When I sea food ...

After stellar results at a visit to one Harlem favorite, I felt quickly compelled to try another old-timer that I had overlooked during the three years I've been living here. And it's a place that a lot of Manhattanites are likely familiar with, even if in passing--if you've ever taken the bus to LaGuardia Airport, you might have noticed the lines snaking out the door at A Taste of Seafood, on the southeast corner of 125th and Madison.

The deals are even better around lunchtime, but I went in around 7 p.m. (when the line only went to the door, instead of outside it) and ordered a fish sandwich ($4) and a huge side of collard greens ($3) off the regular menu. The greens were not as good as those at Charles', but they were still had a hint of turkey smokiness and a slight, sweet silkiness as I bit into them. The fish (whiting, which is standard in Harlem) was delightfully moist and tender--perfectly cooked, basically. It had a light flour batter that kept the fish soft, and was sprinkled with specks of cornmeal for extra crunch. Unlike most other uptown fish fries, they also kept plenty of vinegar on the counter.

I also spied what some of the other patrons were getting, and am looking forward to going back for the chicken, which thankfully came out of an entirely different fryolator. From the looks of it, it was very lightly floured and fried until just golden.

Even though A Taste of Seafood can get pretty packed, the staff was always quick and attentive, and much friendlier than I probably am after a long work day.


A Taste of Seafood (map)
50 East 125th St. @ Madison Ave.

Charles' in Charge

Up until this past weekend, living near Charles' Southern Style Kitchen was a bit like living near, say, a huge museum--somehow, knowing that it was nearby made me less likely to go there, maybe on the "It's right there and I can go whenever I want, so I don't need to go just right now" train of thought. That turned out to be a big mistake.

Charles' is exactly the kind of place you want to go to for old-fashioned, unpretentious soul food--the kind of place whose mere existence makes you happy. It's a bit disorienting to pay for your buffet (through a window, no less) as soon as you walk in, and the modest little six-foot steam table in the corner of the small dining room doesn't immediately look promising, but eating at Charles' makes you feel like you've just discovered the neighborhood's best-kept secret. It's no wonder that everyone who was in the restaurant looked so damned happy.

The buffet (about $13) featured perfectly stewed okra (seriously, if you've been put off by okra's texture, don't give it up without trying this one first), silky and smoky collard greens, candied yams that were just about one degree too sweet for my tastes (but more on this later), fried chicken, ribs, pork chops in milk gravy, and oxtails in gravy.

The chicken was pretty good when I first tried it, but I also knew from other reviews that the time to have cast-iron-fried chicken here is right when a fresh batch comes out from the kitchen. And the difference was extraordinary--the fresh batch was bursting with juicy flavor, and the skin was neither too crisp nor too soft. New batches do come out fairly often, since the kitchen only cooks up a little at a time, so if your timing isn't perfect, try some of the rich oxtails first. I also spooned some of the gravy from the oxtails onto the chicken, which turned out to be a good move; it gets especially good when the flavors from the gravy, the collards, and the yams start to meld in the center of the plate. Somehow, the sweetness of the yams was now perfect, and even though I was pretty stuffed by the time this happened, my last bite felt as satisfying and pleasant as my first. In fact, the whole mess of flavors probably amounted to one of my best food experiences so far this year.

The ribs are also well-regarded, but I found mine to be a bit too tough. Couldn't argue with the vinegary sauce, though.


Charles' Southern Style Kitchen (map)
2837 Frederick Douglass Blvd., at 151st St.

Secret Rib Hero?

Okay, now that I look at it, the headline on this post does seem a little gay-porny, but that doesn't undermine the fact that the 79th Street Boat Basin Cafe in Riverside Park makes a surprisingly good order of fall-off-the-bone baby back ribs ($16), although I'd definitely get the barbecue sauce on the side (or, if sweet's not your thing, maybe even bring my own). In fact, they might have the best texture and the meatiest flavor of any baby back rib I've had in the city. They were tender enough to easily cut with a plastic fork, but kept their fatty succulence; minimally spiced, but lightly smoky and nicely charred. The accompanying cole slaw is a disaster, but the corn bread is rich with buttery moistness. Try to make it around sunset, for the ridiculous view.

Boat Basin Cafe
79th Street and Hudson River, in Riverside Park

The Thai That Binds, Part II

First, the good news: If you haven't already been there, you must visit Woodside's Sripraphai. It is, hands down, the best Thai restaurant I've been to in New York. In fact, the only Thai meal I've ever had to top Sripraphai was at a jam-packed grilled fish joint that spilled out onto the sidewalks of Bangkok's Chinatown, on a day that featured at least five miles of walking.

Now, the bad news: Be prepared to wait. Basically, Sripraphai is Queens's answer to Chowhound phenomenon Di Fara.

Don't get me wrong. I'm all for spreading the good word on delicious, cheap food, and I certainly think folks like Di Fara maven Dom DeMarco should be rewarded for their unconditional dedication. But you might be wise to have a few Plan B options, particularly in a neighborhood where you can barely keep track of all the good, interesting restaurants.

But on to the food.

My last trip there was on Saturday night, with five others. We got there around 8:50, and didn't sit until 9:35. (They close at 9:30, and it looked like we were the last ones they seated, although it's quite possible that a bunch of smaller groups got in ahead of us.) Alas, that meant that we only had about five minutes to pick our dishes, because the kitchen was set to close. Without really looking at the menu, we just went with some old standbys; I apologize, because I'm sure I'm getting some of the names wrong.

Papaya salad
Roast duck salad
Drunken noodles (one pork, one tofu)
Rice with Thai sausage
Fried whole snapper with garlic (I usually go for the lemongrass, but this was a new choice)
Chicken with ginger sauce

Both salads were crisp and (hallelujah!) pleasantly sour; the papaya salad didn't have the unfortunate raw-wood texture that I've encountered in orders from other restaurants, and the duck had just the right amount of fat taken out of it. It was moist and savory, and really tested our table manners, as I'm quite sure that all six of us secretly wanted to snatch all of it for ourselves. The drunken noodle was firm and well balanced, though you do need to watch out for the little peppers if you're not into spicy food.

The sausage is a little sweet for my tastes, and the accompanying rice was a touch on the watery side. It was meaty, but wasn't much different than something you could get at, say, the somewhat mediocre Nyonya (which is a Malaysian joint, I know), but this has never been one of my favored dishes here. The chicken with ginger sauce deserved kudos for its wise restraint, thankfully eschewing the drown-it-in-sauce approach that a lot of Asian restaurants seem to go for. But those are just a sideshow. For me, Sriprphai has always been about one thing:

The snapper.

Lord, that snapper. I have dreams about that snapper. It talks to me in my sleep, whispering savory nothings into my ear. It beckons me, perhaps more than any other dish could. This snapper could make me leave a room filled with lithe, confused models.

Normally, I opt for the lemongrass version, where the fish is gutted and stuffed before it goes on the pan. The result is that the skin crisps up perfectly, while the lemongrass flavor gently infuses the flesh. This time, I went with the garlic because ... well, because I love garlic.

And it didn't disappoint. One entire side of the fish was coated in minced garlic, miraculously fried to the delicate point between being too raw, and being burnt. Somehow, they managed to nail every little scrap of garlic, giving us a lovely balance of sweet and smoky. Some folks might find the process of scraping meat off a whole fish to be a little intimidating, but it's well worth making a little extra effort for. Plus, your companions will probably let you have the meat around the head, which is the tastiest, most tender part of the fish.

Noodle dishes run around $7, main courses around $8 or $9. The fish is $17.50, but feeds two.

Sripraphai (map)
64-13 39th Ave., Queens
Note: Closed Wednesdays.

The Thai That Binds, Part I

Although they have a few passable exceptions, I've always considered the Lower East Side and Chelsea to be Manhattan's two restaurant black holes. Both have somehow been sucked into the trap of putting decor over flavor, but the throng of stylish customers rarely seem to mind. Was I missing something?

To be perfectly honest, I wasn't too thrilled about checking out the vaguely Thai Lovely Day, despite its low (especially for the neighborhood) prices and very, very attractive servers. (Actually, the presence of hyper-attractive servers is sometimes a bad sign, as it makes me wonder if the management's priorities aren't on the food; the fact that they kept a bundle of chopsticks on the table wasn't a good sign, either--they don't use chopsticks in Thailand.) Lovely Day's model seems to be to keep a limited menu of fairly standard Thai fare (pad Thai, etc.), while throwing in a few unimaginative Western dishes (pork chops with mashed potatoes, for instance), but keeping the prices low in exchange (most dishes are $9 or less). But if you're just going to put out a few dishes, you really ought to do that well, too.

I tried the hobo noodles ($8.50), a soggy mix of wide rice noodles, bell peppers, basil, red peppers, and a way-too-sweet sauce. I found myself squeezing the lime from my Negra Modelo (Incidentally, wtf? Just because it's from Mexico, it needs a lime?) to add some much-needed tang to the dish, but it still wasn't enough. One of my companions' pad Thai ($8.50) wasn't much better, suffering from the same glut of sweetness.

We also got some fried tofu and some snapper balls (no, not those types of balls), the former of which was disappointingly dry and chewy, the latter of which was actually quite good and fishy. But seeing has how the snapper isn't on the regular menu (it was a special), the prospects for the rest of Lovely Day's fare don't seem too lovely.

Lovely Day (map)
196 Elizabeth St., nr. Prince St.

On the lamb (a/k/a: In which I eat a testicle)

I'm happy to report that my first trip to Cheburechnaya certainly lived up to high expectations. We started with the Russian route, going for the assorted sour vegetables. Not having any vodka to wash it down, though, I was left wanting a little more--only the shredded cabbage stood out (as opposed to the red cabbage), with its great blend of crispness and tartness. It being the most expensive item on our order ($6.25), I'd try something different next time.

I was especially happy with the chebureki (each $2 or less), a cross between an empanada and puff pastry. The "Special Chebureki" came stuffed with minced bits of lamb and beef, seasoned with a generous amount of cumin. The cabbage chebureki also packed a lot of flavor, but I found myself wanting something meaty to complement the dough's buttery goodness.

We also opted for the lulya kebab (ground beef and lamb), the chicken with bones, the lamb fat (every bit as good as you've heard, really), and--of course--the lamb testicles.

Which is really the only thing you wanted to read about, anyway.

Last week, I decided that I would just indulge in my parorexia and go on a quest to sample the most (allegedly) disgusting foods I could find. It's seldom that we get to try something truly rare, and I felt like I could be missing out on some great secret--something so frightening but so delicious that it could only be deemed sublime, in the true, Enlightenment sense of the word. And since I'd already ingested some pretty unusual foodstuffs (fresh-slit snakes, still-wriggling octopus tentacles, stewed canine, roasted iguana, and that funky Icelandic rotten shark thing), I felt I had the task in me. (My goal, incidentally, is to end by eating balut, piece by piece.)

Perhaps she was somehow aware of this, because my dinner companion happily pointed out the grilled lamb testicles ($4) on the menu. I figured that I had to start somewhere.

We put in everything else from our order, paused for dramatic effect, and then asked for one serving. The waitress, who was a great sport about answering all our questions in a fully packed house, slipped me a wry smile, and said, "Great choice. It's very good."

This got me excited at first, but I soon wondered if she wasn't giving me a rather mischievous smile. I know that food can be a little scarce on the Central Asian steppes, but testicles? I mean, testicles? What if this was just some elaborate Uzbek joke, to pretend to enjoy testicles so that unsuspecting foreigners would eat (and pay for) something they would otherwise throw away? What if they disappeared to a room in the back, high-fived each other while laughing uncontrollably, and then went to work on one very, very unhappy sheep? Or--even worse--what if there was no such thing, and they would just give me some random part of the sheep's gut? The only thing worse than eating lamb testicles, it seemed, was to somehow not eat lamb testicles.

Our waitress brought out our order with the same sly smile, prompting my dinner companion to casually observe, "Your balls are touching my meat." There's a line I don't ever need to hear again.

I served a portion to my companion (ladies first!), and slid a piece off for myself. Apparently, sheep are pretty ... well equipped, since this particular specimen was more tennis ball than marble--it had to be cut up into smaller, more squarish pieces. (Have no fear, though. The last piece on the skewer wasn't cut up as much, and its walnut shape and texture, plus veins, were readily identifiable.) Then I took a bite.

And it wasn't bad. It had a soft, slightly spongy texture, and a very gentle sweetness to it. I happily chewed on it for a few seconds, until I made the mistake you're never supposed to make when you do something like this: I thought about the fact that I was eating a testicle.

I managed to fight off the slightest inkling of a gag reflex, and swallowed (no puns, please!) the babymaker down. It was right around this point that I started to notice an acrid, slightly bitter aftertaste--a bit like not-so-good liver, actually. My companion very bravely tried a small bite, and agreed on the description.

I'm sorry to report that I did not eat the last piece--the especially shapely one, that is. But I am intrigued by the idea of spreading lamb testicles on bread, a bit like pate. And, strangely enough, the experience has left me thinking that I now understand women on a deeper level. Go figure.

I welcome any suggestions for what to try next (provided you can also tell me where in New York I can get it), though I might hold off on reproductive organs for a while. I suppose I could always go back to Cheburechnaya for some beef brains, but I have to admit that I'm a touch reluctant, only for the slightest possibility of getting mad cow disease.


Cheburechnaya (map)
92-09 63rd Dr., Rego Park, Queens
Note: Cheburechnaya is not open during Shabbat.

We had a ball. Literally.

Folks, I'll post the details tomorrow, when I'm less tired, but I just wanted to report that I went to the beloved Cheburechnaya tonight, and ate grilled lamb testicles.

Onions to make you cry with joy

I'm always enthusiastic about making Harlem restaurant recommendations, but I sometimes find myself at a slight loss--because, often, the restaurant experience becomes a pretty integral part of the way they experience my neighborhood. So which part of it do I steer them to? For every homely joint with Formica tapletops and honest, unpretentious goodness, there's now a fancy new place that won't let you in if you're wearing jeans--and they're both a representative slice of the neighborhood, for better or for worse.

But that just means that there are many, many reasons to visit my beloved neighborhood. And there's no better place to start than at Patisserie des Ambassades (which, incidentally, is not nearly as fancy-looking as their web page might have you believe).

While the menu at the nearby Africa Kine is a bit more exciting, Les Ambassades (as they also seem to be called) makes a spectacular lemon-onion-mustard yassa sauce that, frankly, I'd like to smear all over my body. A perfect balance of savory and sweet, the yassa sauce jumps starts an otherwise bland (and somewhat dry) roast chicken ($11 for a huge portion), and is a phenomenal accompaniment to their house-made bread (you'll have to ask for it--they might give you a confused look, but it's worth even the worst of glares). Their merguez sandwich ($6.50) is also judiciously spiced, and comes with the French fries on the inside--a nice touch, actually. Also good are their spring rolls ($5) and fataya ($5), which are billed as fish patties but are more like spicy fish empanadas. Please, please, please avoid the quiche and the hamburger. Dear God, definitely avoid the hamburger.

Their service is, well ... European (my euphemism for "slow"), but you might as well linger until you have some room for dessert, since they have a nice selection of homemade pastries at the counter.

Patisserie des Ambassades (map)
2200 Frederick Douglass Avenue

Map update

If you haven't already checked out our map feature, please take a look at it. You'll see that, although it doesn't yet include *all* of the hundreds of restaurants reviewed in this blog, it's already pretty hefty. As always, your comments are welcome.

Korean Fried Chicken Follow-Up

After a week of high-minded culture (i.e., reading the cartoons in the New Yorker and practicing my disffected smirking), I was ready for a junk movie and some junk food (Anyone else notice that Quentin Tarantino seems to have a major foot fetish, by the way?). I intended to go all-out for this: get loaded before the movie, smuggle in a flask of bourbon, and hope I don't have to go to the bathroom at any point in the 3 1/2 hours.

The junk food part of the evening called for checking out Bon Chon, on 5th Avenue between 31st and 32nd Streets. Bon Chon pretty much follows the same model as Baden Baden, right down to the upstairs location and the ridiculously overpriced beer ($24 for a pitcher of Killian's or Coors Light? Are you kidding me?). Their large fried chicken platter ($20), though, easily stuffed two of us--we ended up with at least two birds' worth of dark meat.

The chicken at Bon Chon has the lightest of batters that fries up to the crispiest skin I've ever tasted. It's almost alarmingly crispy, but so good that, if it wouldn't kill me, I'd snack on it like potato chips. I also appreciated the ability to order specific flavors (garlic soy, or spicy honey-something-or-the-other) and cuts of meat, although the choice was made for us, on account of their having run out of white meat that night (not that it mattered, really). The also don't even bother to give you French fries or onion rings, which were pretty mediocre (at best) at Baden Baden, anyway. Unfortunately, I couldn't say as much for the flavor of the chicken itself.

The pieces cooked up nice and moist (as dark meat should, really), but the sauces were pretty canned. The garlic soy basically tasted like Soy Vey Teriyaki sauce, and the spicy honey thing tasted like K.C. Masterpiece and ... er, honey. They should also have their Korean passports confiscated for daring to call that thing "spicy." Forget about not being spicy by Korean standards. That stuff wasn't even spicy by Applebee's standards. And while neither of those aforementioned sauces are necesarily bad, they're not what I go to a restaurant for. Now, if someone could bring Baden Baden's savory rotisserie flavor to Bon Chon's supernatural crispiness, that might just make for the best fried chicken in New York.

Incidentally, if you are planning to watch Grindhouse, you can definitely duck out for all but the last half hour of the second feature. It was basically the diner scene in Reservoir Dogs + a Yoplait commercial.*

Bon Chon (map)
314 5th Ave. b/n 31st & 32nd St., 2/F

* Thanks, Kate, for the genius analogy.

Brunchtime at the Apollo

I might have denied it when I moved here three years ago, but I'll now admit that I am gentrifying yuppie scum, albeit marginally employed gentrifying yuppie scum. And at no time am I more reviled* than Sunday afternoons--open house time (my roommate calls it "Brunchtime at the Apollo"). Normally, the only thing I encounter that even approaches tension happens as a result of my own annoyed glares, on my trips to the local laundromat--where I inevitably end up getting mistaken for the owner ("Yes, I get it, I'm Korean; and no, I won't give you change for a dollar."). On Sundays, though, the shoulders turn a little colder--for which a hearty, gut-busting breakfast is the perfect remedy.

I've been to the M&G Diner countless times over the last few years, as I have the extremely good fortune of living just two minutes away from it. And although they make some of the city's best fried chicken and, usually, collard greens (when it's on, it's full of silky, porky deliciousness; when it's not, it's a bit of a disappointment), they're at their best at breakfast for one simple reason: they make the best grits I've had in New York.

Mind you, I don't take my grits lightly. I may look like the proprietor of the local laundromat, but one of my family's weird, culture-hopping stints include the time my father lived in Mobile (that's "mow-BEEL," Yank), working at a shipyard. As a result, grits 'n kimchee weren't an uncommon breakfast item growing up.

But back to the M&G. Their grits, like their digs, aren't anything fancy. The hominy, I'm sure, comes out of something resembling a large, unmarked burlap sack, and not some fancified, design-firm-created, market-tested, overly-rustic tin container. You'll find no shavings of Parmagiano reggiano, no dabs of truffle oil, and no dusting of fleur de sel on these babies. Instead, you'll find light, fluffy spoonfuls of buttery, buttery, and ever-so-slightly-sweet goodness. Skip the pancakes, definitely skip the French toast, order up some eggs if you'd like, but do yourself a favor, and try these grits. With sausage, they come out to something like four bucks.

(Oh, and don't get the coffee unless you really, really need the caffeine. Otherwise, I'd hold out and walk over to one of the coffee places on Amsterdam Avenue, or head over to Lenox.)


M&G Diner (map)
383 W. 125th St. at Morningside Ave.

*Well, not really. The neighbors are actually quite nice.