Catching Up on My June Adventures, Part 2: an Evening in Red Hook

late 19th Century Red Hook

 On a hazy night threatening rain, I trekked to the Red Hook neighborhood of Brooklyn for the first time. With its proximity to the New York harbor, Red Hook is (was?) perhaps best-known as a hub of shipping for the city. Though its recently become home to an Ikea store (accessible by ferry), the Sixpoint Brewery, and numerous boutiques and gourmet shops, this corner of Brooklyn is still solidly middle-class and ethnically diverse. The gentrification creeping toward it from the north has been held at bay so far (although Ikea’s amphibious landing was an audacious flanking maneuver, if I do say so myself. But let’s hope it’s more of an Anzio, and less of an Inchon.) However, hipsters do infiltrate and exploit the neighborhood’s secret treasure: a flotilla of food trucks that serve impeccable Latin food at the neighborhood ball fields. On weekends, apparently. Partly, I took this trip to see the band We Are Scientists (the source of the pin on my messenger bag that mysteriously reads “W. A. S.”) play an outdoor concert; but the majority of my motivation came from seeking out and eating the best papusa (or three) in the city. I’ve seen WAS twice before, but I’ve never had a papusa. So you can understand my priorities in this matter, and my disappointment upon discovering that the field adjacent to the stage—where I expected the circle of food trucks—was empty. 

 I found a sign advertising the return of the vendors for the summer, but no sign of the trucks themselves.

            With time and hunger to kill, I moved on to my back-up plan. Yes, I was sure of my destination, but not so sure how to get there. However, I possess a certain knack for finding places in this city when I only have a vague idea of their location. So after walking away from the park, I came upon Van Brunt Street and found on its corner the cafe/bar Fort Defiance. Named after a fortress built during the Continental Army’s ill-fated defense of New York City in 1776, Fort Defiance has a reputation as purveyor of unique cocktails, good beer (like Sixpoint from down the street—talk about local!), and noticeably above-average pub grub. I had expected to just pick up a delicious muffuletta (a sandwich just about as native to New York as a papusa), down a pint, and be on my way. However, the dinner menu had only, well … dinner options. I reluctantly turned down the heavy lamb dish and beer, and instead selected something more of the season: grilled mackerel, with a cocktail of Darjeeling-infused honey vodka, lemon, and prosecco. The mackerel, onions, and grainy mustard were very good (the accompanying freekah and fava beans, not so much), while the cocktail was light and refreshing. Hard to believe I had that kind of a meal while sitting at a dark wooden bar that wouldn’t seem out of place in an English pub, or in a neighborhood that twenty years ago was one of the country’s most crime- and drug-ridden. But rather than linger with another drink and a good book, I was out the door and on my way back to the park (a trip that was considerably easier than before—funny how that works.)
            The opening band was in mid-set when I returned to the stage, so I took the opportunity to check out the nearby waterway. And this is what I found: 

Desolate yet alluring, right? Or maybe not. But soon enough the guys from Brooklyn making noise on stage departed, making way for an altogether better “Brooklyn band.”
            We Are Scientists provided what I’d expected: rockin’ dance-punk, with the tight play and wit of a seasoned band. (Their longevity, showmanship, and instrumental skills were frequent sources of comic relief.) But unexpectedly, I soon felt myself drift back to my first concert in New York, on a cold late November night. Before moving to the area, I had only been collection of music I do now; actually, I even have difficulty just fathoming the vast difference between the role of music in my life then and now. In high school and college, I never considered myself enough of a fan of any band to be willing to buy a ticket to see them in person. I just didn’t get it, and I didn’t care. But oh, how I would come to appreciate the experience of live music. And because of that WAS concert at Irving Place mere months after I’d started life in the a new city (as well as a Josh Ritter concert I saw that previous winter at DC’s famed 9:30 Club—a concert I still listen to via NPR!), I haven’t gone a month without going to at least one concert. I still recall how, on that frosty night, I just sat in my empty bedroom and listened to their albums on repeat while slurping Cup o’ Noodles.

But in the open air of Red Hook Park, I just nodded along to the familiar riffs. And though nostalgic for that previous concert, I held no fondness for the crowd surfers landing on my head or the stoned soccer moms standing behind me. No, this concert was just fun, plain and simple. Although this was the third time I’d seen them, only now did I appreciate their talented ability to reproduce live renderings of studio effects. But I’d always enjoyed their witty between-song banter—which I assumed, ever since that first concert, every band possessed; this presumption has not held true, much to my dismay. Rare is the good band that can take their music seriously after all these years, and themselves not so much. Though the neighborhood* was new, the music on this night was refreshingly familiar.  

                

*I still need to go back to Red Hook for papusas, a visit to the Sixpoint brewery, and a refreshing drink from Sunny’s bar. Any takers?

A Latin American interlude

It’s been a while since something food-related prompted me to write here.  Let’s face it: it’s been over a week since anything inspired me to write.  I mean, well, I did cook minestrone again—more tomato-y and spicy.  And I cooked up a “weird” butternut squash soup, complete with fresh-baked bread (which my roommate insists I bake daily.)  But none of this was really blog-worthy.   Until today. 

On my lunch break, I strolled a block through the rain to pick up lunch from “Latin American Restaurant.”  Yes, that’s actually what it’s called.  Though the name is generic, the food is not.  And not only is it cheap as well, but you always leave with two-meals worth of food in your take-out bag.  I’ve only been there once before, but the way my co-workers rave about the food makes me feel like I’ve been going there for years.  It’s our neighborhood secret spot, and mentioning the name alone invokes a craving for filling meal (or two) of Latin soul food done right. 

Now, I’ve probably mentioned that pork is my favorite meat (yes, all you vegetarians and vegans out there—I do have a favorite animal I like to consume).  And I may have also mentioned that I’m particularly fond of the Latin American treatment of this meat—especially in Mexican cuisine.  (Although, Italy comes very close to clinching this place in my heart with its various cured meats.  And, of course, there are the multitudinous Asian takes on pork: buns, dumplings, ramen, and banh mi among them.)  So, whenever I venture into a Latin eatery, I go straight to the pork, whether burritos, tacos, arepas, or just plain ol’ roast pork with rice and beans.  I had had this before from “Latin American,” and even though I knew it would be a satisfying meal, I opted for a delicacy not readily available from the hot bar: mofongo.

Mofongo comes to the US via Puerto Rico, as well as the Dominican Republic, and actually traces its origins to the “fufu” of West Africa--a common dish combining a mashed starch with seasoned meat.  And in this case, the mofongo combines two of my favorites: fried plantains and roast pork, cooked into a solid cake.  Fantastic, right?  It was.  The texture of the dense banana/meat is odd initially (for those of us unaccustomed to this combo), but the taste overcomes any such qualms.  Actually, to do that benefits from a hearty dose of the mystery sauce.  That’s right, “mystery sauce.”  To my surprise, a coffee cup accompanied my mofongo to the staff lounge.  Opening the lid let escape a delicious aroma.  For whatever reason, I always trust in a mystery sauce—it’s usually made with love, as well as the drippings of items cooked earlier in day.  In this case, it looked as if it was ladled straight from a vat of roasted pork.  Drizzle this on your mofongo—done. 

Yes, this rich meal was a nice deviation from the routine, but even the experience at the restaurant was satisfying in a way.  Since my order was not pre-made, I waited at the counter for ten minutes in the very midst of the hustle and bustle—with hardly a word of English spoken.  Phone orders came in fast and furious, with the matron of the joint belting them out to her team of servers rushing to fill tins, cups, and bags for delivery.  For whatever reason, I felt content to be immersed both a foreign language and the business of the restaurant at full lunch-rush tilt.  I would have savored all this by eating at the counter, but with all the food that would have arrived on my plate … I felt it best for it to come already in its doggie bag, aka tomorrow's lunch. 

Pietrasanta, reviewed

There are hundreds of Italian restaurants in New York.  There are dozens of restaurants in Hell’s Kitchen, especially along Ninth Avenue (aka “Restaurant Row”).  So what should set apart Pietrasanta from other Theater District red-sauce joints?

Namely, the quality of service and food; the atmosphere and good company certainly helped as well.  I went with my aunt, uncle, and cousins (two hilarious girls aged 5 and 7) during their recent visit to the Big City, and the evening turned out surprisingly well.  Arriving after work, a maître d’ at the door showed me into a warm, ebullient room—with a bar in the back, windows on to Ninth Ave, and shelves of wine bottles along the walls.  My family had already cracked open a bottle of red plucked from the shelf behind them, and polished off an amazing plate of calamari (or so I’m told.)  I appetized myself on roasted red pepper hummus and good bread, before ordering the first dish that struck me upon opening the menu: the black fettuccine. 

Soon, a huge bowl arrived with thick, al dente pasta dyed black from squid ink—topped by artichokes, smoked salmon, and shiitake mushrooms.  Although I’m not sure how long salmon and shiitake mushrooms have been included in Italian cuisine, the pasta was pretty fantastic.  While the textures did not exactly blend well together, the flavors certainly did in the light garlic cream sauce.  My uncle enjoyed his so much that his plate was nearly clean when I had over a third of my pasta left. 

Yes, the food was good, but the service was particularly pleasant—attentive to our drinks, our timing (we informed them that we were not trying to catch an 8 o’clock show, thus the meal unfolded leisurely—as it should), and the little girls opposite me.  The kitchen accommodated them nicely, presenting two plates of buttered penne, with a basil leaf (or “salad”) on each, and even a scoop of plain vanilla ice cream for the youngest. 

Ah, dessert.  It’s hard to imagine we found room for tiramisu, cheesecake, or what looked like the best of the desserts on our table—the chocolate mousse.  Apparently the chocolate soufflé was the piece de resistance, but even our collective gut was not ready for that.  I will continue to try places along Restaurant Row, but I now I know there is quality Italian (and a soufflé to try) at 47^th Street for the next time I’m in Midtown with company. 

Meli Melo, a review

Two weeks ago, while searching for a place to eat lunch and take refuge from the rain, my friend and I found our way under the inviting red awning of Meli Melo on Madison Avenue just north of Madison park.  The ambiance was warm and appealing, and the menu looked reasonable.  Down a few stairs, past the coffee bar, we took seats on the side of the near-empty dining room.  I had a view of a large, cozy bar--and the filming of an interview with a financial expert of some sort.  And my friend had a view of a most eclectic mural: a hand-painted map of the world, featuring well-known cultures, iconic buildings, and animals placed far from their appropriate geographic location (the absurdities of which amused us greatly as we examined the map after our meal.)  

From the menu and the general appearance of the place, I assumed Meli Melo was an Italian restaurant.  Hence, I was miffed when we were not offered wine (granted I do look rather young) and particularly confounded by our appetizer: a basket of crusty bread rounds, and a plate with two pads of butter.  Of course, I'd expected some amazingly warm and delicious bread with a side of extra virgin olive oil for dipping. And to get ... crusts and hard butter cut off the stick?  A rather disappointing start, compounded by learning that the soup of the day was cold pea soup.  Aside from the fact that I had split pea soup the previous two nights, I was put off by cold soup served on an obviously chilly rainy day.  Oh, well.  We'd decided to go with the prix fixe route anyways, and made our selection from a nice array of choices.  First course, eggplant Provencal with goat cheese; second, filet of sole roulade with mustard and dill; and cheesecake for dessert.