While you’re eating a bowl of this stuff, expect to get a little something on you. As you try to keep this food from falling off your fork, it’s almost impossible not to soil your brand new white t-shirt with some sauce. The food that I’m talking about, possibly one of the most entertaining foods to eat, is spaghetti. Spaghetti with meatballs is a go-to meal for many chefs, but you can prepare your spaghetti in so many other ways. Notice that none of these methods make eating spaghetti cleaner. In fact, they create a very chaotic dish.
If you’re in the right mood, getting messy with spaghetti is, strangely, fun. The getting down and dirty portion of your meal should occur during, what I like to call, the “slurpation” process. Quite self-explanatory, slurpation is when you vacuum up pieces of spaghetti one strand at a time. While you do this, the tail end of the pasta hanging from your mouth tends to swing back and forth—the faster you slurp, the more violent the swing. Slurp with caution, if you’re a little girl. I’ve heard of some people going through great measures to avoid getting messy. These measures usually involve putting a napkin on their laps and even cutting up the pasta into smaller, more controllable pieces. Although I can’t bash these people’s livelihoods, I can tell them to loosen up a bit. Have some fun—get some food on your clothes.
Some people put ketchup on their spaghetti, though I don’t understand it. If you want more tomato, add more sauce, which has ingredients to make the spaghetti better. Better yet, get a hot dog and put ketchup on that if you love ketchup so much.
Personally, I like garlic bread with my pasta. And no, I don’t eat it like a high-class woman who is afraid of anything slightly unsanitary. I make a spaghetti-garlic bread sandwich. I usually end up licking sauce off of my hands, just because I don’t want to waste any. By doing this, I use one less napkin, and I get more sauce in my belly, benefiting both nature and my mental state. Get at me.
If you’re feeling pretty crazy, then you may follow in the footsteps of Buddy the Elf from the famous Christmas movie, “Elf.” Make it a savory and sweet experience by adding Pop-Tarts, chocolate syrup, and any variation of candy you can think of to your noodles. If you’re wild enough to try this, then you probably won’t mind eating it with your hands. And while you’re doing that, put on an elf’s suit and some green tights. That’ll make you feel ridiculous.
We all know food is addicting. That bag of chocolate pretzels you just can’t stop eating. Those cheesy chips that turn your fingertips orange, but somehow your hand keeps on reaching into the bag. One after the other, you keep eating your delicious food until there’s none left. Afterwards, tears may form but you hold them back, mostly because you’re embarrassed that you finished your entire stash of food by yourself.
Lately, I’ve gained a new addiction: a nice warm cup of Rooibos tea.
Rooibos, which means Red Bush in Afrikaans, is a tea that is native to South Africa with a unique red color. With it’s sweet yet earthy taste, the tea has spread to cultures worldwide.
Though Rooibos has always been sitting in my cupboard, waiting for someone to drink it, I never truly appreciated all that it had to offer until I became sick. One night, when my sore throat was becoming a distraction from my all-important school work, I decided to make myself some of the tea that had been standing in my cupboard all semester. With steam rising from the cup, I squeezed in some honey. It not only soothed my sore throat, but it soothed my spirit, allowing me to relax—at least until my cup was empty.
Though tea in general has a reputation for helping with relaxation, I’ve found that Rooibos does even more. Rooibos has a wholesome quality overall, with health benefits that cannot be missed. As a caffeine-free drink, Rooibos also has many antioxidants, making it one of the “healthier” teas. It has even been known to help with allergies and asthma: perfect for the ever-changing Michigan weather.
To add to it’s list of amazing qualities, Rooibos is the tea of adaptation. One can drink Rooibos with a variety of added ingredients. In South Africa, milk is added to the tea, along with sugar to taste. Honey can be substituted, and many times it is. When drinking Rooibos without milk, sometimes a lemon is put in, to enhance the tea’s natural flavors.
Whichever way you drink Rooibos, you will not be disappointed. Pair it with a cookie or two, and soon it may become the same delicious addiction that it has for me.
Source: FlickrAdventures in New York: Eating Tacos for 48 Hours, Plus Some Drinking
Last weekend I had the opportunity to go back home for the fall break. Naturally, my first order of business was to take the first 7 train out of Queens and embark on a two day taco binge. In the interest of science, here are a few tasting notes.
Reyes Deli & Grocery, Gowanus
Wedged between Boerum Hill and Park Slope is Gowanus, which is the area surrounding the eponymous canal that used to be both cargo route and sewage line for the tonier inland neighborhoods that border it. Fortunately, it’s managed to eclipse its shit-ridden past and like so many other previously undesirable areas before it, has kickstarted the gentrification process in earnest (yes, there will be a Whole Foods soon, and yes there will be a bar, restaurant AND commercial vegetable garden on the roof). But in the quiet moments before the inevitable waves of boozy brunches and bars with bocce ball, we can patronize places like Reyes Deli & Grocery on 4th Ave and 14th, which is basically what it sounds like: a deli that serves tacos, tortas and quesadillas, and also a grocery that sells bodega staples, BIMBO-brand Mexican snacks, and Lindens Oatmeal and Chocolate Chip cookies, which I used to eat a lot of when I was nine but haven’t seen in over a decade. It’s another entry in the long, proud lineage of deli-cum-taco-joints that are scattered across New York, and I came in with high expectations, given that some of the best meals of my life have come surrounded by random Catholic paraphernalia and the constant hum of Spanish soap operas.
Tacos are $2.25 each here, so get any and everything. Upon receiving your order a guy next to the cashier, face partially hidden by a rack of Cheetos, will start working on your food on the flattop. In the meantime you can stake a claim to one of the five stools provided, read an article or two in a copy of Mexican Maxim, maybe overhear the cashier and the 13 year old shelf stocker gossip about you in Spanish. Takes about 10 minutes but eventually the tacos will come, served on pliant, supple steamed tortillas and with the standard onion, cilantro and lime wedge. The salsa verde is on point, spicy with sharp tangy bursts of tomatillo goodness, and absolutely mandatory. Carnitas, beef, and cecina (salted beef) are juicy, well-seasoned and generously supplied. Wash it all down with a bottle of neon-orange Jarritos. Everything just works together. This sort of meal is the platonic ideal of “satisfying”, like scratching a deep itch, or completing a particularly difficult problem set. Would’ve liked a bit more variety on the menu (some goat or chicharrones would’ve been sick) but otherwise, no complaints at all.
Recommend if: you just moved to Brooklyn from the Midwest and need to rack up some street cred, you are okay with the idea of spending anywhere from 30 minutes to two hours on public transportation to buy a $7 lunch.
Calexico Cart, Flatiron
I try not to think too hard about “authenticity” in food. Fuzzy concepts like “tradition” and “cooking with love” are really just lazy synonyms for “having lots of practice.” It doesn’t take Pierre from Gascony to make coq au vin or an Italian nonna to crank out the perfect orecchiette, it just takes some work and experience (which explains why half of all professional kitchens are staffed with Mexican immigrants). But I may need to revise that opinion for white people, specifically white people who open up food carts for ethnic cuisine. I get that it’s hip and cool now to sling fancy, spruced up street food out the back of a truck like some tattooed James Dean/James Beard motherfucker, but it wouldn’t hurt to spend a few minutes on Google researching the basics before crumbling some bacon on that shit, charging a 50% premium and calling it a day.
Calexico was started by brothers from California who seemed unmoved by the Mexican food already on offer in New York (and who apparently never ventured west of 9th Ave or into any part of Queens) and eventually started up their own cart/restaurant with locations in Lower Manhattan and (obviously) Brooklyn. While I applaud their perhaps uniquely American entrepreneurial spirit, I remain less than impressed with their (also maybe uniquely American) failure to understand the cuisine they are getting involved in. Tacos, and food in general, are all about maintaining balance: each element (tortilla, meats, onion/cilantro, sauce) complements and accentuates the others in an intricate choreography of flavors, textures, and temperatures. This seems intuitive; indeed, Thomas Keller knows this, McDonalds knows this, and Miguel from Oaxaca knows this. The brothers Calexico do not.
This much was clear from the two tacos I purchased from the new Calexico cart next to Madison Square Park. Perhaps even more alarming was the casual disregard for the laws of physics; turns out that wrapping steaming hot tacos in tin foil causes them to become extremely soggy due to the trapped moisture, a lesson that was borne out when the first taco completely split apart at the seams. Then again, that could’ve also just been a failure to Wikipedia the right way to prepare a tortilla. The structural integrity wasn’t helped much by overloading with too much crap: warmed-over shredded chicken, cheese, pico de gallo, ambiguously-labeled “crack sauce.” I ordered both the pollo tocino and the chipotle pork, but it didn’t matter much in the end because they both tasted like indiscriminate meat product with some tomatoes and lettuce chucked in. At some point I switched to a fork and spoon to finish the job because I lost faith in the second taco to hold up much better, which while not a tragedy like global warming, is still a pretty sad way to go. On my way back past the cart I spotted an increasingly long line forming up. New York, I love you but you’re bringing me down.
Recommend if: you live in Murray Hill and think venturing into Greenpoint counts as edgy, you are bored of Chipotle but still want your server to speak English. But seriously, fuck these guys.
Nightcap: Dutch Kills, Long Island City
One day I’ll know that Queens is officially hip when Lena Dunham films herself smoking crack out in Jackson Heights in front of bemused Indian grocers, but until then, I can always head over to Dutch Kills. Incidentally, I should note that LIC is home to the Queensbridge housing projects, which, according to its Wikipedia entry, produces at least 70% of the city’s rappers (Capone-N-Noreaga representing Queens to the fullest).
The neighborhood is kind of an interesting one: it’s directly across the water from some of the swankier parts of Manhattan and Brooklyn, it’s where the 7 train coming from Flushing intersects with about six other lines and the Long Island Expressway, it’s where yuppie-approved date spots like PS1 and Socrates Sculpture Park sit on the same block as boarded-up warehouses and autobody garages. Around the way at Hunter’s Point, a bomb-ass mural of the Notorious B.I.G. scowls disapprovingly at all that he surveys, the corner where he used to sling rock now sporting a boutique organic pharmacy. Back in the day, I used to wait tables in nearby Astoria, and it is genuinely surprising how fast the luxury condominiums and starry-eyed twenty-something transplants showed up in the area, lured by a breathtaking city view and the promise of $2700 apartments that are actually nice.
Luckily, what’s not yet crossed the East River are the alcohol prices. You can expect to routinely pay upwards of $16 per drink, not including tax and tip, in some of the frillier temples of mixology in Manhattan, but thanks to a combination of cheaper rent and a clientele that can’t yet afford to stand for that nonsense, Dutch Kills manages to offer basically the same quality of booze for $11 a pop, $8 during happy hour, which is basically unheard of anywhere that invests in its own custom ice cubes. The vibe is “industrial speakeasy”, the lighting is dark and blemish-hiding, the bartenders rock the vest and mustache look, and it’s almost always packed with the young and flippant, as these types of places generally are.
I got there early, spent a few minutes hovering awkwardly near the bar eavesdropping on at least three first dates, but the waitress was kind enough to eventually find me a seat. Over the course of four hours my fashionably late lawyer friend (who also just happened to move into the neighborhood) and I held court at a booth, sipping whiskey-based beverages and periodically entertaining our female callers. The drink list isn’t huge, but I wouldn’t hesitate in going off-menu, since the bartenders certainly seem to know their Fernet Branca from their Lillet Blanc. The cocktails themselves are fairly straightforward, and lean towards well-executed variations on the classics, which honestly, I am okay with, because sometimes you just want to unrepentantly drink nothing but Old-Fashioneds (or Old-Fashioneds made with Islay scotch and maple syrup) for the entire evening, and if you are that kind of guy, Dutch Kills is here for you.
Recommended if: you’re a first year associate at a law firm but want to meet some hipsters, you’re dating a first year associate at a law firm but are basically a hipster.
Don’t use the fact that you live in a dorm where there is an infinite supply of prepared food as an excuse to abandon cooking. The dining halls provide us with plenty of ingredients to make our own yummy (or not so yummy) dishes. Here are some ideas of foods to prepare to keep your chef skills up to par. (*Many of these dishes can be made in the Markley dining hall at the make-your-own pizza station).
BLT Pizza - Fold over the edges of the pizza dough. Fill the dough with bacon, lettuce, tomato, and a light portion of mayonnaise. Bake.
Rating: 11/10, according to the guy who made it.
Strawberry Pie - Take pizza dough and fill with the strawberry yogurt topping. Cut up another dough into strips and criss cross them over the pie. Bake.
Rating: ?/10, as I am afraid of fruit and did not try it. It does look pretty though.
Cookie Pie - Mix chocolate chip cookies with milk or ice cream in a bowl. Fill a pizza dough with the mixture. It will look disgusting. Consider doing this in private. Then bake it.
Rating: 3/10. It tastes like wet cookies.
Pizza Burrito - Cover a pizza dough with chicken, rice, cheese, sour cream, etc. Roll. Bake. Make sure to keep the dough very thin.
Rating: 8/10. The dough actually works well as a tortilla.
Nachos - Put chips in a pan. Cover with cheese. Bake. Apply sour cream and salsa.
Rating: 2/10. The cheese turned harder than you ever want cheese to be.
Calzone - Make a pizza. Roll it. Fold edges.
Rating: 8/10. It tastes like pizza.
Pudding Pie - Mix together pudding and whipped cream. Fill with cocoa crispies and pieces of cookie. Bake a pizza dough alone, folding up edges. Fill the baked crust with the mixture. Refrigerate.
Rating: 7/10. I thought it tasted good but no one would try it. Turns out pudding is scary.
Tricks
When eating Greek food, take feta cheese from the salad bar
To take ice cream on the go without a cone, put it in between two cookies. Maybe bring a napkin out too
Mix ice cream and root beer to make a root beer float
At midnight they woke us up for border crossing; when it was my turn in line I paid for the visa with the 15 euro I had carefully stored between the pages of a Bosnian novel entitled “Love and Obstacles.” Back on the bus I closed my eyes and tried to ignore the weird angle my neck was bent at. When I woke up I was in Turkey; Turkey the gateway to Asia, straddler of the Black Sea. Turkey the mysterious, the last of the great empires broken in the last of the great wars. Miles of sun-parched wheat emerged against the half-stolen light of morning. A few scattered trees perched aloof and hazy on the horizon. I blinked, yawned, and fell back asleep.
In Istanbul, I ate a lot of kebabs, because that’s practically unavoidable, but I also ate a lot of kokoreç. Kokoreç while I dodged and weaved past impenetrable traffic in impenetrable humidity; kokoreç under the waning afternoon shadows of Besiktas Stadium; kokoreç washed down with a half-liter of Efes and the gentle lapping of the Bosphorus. I ate some other things too, tantuni and midye dolma and even had some Shake Shack on Istiklal Road, past the Urban Outfitters and a McCafe where the hip local kids lined up for soft-serve ice cream at 2 AM and to freeload wi-fi and to be seen and heard.
When I was in Vienna I met a Turkish lawyer who told me to eat kokoreç, and because I crave hipster bragging rights, I had to track it down. After a bit of the typical confused-foreigner routine, I eventually found a stall that sold something that looked like what I found on Google image search: a long, glistening log of fat.
Which is not too far from the truth. Kokoreç is offal (hearts, lungs and kidneys) wrapped in lamb or goat intestines and then slowly roasted on a rotisserie. When it’s turning on the spit it looks vaguely like a giant sausage, wrapped tightly in twine and smoked lightly with off-brand Turkish cigarettes. When you order, the guy slices off a round, minces it, seasons with oregano and red chili pepper, and serves it in a half-baguette. Might set you back $3.
Istanbul has no shortage of meats stuffed inside or served on top of a payload of carbs, but kokoreç is a standout, partly because it’s endemic to this part of the world, something that hasn’t yet been packaged and sold by the Western gaze. I imagine it’s the culinary equivalent of the classic foreign romance: unexpected, fiery, slightly questionable and liable to leave a tingling numbness in your mouth. The first taste is always a revelation; supremely savory but with proper heat, the chewy spring of the intestine countered by the comforting softness of the bread. Sometimes they’ll add chopped tomatoes and bell peppers for a hit of lightness. Sometimes you’ve just gotta man up and chow down some tripe-wrapped thymus. You can ask for a squeeze of lemon juice.
I remember the first time, that texture, the smell wafting from the charcoal grill and the warm juice running between my fingers, motorbikes honking and roaring straight past the wide-eyed Chinese tourists in visors snapping pictures of Suleymaniye Mosque in the distance. Later on, in the afternoons when I sipped black tea in outdoor cafes and read longform journalism about teenage bullying on my Android because I didn’t have anyone to talk to, I thought about eating more kokoreç. Getting a beer, and maybe some kokoreç.
I remember the last time, on my last night, at the end of another winding alleyway choked with exhaust and vapors from sweating humans and panting dogs, a couple of old Turks with graying mustaches and dusty brows running a stand next to a bus stop. Afterwards I sat along the river, chewing slowly with every bite burning away into nothing, observing the lights of Kadikoy, shutting off and going dark in this sprawling, unperturbed city.
At the airport I spent my last few lira on local anise liquor and crepes, which weren’t great. When I passed through security there was a group of British kids arriving with their suitcases in tow, wheels rattling over the automated walkway. In town for holiday, for a lark, to find themselves in others, their lilting voices echoing far away as they fired up their Instagram feeds. Outside, the temperature dipped, and the moon hung low over Istanbul.
Moms and dads everywhere know how to prepare one. Children everywhere like to eat it. I know what you’re thinking: a sandwich. You are correct. But there is a specific type of sandwich that leaves people speechless. Literally. When the contents of this sandwich get stuck on the roof of your mouth, you won’t be able to utter a single comprehensible word. Now I think you’ve narrowed it down. A peanut butter sandwich is a classic example of the main course in a child’s lunch. Most kids enjoy their sandwiches with a spread of strawberry or grape jelly, but some kids enjoy it plain. Well I am here to help those kids out. Although I do enjoy peanut butter sandwiches with/without jelly, other additions can be made to intensify the flavor. Before I get into the details, I would like to address the kids who do not put enough peanut butter on their sandwiches. STOP WHAT YOU ARE DOING. Be generous with the spread. You can even put an extra dollop in the middle—think of it as a goal or a little achievement for getting to the middle of the sandwich. Each one of the following modifications to the peanut butter sandwich has a generous helping of everything.
One piece of bread is covered with peanut butter. The other piece is covered with Nutella.. What is the first reaction that any regular human being would have? It is to slap those two sides together. This first combination is simple yet delicious. Chocolate and peanut butter made into a sandwich is ridiculously delicious. Now in order to put some texture into each bite, granola may be used.
Want to test your knife skills and make a sandwich at the same time? Chop up a banana into thin disks to put on your peanut butter sandwich. The banana slices should cover the entire surface of the bread. Although it is a bit unstable once you pick the sandwich up, it is a risk worth taking for more goodness in your sandwich. Tasting this combination will make you/your children/any child ever want to cover an entire banana with peanut butter and fry it. I wish this were possible (maybe it is?). These ideas build off each other. Put some Nutella in that peanut butter and banana sandwich.
If you’re looking to combine peanut butter with the purest form of sweet, then you need a jar of honey. You cannot have the honey that is sold at supermarkets. No. Get that honey from some local farmer’s market for maximum effect. Put some on the peanut butter sandwich you have waiting at home, and enjoy. And if you want, take that peanut butter, banana, and Nutella sandwich we were talking about earlier and add honey.
The ultimate peanut butter sandwich consists of all the previously listed items, but with your preferred flavor of jelly. That’s not all. Make it a double-decker peanut butter sandwich. Add one more layer, just so your nose can end up with some of the ingredients on it.
Take these suggestions to heart; they are all great snacks. And as always, cut from corner to corner.
One of the most enjoyable and satisfying experiences I had on my family trip to Italy was my first sampling of tripe. Tripe, for those who don't know, is the edible stomach tissue of an animal. While we were in a small trattoria nestled in the mountains of the central provinces, our family friends overheard my desire to try the organ meat (why I wanted to in the first place still escapes me), and ordered me a dish of "trippa alla romagna.” Laid out in front of me was one of the strangest animal products I'd ever seen bathed in a rich tomato sauce which offered a wondrous aroma. It ended up being my favorite dish on that trip, so much so that I ordered it again during our stay in Florence.
Now, years later, I find myself in a culinary climate that, more or less, rejects organ meats. Such cuts were sparse on Italian menus, but seem to be non-existent on the menus of even some of the most exotic restaurants in the United States. What I find especially concerning is the lack of tripe. Just how could such a delicious food find itself only on the metaphorical chopping block?
Admittedly there are a number of factors that work against it. As mentioned before, tripe is essentially the edible part of an animal’s stomach. This fact alone is already a red flag for many who see eating tripe as downright unhygienic. Most tripe, however, is "dressed": boiled and bleached, usually by an experienced butcher or professional "tripe dresser". Nonetheless, even the faintest idea of the possible remaining stomach contents can churn one's own stomach. Its appearance is bizarre, sometimes sporting a honeycomb like pattern, while other times it sprouts feathery-like extensions. For good measure, the word "tripe" itself has become synonymous for garbage or crap.
With that said, what does tripe actually have to offer? For one thing one would find that tripe, like most sweetbreads (another, albeit confusing, name for organ meats in the culinary world), is not in high demand, and as such, one could probably barter a good price for it. While containing slightly more cholesterol than your average cut of meat, tripe is a great source of zinc, vitamin B12, and selenium. Additionally, the website of an obscure "tripe store" in Leeds, England boasts that tripe has the ability to increase ones libido fourfold (although evidence is a bit lacking on this phenomenon). But it is truly the taste of tripe that makes it remarkable. While its texture is rather odd, tripe has a rich and hearty flavor that is unmatched by any other cut of meat I've ever had. I urge you to experience it for yourself.
Although appearances may be deceiving, tripe truly is one of the tastiest sweetbreads around. The fact that it isn't more widely available to the gourmand's palate is, in my opinion, a load of tripe.
Take the fast-pace energy from Top Chef, fold in the secret ingredient from Iron Chef, and then sprinkle on the creativity of a contestant trying to cook on Survivor. There you have it: my experience cooking in The Neutral Zone kitchen.
Where is this culinary adventureland you might ask? It’s hidden inside a teen drop in center only a few blocks off campus. My day job at NZ is technically that of tutor, but I moonlight as Executive Chef as well.
The space provides a perfect test kitchen. The café is stocked with ingredients, although many are leftover donations from dinners and events, so nothing quite matches. Same goes for cooking utensils- there are plenty around but sometimes it requires creativity to get the result you want (like the time we transformed tongs into a lemon zester… worked out better than you might expect).
But the best part about cooking at NZ isn’t the creativity or ingenuity; it’s the teens. First of all, they will eat almost anything. There is nothing like a group of hungry kids to make you feel better about your most outrageous kitchen creation. Knowing that there will always be someone around willing to eat the food, or at the very least appreciate the effort, makes food risks seem a little less scary and a lot more fun. And I’m not the only crazy chef around.
More often than not, teens will join me in the kitchen. From maple syrup in biscuits, tablespoons worth of cinnamon in cookie batter to taco seasoning on pasta, these sous-chefs help to remind me that even the craziest cooking creations have the chance to turn out alright.
So whether you’re inspired to come cook for Neutral Zone, or just to add a secret ingredient to tonight’s dinner, I encourage you to go forth and cook crazy.
