Spotted in Sunset Park, perhaps a rustic Mexican cousin to the omnipresent rasta banana noted way back in our first post?
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A few months back, before she embarked on a trip to Liguria, I asked friend and indefatigable human powerhouse Kim Macron to jot down a few impressions of the regional cuisine. Accompanied by her equally impressive husband Simo, a native of the Genoa area, she spent several weeks gathering firsthand info on local eating habits. Upon returning, she continued to build on this foundational knowledge, through a diligent program of additional research which now, several weeks later, has resulted in an embarrassment of riches on the topic. These form the backbone to an in-depth guide to Ligurian eating, which I’ll be presenting, unabridged, in a series of 11 installments. The first, devoted to pesto, delves into the essential green mortar of Ligurian cuisine.
Lakruwana's generous Sri Lankan buffet offers a host of piquant specialties, from deviled chicken to egg curry and fiery sambal, surrounded by some top-notch décor, all of it handcrafted and shipped over from the island nation. On the outside wall stands an equally impressive mural, the glory of which cannot be disrupted by one misplaced mattress.
Award for best ancient Rome reference / possible band-name crossover goes to Hot Titus, a can of which was found languishing on the shelves at Long Island City’s cavernous Food Bazaar. Hot Titus (a phrase which I will be using as much as possible over the next few sentences) is unfortunately not the actual brand name; these are the ‘hot’ variety of Titus’ Morocco-sourced sardines. Their packaging, however, is flawless, from the old-fashioned sword-and-sandal iconography to the mustard/gray color scheme and the delicate cradling of the chili peppers inside the aluminum ring. Hot Titus seems to hearken back to an earlier era, when boardinghouse-dwelling men and frazzled housewives relied on sardines as a stopgap meal, one which could benefit from the residual majesty granted by this regal container. I did not purchase these sardines, and so here’s some more information from the aptly titled Mouth Full of Sardines, a blog dedicated to chronicling sardine consumption, which informs us that Hot Titus apparently requires you to scale your own sardines, another evocatively old-fashioned feature.
A recent article from The Atlantic digs into the ubiquity of America’s third most common condiment: the mysterious soy sauce packets which litter Chinese takeout orders, and which are not technically soy sauce at all. Beyond nostalgia - I still look back fondly on the years where I believed the Yi Pin brand logo was actually some kind of globular spacecraft - there’s no reason not to retire this horrible hydrolyzed protein concoction, along with its takeout-standby cousins, the shockingly orange Duck Sauce and the one-note Hot Mustard (discussed in further detail here). By way of replacement, look to simpler, more natural flavor-supplementing alternatives like this one produced by Raitip, a baggie of which I found tucked into my Thai takeout and filed away for future use; the food was hot enough as it was. Known also as the 'Thai Cereals Company,' Raitip is a producer of nuts, herbs and spices, which Google somewhat rudely identifies as a producer of animal feed. This powder may not be available for retail purchase in the U.S. (at least I've never seen it) but you can see it in its natural environment here or buy in bulk from Ali Baba's wondrous e-bazaar. Another option would be to just read this beautiful, perfectly strange forum argument over differing Chinese and American perceptions of what soy sauce entails.
Purple drinks, as we learned from Sunny D commercials of yore, are gross. Distilled into a toxic tone ordinarily reserved for poisonous berries, jellybeans and gourmet potatoes, a violet-hue in a beverage generally indicates some serious element of artificiality at play. Even fresh stuff like high-end grape juice doesn’t have much to offer the adult palette, and I say this as someone who spent a dozen years fiending for the stuff. I won’t say that any of this applies to chicha morada, since I’m not inclined to broad-brush an entire class of beverages based on experience with one Snapple-style version of it, but the drink’s mixture of corn-y wholesomeness and fruity sugar doesn’t exactly see to be my cup of maté. As for the Inca Foods version, after a few sips, the rich corn taste begins to dissipate, the sugar takes over, and we’re back in grape juice territory once again.
Chichas are a wide-ranging product of the South American corn belt, spanning from Nicaragua’s cold-brewed, banana-flavored chicha de maiz to Chilean apple and Bolivian amaranth varieties; the only real defining standard is maize as a primary ingredient. The morada style is most identified with Peru, where Andean corn culture has also produced the fermented chicha de jora and other styles produced from quinoa, molle seeds and chickpeas. Classic chicha morada is created by simmering purple corn (another exception to the ‘purple-is-poison’ rule, a regional staple which doubles as a dye source) in a broth of cinnamon, cloves and pineapple juice, which grants it a slightly acidic sweetness (lovely little illustrations of these items are pictured on the bottle, along with some imposter apples and pears). Inca’s take on morada does notably improve when mixed with seltzer, and I should note that I’ve had better luck with the company’s other products, specifically their jarred aji sauces, not to mention their fantastic website, which also features a few other as-yet-untried chicha varieties. A celestial lineup of dancing beverages oversees the wild fray below, a jungle of lunch options with a notable focus on greens. Who is the star here? Where is the primary focal point of this delicious collage? Equivalently focused on its wraps, wings and salad alike, this populist-minded deli refuses to make these choices for you.
Chinatown seafood markets are probably the most visible alternative fish source in New York City, their often-alien, still-wriggling wares splayed out in overflowing streetside cases. Other ethnic variations on the seafood store do pop up here and there in the post-Fulton Fish Market era: old-school neighborhood Italian places scattered around the fringes of the Outer Boroughs, octopus-hawking Greek suppliers in Astoria, tidy little Japanese spots stocked with pre-made sushi containers. Nestled amid the Subcontinental bustle of Jackson Heights, Haat Bazaar is the first Indian shop I’ve seen that deals in fresh fish, several varieties displayed in plastic containers laid out on the floor. Ice was not a feature of this lively establishment, which hosts an adjoining Bengali restaurant and a healthy stock of dry goods in addition to the slippery piles of eels, grouper and flatfish, not to mention an occasional intrusion from the adjacent fruit section.
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The coded language of snacks, sandwiches and seasonings, in NYC and beyond.
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