An oft-repeated open secret of Thai-American restaurateurs, one likely applicable to those adapting other foreign cuisines for spice-averse palettes, is that when cooking for Americans not familiar with the cuisine, the safest method is to prepare the food as they do for children, with spice levels pushed way down, and sugar content way up. This leads to legions of syrupy pad thais, bogged down with ketchup and peanut butter, the sharp, sparkling flavors of the cuisine buried in viscous goop. I spend an inordinate amount of my time figuring out how to avoid such goop, and yet sometimes it’s worth surrendering to the allure of something intended specifically for a child’s palate. Enter Happy Soda (a.k.a. Gembira), a roseate cartoon beverage overflowing with mysterious sweetness. I spotted this one at the now-monthly Indonesian Food Bazaar, held inside Elmhurst’s St. James Episcopal Church, where vendors gather to sell homemade batches of native meals and snacks. The onslaught of unfamiliar items (Indonesia being another of those countries whose dozens of regional cuisines I’m only beginning to understand) forced me to do several laps to take it all in before ordering, and on these the thing which kept standing out to me was not any specific food item but this glowing soda, clutched in the hand of many a dawdling child, the source of its color still a mystery. My initial suspicion after purchasing one, which was prepared fresh before my eyes, was strawberry; a little research reveals the answer is actually coco-pandan syrup, a mixture of two maritime Asian staples, blended with condensed milk over ice, filled out with a healthy pour of seltzer for the requisite fizz. A tad too sweet for me, but I’m glad to have added this particular shade of pink to my rainbow of consumed beverage colors.
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Spotted at the Jackson Heights location of Patel Brothers: a uniquely American pepper product (with an assist from Middle Eastern cuisine), known primarily for its status as a pizzeria staple, enters the Indian market. "Pizza Chill," meanwhile, whether a fortuitous spelling error or a mere consequence of an improperly snipped label, has permanently entered my personal food lexicon.
What we know in America as Turkish Delight is, somewhat obviously, not referred to by that name in Turkey. Instead it goes by “lokum,” a word which seems to derive from Arabic for “morsel.” These are, however, a definitively Turkish invention, dreamed up at some point in the late 18th century, as traditional Ottoman confectionery was honed to a point of sugary perfection. Perfection in this case means small cubes of rosewater, lemon peel or bitter orange-flavored candy, thickened and bound with glucose to an ethereal chewiness that stops somewhere just short of a marshmallow. They made a huge impression on Europe upon their import in the 19th century, thus branding them with their current Western name, although it seems worth mentioning that they were initially known as the much goofier “Lumps of Delight.” As sold at Gulluoglu, a Turkish oasis amid the sea of Greek shops in the heart of Astoria, the rows of lokum are a beautiful sight, forming a tessellated horde of similarly-shaped brethren, all of them cast in soft pastel hues. This one had its surface dusted with a straw-like layer of toasted coconut, a popular topping at this export franchise, one of three locations in the city, which have operated in Turkey since 1871. It’s hard to say when and how a tropical fruit accompaniment became so connected to this characteristically Middle Eastern snack, but the two form a perfect pair, the softness of the lokum cosseted inside the coconut's toothsome sawdust coating.
I’ve always had a special fondness for Vegetable Thins, a snack that’s long occupied the second string of Nabisco’s cracker team, paired with perennial misfits like Chicken In A Biskit, Better Cheddars, Sociables, and the VT's polar opposite, the now-defunct Bacon Thins. Even in my early years, when I refused to touch a single earth-hatched tuber or legume, the taste of freeze-dried vegetable scraps preserved inside vinegary, MSG-laden crackers was alluring. even more so for the way the snack appeared in approximated vegetable shapes, all of them tasting exactly the same. Things have changed now in Nabisco Land, and while I do enjoy the fact that the above Wiki cites separate varieties clocking in at 40% and 44% less fat, respectively, it's likely that the VT will never be the same.
Nostalgia for this bygone taste may explain my tolerance for these Veggie Sticks, which are in many ways pretty foul. Purchased at Elmhurst Filipino grocery Sariling Atin, their packaging promises a bountiful field of baton-shaped crackers, sprouting from the soil like the Emerald City skyline. Instead the contents resemble a bizarro Cheez Doodle, with the cheese substitute swapped out for a sweet vegetal taste, dusted with a substance that's gently redolent of mulched grass clippings. Yes these are formed from a base of rice, not corn, but when you get down to the core mechanics of food-grade styrofoam snacks it appears that the grain of origin doesn’t matter too much. If nothing else, the bag at least blends nicely into the surrounding landscape. I grew up on Long Island, and notwithstanding the general shift in lifestyle that comes with moving from Nassau County to “the City,” have spent my entire life on this ridiculous fish-shaped stretch of sand. Yet while I’m more inclined to exploring than most, I still haven’t gotten close to covering any significant amount of the state parks, wildlife refuges and weird wide open spaces that litter the western half of the island, many of them hidden among the myriad necks and inlets of the rugged North Shore. This weekend I managed to make a tiny bit of headway, on a jaunt to Fort Totten that semi-accidentally devolved into a bit of trespassing around some poorly-preserved military ruins. In the shadow of the Throgs Neck bridge, the once-busy, since-decommissioned fort now houses a cluster of semi-active mini-bases (Army, Coast Guard and NYPD), with former officer’s quarters downgraded into makeshift storage facilities, piles of boxes now pressing up against the windows of once-charming screened-in porches. Things seem to get even weirder on the other side of the park.
Certain Indian dishes get all the attention. Naan gets ordered with every meal. Tandoori and tikka masala hog the spotlight, with the downside that many fascinating foods don't seem to get any attention at all. In the last decade or so, a thaw has been occurring, with the growing interest in these congenial ambassador dishes granting chefs license to try new things. A few weeks back I had an exciting presentation of sliced duck breast in tamarind sauce (Magret de Canard Pulivaar) a relic of the longtime French occupation of Pudicherry, at Sunnyside’s Saffron Gardens. Branching out beyond the usual Indo-American fare, the meal also included curry spiked with the pan-Indian, Persian-derived mincemeat keema, Xacuti de Galinha (a Goan favorite, the name reflecting the region’s Portuguese history) and yengai, an eggplant, sesame and peanut dish hailing from Karnataka. My own childhood neighborhood, formerly a wasteland of diners, over-the-hill Italian joints and fast food franchises, has blossomed into a wonderland of new Indian options, many of them offering specialties from the southern states of Kerala and Tamil Nadu, opening up a new world of parottas, moilees and kingfish fries. Another example is the above-mentioned Patra (aka Patrode), a complex Malvani/Gujarati preparation that employs the gram flour used in so many fritters as putty between a pinwheel bundle of taro leaves. Found at the fantastic Rahjbog, a sweet shop which also offers dosas, dhoklas, pav sandwiches and chai, a veritable roster of lesser-known items that will probably see their visibility increased in the coming years, as America's understanding of Indian cuisine becomes deeper and more nuanced.
Joe DiStefano's Chopsticks and Marrow is an invaluable resource for New York City eating, especially for those seeking to comprehend the amazing, globe-spanning bounty of the borough of Queens. Great news, then, that he's responsible for selecting the vendors at the new Queens branch of the Smorgasburg empire, with a selection of local specialists that goes beyond the market’s usual roster of comfort-food dealers and cutesy appropriationists. On a recent visit I strolled around the enclosed cement area near MOMA PS1, marveling at the value of the chicken satay from Celebes Bakar (four sizable sticks for $5, sadly unphotographed) and the vocal range and carnival barker insistence of the guy hawking Balut. I demurred from trying this Filipino specialty, in which fertilized duck eggs are seasoned with a chili, garlic and vinegar broth. Instead I opted for the safer Kinunot Na Pagi (flaked stingray), prepared in a style specific to the country’s coastline-blessed Bicol region. Presented by Woodside restaurant Papa’s Kitchen in sandwich form, it took on the airy qualities of a good lobster roll, coconut-kissed meat swaddled in a section of soft baguette, topped with a few sprigs of Moringa, a green that’s of late been minted as the newest superfood. Equally interesting was the hallaca, an open-faced, tamale-like assemblage, purchased from the Ecuadorian-focused Son Foods, which also offers beef tongue tacos and empanadas. This log of stuffed masa was strangely sweet and pale in color, which led me to wonder if yuca was being employed (this is the case in the Puerto Rican hallaca, although who knows here) or if sugar had found its way into the mix. In terms of texture it was reminiscent of a recent meal of Pastel de Choclo prepared by some Chilean friends. The hallaca is also a reminder of the innovative use of corn across the entirety of The Andes; this particular preparation appears in different iterations all over the region and beyond, also sharing some DNA (and popularity as a Yuletide treat) with Caribbean pasteles, Queens Smorgasburg, meanwhile, holds steady at its current home (43-29 Crescent Street) until October 31.
Three snack snapshots from a recent visit to this Jackson Heights supermarket: My best guess here is that the rabbit and child combo is intended to communicate the healthful properties of these veggie-spiked dried papads, but something has clearly gone wrong. The rabbit is terrifying and the child looks morose. I have in the past purchased the green-chili variety of this brand, which fry up nicely and are free from any bug-eyed bunny monsters on the packaging.
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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