While it may not exactly qualify as royalty, I’m more than willing to classify the Roast Beef and Mutz Sandwich at John’s Deli as the Dark Prince of Italian sandwiches. Ordering from a Brooklyn deli pretty much assures you’re about to face down a monstrosity of zeppelin proportions, but in addition to its essential heft, this one comes slicked with a jet-black gravy, the secret ingredient of which may very well be motor oil. It’s also piled with so many fried onions that I had to scrape some off, out of fear that my stomach would erupt in grease-fueled flames. John’s is an institution, founded in 1968, although from it’s name, neighborhood and the classic Boardwalk-style mural outside (more on this below) you’d guess it was far older. The title seems to stem from the existence of a second John’s spin-off down in Bath Beach (there’s also another in Staten Island, apparently), although the fact that the original location is under new ownership may have voided these associations. Circa 2016, the place seems to be in good hands, now run by a self-professed “kid from the neighborhood” who made the rounds with the locals while I dug into my sandwich. He also tried to sell me on the day’s special (Pulled Pork), which I’m sure is great, but had absolutely nothing to do with why I’d ventured out here.
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I’ve been meaning for years to visit Pirosmani, long considered one of the jewels of South Brooklyn’s Caucasian belt, ensconced in an out-of-the way corner of Gravesend that’s accessible only by car (or bus). Circumstances recently aligned to grant me the use of a vehicle for the weekend, and so I set off with a group to check out a wide assortment of Georgian feast foods. Surrounding a pivotal stretch of the Silk Road, with a spice-speckled cuisine that gloriously combines Eastern-European and Asian styles, Georgia has been getting a lot of attention lately, even expanding into Lower Manhattan via a few new venues (Oda House, Old Tblisi Garden and Tone Café). Pirosmani, on the other hand, isn’t aiming for modern bistro cool, with a truncated banquet hall full of rustic folk-art murals (reproductions of work by the restaurant's artist namesake), tulle wall draperies, thick white tablecloths and seasonal ceiling decorations. On Friday nights it also offers live music from a singing keyboardist, who backed up his spirited performance with a series of Youtube nature videos. The wide spread of kebabs, khachapuri and roasted poultry were immensely satisfying, but others have already better summed up the broad outlines of the country’s cooking. What instead caught my attention were two unusual herbal preparations, one pickled, another in soft drink form.
I have a distinct memory of attending a church youth group event, sometime around 1996, a pot-luck affair to which everyone brought soda or snacks. My father, who possessed (and still does) a seemingly inexhaustible trove of carbonated beverages purchased at steep discount prices, all of them stored in an expansive basement closet overstocked with expired items, saw this as an opportunity. He sent me off with two bottles of Pennsylvania Dutch brand birch beer, scooped up at some previous sale, then deemed unfit for offering to company (the only time soda was served at our house). The stuff sat on the communal snack table, among the more fashionable Mountain Dews and Cherry Cokes, while other kids poked fun at its weird yellow label and the liquid’s sharp violet tinge. I shrunk away, denying my relationship with the Birch by omission (perhaps three times?) and gulped down the vile Mountain Dew instead.
Located about 20 blocks north of Sunset Park’s Mexican district, El Tenampa feels like an outpost of south-of-the-border culture, an impression accentuated by its stockade-style exterior. Stretched across two storefronts and bedecked by one of the neighborhood’s more majestic (and puzzling) signs, it maintains a cluttered general store ambiance, with shelves spanning chilied garbanzo beans (in the lime-tinged style I encountered in Mexico) to mysterious dried herbs (most of them medicinal) and containers of frozen tejocote. Behind these rows of items, across a wide stretch of white tiled, folding-table filled dining room reminiscent of a VFW hall, lies Tenampa’s biggest draw, the hot foods counter. This area dishes out an impressive array of tortas, cemitas, soups and tacos which come in both large and small varieties. In the midst of an ambitious food crawl, I wasn’t in any state to consume most of these things, and so opted for a humble sope, which turned out to be much larger and heartier than expected, a bargain at four dollars.
Always on the hunt for new fillings, I opted for the unfamiliar goat panza (stomach), not even realizing at the time that I was ordering offal. I’ve eaten goat stomach once before, in little tripe-like strips nestled amid the hand-pulled noodles at Sheng Wang, which while delicious and surprisingly approachable, could not have passed as ordinary flesh. The panza, on the other hand, was much sneakier, diced and seasoned to the point where it’s rubbery qualities melted away entirely. It’s hard to say if this is a special preparation or the standard for goat panza, but other Mexican stomach applications seem more standardized. Most famous among them is probably pancita (a.k.a menudo), the hearty soup that doubles as the name of the sadly now defunct Puerto Rican boy band. Enjoying the sope (also stacked with refried beans, lettuce and cotija) on the peaceful grounds of nearby Greenwood Cemetery, there was plenty of time to reflect upon the impermanence of all things, bovid and otherwise. Few foods are as perfect for fusion as sandwiches, which whether in Dagwood monumental style or miniature snack size allow for a variety of differing ingredients to share one bready meeting place. Over the span of one week I consumed four fusion-oriented sandwiches, prepared with varying degrees of success: 1 - Paneer Achari Tikki / Polenta / Orange Tomatoes / Cilantro / Tamarind & Date Chutney: A leftover serving of these delectable cheese kebabs paved the way for a vaguely Indian-themed sandwich, using the ubiquitous tamarind date chutney (familiar as part of the omnipresent trio of condiments offered at Indian restaurants), also available in bottle form. A previous attempt at haphazardly pairing lamb shami kebab with polenta having proven successful, I embarked on the larger scale effort of mixing mild corn pap with Subcontinental flavors, fresh herbs and cherry tomatoes. The result was possibly the most successful of these four sandwiches, and also the only photograph taken under ideal circumstances. Fair warning that the backdrop will only grow more rumpled, and the staging more haphazard, as we continue.
There are hundreds of pizzerias in New York City, serving round and rectangular pies, ranging from the most delicate Neapolitan construction to the humblest dollar slice, with all manners of variety and toppings in between. There is, as far as I can tell, only one place serving langos, the Hungarian answer to the portable, sliceable, cheese-bedecked pie, and it’s not even a brick-and-mortar establishment. It’s a truck, manned by a friendly fellow who handles the entire preparation himself, which trawls the Union Square area and a few other select locations in Manhattan. This is a shame, because as Eastern European cousins to accessibly exotic snack foods go, the langos is pretty fantastic, a snappy cold weather retort to the relaxed rhythms of peninsular eating. The primary difference between it and a pizza is the use of fried dough as a base, rather than an airier baked crust, which immediately removes any possible applications as a health food. Freshly fried as I waited, the dough didn’t have any lingering grease residue, and despite its Magyar origin point was reminiscent of Navajo fry bread, another hearty but surprisingly light item not readily available in the city. The biggest difference from the standard pizza comes via the swapping out of sauce for sour cream, which is topped with grated gouda, although Old-World variations apparently often involve quark, liptauer, or good old Swiss Emmentaler. I had my langos fortified with a sprinkling of smoked ham cubes, although in retrospect I probably misordered; in the interest of exploration I should have opted for Hungarian salami. The result was delicious nonetheless, a sharp counterpoint to the silky smoothness of pizza, and the pleasant mixture of gently fried bread and two healthy helpings of dairy grants it a wholesome, satisfying quality which, if not quite at the level of a great slice, explains how the snack has managed to spread out all over Southern Europe.
The term Rastafarian invokes a whole lot of cultural associations - primarily reggae, dreads and those baggy tri-colored hats - but ‘natural eating’ likely isn’t one of them. Yet the Ital (pronounced ‘eye-tal’, as in ‘eye-talian’) diet is as important to the traditional Rasta lifestyle as the famous ganja use or Babylon and Zion, its focus on fresh, basic ingredients exemplifying the movement’s back-to-the-land approach. Impressively forward thinking, the group’s original 1930s regimen prized purity over processed ingredients: substituting sea for table salt, fresh produce for canned, eliminating dried, pickled or otherwise preserved foods. This doubled as a rejection of the Western values early proponents saw as corroding traditional Jamaican culture, and jibes with the religion’s separatist bent, heavily inspired by Marcus Garvey’s Pan-African philosophy. Early Rastas sought to slough off the shackles of a colonial system by looking toward role models other than their reviled British overlords, landing most singularly on Ethiopian king Haile Selassie, who became viewed as a quasi-deity. This meant the rejection of imported convenience products and modern chemicals and a renewed focus on the fruits of their own island - fruit, vegetables and fish - while introducing health foods like tofu and soymilk, which in the early days of the movement were produced by Rastas themselves, befitting their interest in rustic self-sufficiency.
Stocked with spam, hot dogs, beans and noodles, tossed into brothy combat with tofu, kimchi and gochujang, Budae Jigae is a colonialist incursion in soup form. Haphazardly developed during the Korean War, the stew grew out of desperation, as food shortages forced many to rely on excess (or smuggled) canned food acquired from American army bases. Budae Jigae (‘army stew’) served as a higher-class alternative to Kkulkkulijuk (‘pig's gruel’), a dire hot pot combination of food scraps and water sold for cheap by street vendors. 60 years later, Budae is still around, and while there’s nothing unusual about dishes shaped by necessity, few are so overtly politicized, capturing the harsh reality of wartime via the hastily combined cuisines of victim and aggressor.
Less a neighborhood than a fossilized, fantastical curiosity, Little Italy clings to its exaggerated Paisan image as a charm against the turmoil at its borders, embodied by ever-increasing Chinatown sprawl and encroaching Nolita/SoHo development. In constant danger of erasure, its immigrant population base long since fled to the suburbs, the area’s lingering Italian-American heritage has inflated to accommodate this vacuum, plying tourists with a cartoonish approximation of vintage New York City, via a showy spread of ‘old-fashioned’ red sauce and clam joints. All this straining for authenticity climaxes with a burst of cannoli cream and scalding fry oil during San Gennaro, the two week festival ostensibly dedicated to the patron saint of Naples, who each September 19th gets marched down Mulberry and pinned with dollar bills, a fitting ritual for a festival that seems designed to promote its accompanying neighborhood by turning its proud history into a lumbering commodity.
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The coded language of snacks, sandwiches and seasonings, in NYC and beyond.
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