bit catering hall-y.

The menu, at first glance, looks pretty spare. Some salads, some mezze. Grilled fish. Lamb chops. If you don’t know what you’re hankering for, it might seem a little uninspiring. Fortunately, we were starving, and we also knew from our experiences in the old place that we were in good hands. We ordered a pikilia–a little mix of the spready mezze, the sort of thing where there’s always one clunker. But no–excellent fresh-and-garlicky tzatziki (up there with Kyklades’), really solid eggplant salad with a nice vinegary bite but still smooth, and good feta spread and mellow taramosalata. And we got a super-charred octopus tentacle–also nice and vinegary.

Then we moved in on the specials: avgolemono soup, ideal for my vague feeling of maybe a cold coming on, plus a main dish of rooster with pasta. How can I explain how good this was? Liberal use of chicken fat (the skin was still on) in the tomato sauce gave this an amazingly soft mouth-feel, and the cinnamon was so delicate and also soft. Perfect winter food.

To lighten up, we also had a grilled dorado, and a side of dandelion greens. Those greens were especially nice–not overcooked, good texture. I could feel the vitamins and minerals coursing through my veins.

Oh, and of course we had some french fries with cheese and oregano, and a Greek salad, a virtual bucketful. All that food fed four of us more than generously, and we didn’t even have a chance to try any of the other mezze. When we couldn’t face dessert or coffee, our waiter brought us all little tiny glasses of really nice dessert wine, which hit the spot. Total bill was just $100. Reminded me of the good old days of Astoria dining. More realistically, I guess that’s what happens when you don’t drink much, for a change–we had just a half-liter of very drinkable house red.

I went away feeling like I’d had a home-cooked meal, which is a rare and wonderful thing. The living room may be bigger, but I felt just as at home.

Yo heart Astoria mas que nunca!

You all read my expletive-filled rant about the demise of the French patisserie, the only source of decent bread in this benighted pseudo-Euro neighborhood of mine. (I mean, it’s enlightened for a million other reasons. Only on the subject of bread is it still in the dark.)

I don’t feel the urge to swear and hurl things anymore, like I did last summer. But I still wouldn’t mind a good chewy baguette now and then.

So, Peter and I are walking along 35th Avenue today, over by the megaplex near Steinway. If you haven’t been there, just imagine the burbs: there’s a Starbucks, and a Pizzeria Uno. Also a FedEx/Kinko’s. And a Carvel. Even the non-chain restaurants, Cup and Cinema Paradiso, look like chain restaurants.

Peter and I are walking, and past the Pizzeria Uno, we see a new Applebee’s! “My god! This landlord must be stopped!” we gasp. (Ironically, the Applebee’s has replaced a Gold’s Gym.) This is just too much of the suburbs to bear! How can so much mass-market horror be packed into such a few short blocks?

And then just as I’m done sucking in my breath, and my eyes have settled back in their sockets, I see a smaller sign (perspective at work) just past the Applebee’s:

Panera.

Now, just up until last week I scoffed at this chain. But there I was in Santa Monica, and I was instructed to go buy bread for dinner at the Panera, and I followed orders. The bread was not bad at all. There was a good selection–various baguettes, loaves, boules–and the sourdough was actually, really sour. I’m more west-coast-oriented in my food roots, and I appreciate a serious, California-style sourdough bread–goes great with apricot jam for breakfast, and with sloppy joes for dinner.

So Peter and I went in. The soft jazz was toodling, the cheesy overstuffed armchairs were filled with bright-eyed folks using the free wi-fi. The muffins and scones were as big as your head. But they had some alluring sourdough, and some crunchy-looking baguettes. In this case, the fact that it looked exactly like the Santa Monica branch (5th & Wilshire) was encouraging.

We got our bread home, and it really is sour and delicious. And the crust is crispy-chewy like it should be. (We also, incidentally, passed Applebee’s and felt a twinge of too-well-off-for-our-own-good guilt. “I guess Applebee’s is great if you don’t have a lot of money,” said Peter. “Where else are you going to go out for dinner?” “Oh, yeah, huh,” I admitted. But later we had boreks from Djerdan! $8.50 for, like, three servings’ worth! True, no ambiance at all, unless you count guys in track suits, and no blue cocktails.)

So, I give. If we can’t keep the damn French guys in business, can we at least keep Panera going, and buy enough sourdough that they don’t stop making it?

(PS: Panera’s bagels look like an abomination: crazy flavors like “french toast” and “crazy sweet-and-chunky something-something”–OK, I’m paraphrasing. But if you order one, they dump it into the most hardcore-looking slicer, a piece of industrial machinery that is both brutal and elegant, not to mention ten times larger than it needs to be. When the counter girl used it, let me just say that Peter and I were not the only people to say, “Whoa!” out loud. It almost made me want to order one of those crazy bagels.)

I got over my post-patisserie-collapse trauma and went to the new Thai place, Leng, that has taken over the space at 33-09 Broadway. We were supposed to go to the new Philoxenia, which took over the space that was, for a brief and shining moment, the fantastic Peruvian bar. But it was closed on Monday (disregard what newyorkmag.com says on the subject!). Nonetheless, our friend Jenn walked into someone’s apartment upstairs by accident, asking “Is this the restaurant?” and they said, “No, but do you want some of this lamb?” Classy. And classic Astoria.

Anyway, the Thai: Whaddya know–that storefront goes back for miles, and there’s even a yard. I had to admit that the patisserie had just not been using the place to its full potential. It looks gorgeous inside (”Mob money laundering,” hissed Tamara; “Uh, underwriting from the Thai government’s food promotion program?” I countered hopefully), although the waste-not-want-not part of me cringes when I see huge jars of spices being used as decoration. I had to keep telling myself, They’re pretty. They grow on trees. No biggie. Just breathe deep. They are really gorgeous.

And while the food is no Sripraphai (but what is?) it’s certainly a lot better than any other Thai place in Astoria. Fo’ instance, there is actual ground rice on the beef salad, as should be standard for a larb. I love that gritty crunch. The steamed dumpling apps had some powerful flavors in–I was expecting them to be dull, but no. Unfortunately, I’m a bad reviewer because this was essentially my first time seeing everyone since my month away, so I got a little distracted. Oh, and good grilled eggplant.

The other thing I do remember: the humongo slab of Junior’s cheesecake for dessert. Not traditional, but so what? Turns out the owner is Jewish. Thai-Indian-Chinese-Jewish, as far as I understood. She said to us, “That’s why I’m always asking, ‘Do you have enough food? Are you comfortable?’” Portions are indeed mega-size, and the cushions are comfy, and she is truly hilarious and hospitable. And she has adorable photos of her mother and father on the wall (not the king of Thailand, as you usually get).

A huge bonus: It’s BYO. At least for now.

So–I highly recommend. It’s good to be back in the hood.

Also, happy to see Ali interviewed over on Joey in Astoria…

This isn’t shameless self-promotion: Weirdly, I didn’t make the list. There’s always next year to become a one-woman phenomenon.

In the meantime, head over to queens.about.com and vote for the best things to happen to Queens this year. Ali of the Kabab Cafe appearing on No Reservations makes the list, but he’s lagging in the polls! I suspect there’s some ballot-stuffing coming from Jamaica’s art community (um–if it’s not at the public library in Jamaica, then I don’t know about it!).

While you’re there, you can also vote for the worst of Queens 2007. Living in my blissful utopia in central Astoria, within the glow of two 24-hour produce stands, I also have never heard of any of these terrible things. La-di-da.

Happy new year!

I went to catch the M60 bus yesterday, and the city has dressed up the traffic island on Astoria Boulevard–I think it’s optimistically named Christopher Columbus Square–with some planters.

What’s in them? The usual decorative cabbage, but also: chili plants!

I deemed the planters a safe distance from the club across the street–no one would really stagger across five lanes of traffic to come pee on these plants, would they? Passersby pretended not to notice my snipping off some sprigs from each plant. (Well, and also hacking at the stem of the tougher plant with the edge of my house key.)

As I was clutching my extemporaneous bouquet and waiting for the bus, I noticed an anti-Columbus Day flyer stuck to the post. So, was stealing New World food from Columbus Square a power-to-the-people move, or just perpetuating European exploitation? Discuss.

The setting is quintessential (by which I mean fugly) Queens:

That’s the sprawling expressway, and the Jim & Paul Halvatzis billboard in the back. (Sadly, the angle was all wrong to work in Lattos, Lattos & DiPippo.)

And there’s the N line, and the train just coming into view.

I haven’t been in the bookstore on Broadway since I moved here nine years ago. I remember it being stocked almost entirely with remainders.

Well, the stock seems to be slightly more extensive, but, wow, it’s true what they say about not being able to find anything. At least Video Express has a nominal organizational system (films organized by actor!), but Seaburn…well.

Maybe I’m overly sensitive to chaos, but looking through the children’s book section, I got that same sick and dizzy and I-don’t-think-I-should-be-seeing-the-way-your-mind-works feeling I get when I open one of Peter’s desk drawers and see cigarette filters, printer cartridges and a handful of Homies all knocking around in there together. At Seaburn, I saw three installments of Big Bird’s Encyclopedia series up against a Complete Idiot’s guide to reformatting your hard drive, and a worn copy of the script for Ntozake Shange’s for colored girls who have considered suicide, when the rainbow is enuf.

I appreciate the variety, but I still staggered out of there with that ree-ree-ree noise from horror films pounding in my head. And no copy of Frog and Toad Together in my hand. (The guy did at least give me a no-tax discount on the random book I did pick up–Five Year Vest, some guy’s complaint about how the NYPD was the worst job he ever had–which I now notice is published by…Seaburn Books.)

While I was in the fugue state induced by browsing, I wondered: Doesn’t the urge to own a bookstore also come with a compulsion to put things in alphabetical order? I personally find it very soothing. Maybe Seaburn can just sell the business to me–before the current ownership suffers the complete psychotic break that’s obviously just around the corner.

A new development on the blog scene: Kiss My Asstoria.

Good color scheme. But so far it seems a little, ah, one-note?

I lay down the Big List of tasty meals-on-the-run on About.com. Check it, and start snacking. (Note that Little Morocco is only really functioning after sundown till the end of Ramadan, though.)