I was admittedly surprised upon my recent visit to the Sunday Smorgasburg, which has upgraded the number of vendors from last year, when I scored with a great sandwich from the dependable Schnitz, and struck out with Buffalo Sauce Cheese Curds (falling to easy temptation, momentarily forgetting that squeaky fresh cheese curds and hot Brooklyn afternoons have very little in common). This time, everything was great. Things started with a trammezino, a delicate Italian sandwich (three words I had never previously considered in tandem) which seems almost too gentle for this loud parade of oddities and attractions. These were billed as “Venetian sandwiches,” although history seems to peg them as originating in 1920s Turin, an Italian-ized version of English tea sandwiches. The bread here is a first-grader’s dream of what bread might be, crustless and impossibly white and fluffy (so much so that it almost seems steamed). The whole thing somehow reminded me, strangely enough, of Uncrustables, although entirely unmarred by the chemical taste of this monstrosity and its Wonderbready ilk, padded out with nice Genovese tuna and a sliced hard-boiled egg.
I tend to consider the weekend food festivals which populate the outer boroughs with a bit of wariness, hoping for the best while expecting the worst. In worst-case scenarios, you end up with a fiasco like the recent opening night of the Queens Night Market, which approached Woodstock ‘99 levels of unpreparedness, the food concourse transformed into a hopelessly tangled knot of long lines wound through one another. Meanwhile (in another distinct form of Hell On Earth) the distant Porta-a-Potties had such extreme waiting times that beer-swollen men (and women) took to urinating en masse in the dark perimeter of trees that ringed the park. Yet even fiascoes can have an upside, and while I was nearly trampled on several occasions (and had to stoop to peeing in the trees) I did get to try Chimney Cake (aka Kürtőskalács), which was pleasant, if not quite substantial enough to merit a 50 minute wait. I also got to exercise some judgement, and, fleeing this waking nightmare, ferry my friends past the nearby hotspots (Tortilleria Nixtamal, where I’d stopped earlier in the day for some skate tacos and a pork tamal, was overflowing with desperate dinner seekers) and out into the safer reaches of Queens. The result was a nice, tranquil Indonesian meal of Rendang, Ketoprak, Perkedel and Rissoles at Elmhurst’s Upi Jaya. I digress, however, and it’s worth noting that Smorgasburg (and its other Flea brethren) tends to be a bit more well-organized than its competitors. They do share the common plagues of people seemingly more interested in Instagramming their food than eating it, and the attendant grossness of gonzo food items - from Ramen Burgers to cones of duck fat to untold other teetering fried oddities - which reflect and seek to satisfy that desire. I’ve also had a reasonable number of delicious items here, from the groaning maximalist ChipWiches (not the actual name, but I vastly prefer it to the bland “ice cream sandwich” moniker and refuse to stop using it, registered trademarks be damned), to full anchovies at Bon Chovie (fabulous, once I realized you need to eat the entire thing at once, the funky head section balancing out the smoother tail zone), and juicy, dangerously hot salteñas at Bolivian Llama Party, to name a few. I was admittedly surprised upon my recent visit to the Sunday Smorgasburg, which has upgraded the number of vendors from last year, when I scored with a great sandwich from the dependable Schnitz, and struck out with Buffalo Sauce Cheese Curds (falling to easy temptation, momentarily forgetting that squeaky fresh cheese curds and hot Brooklyn afternoons have very little in common). This time, everything was great. Things started with a trammezino, a delicate Italian sandwich (three words I had never previously considered in tandem) which seems almost too gentle for this loud parade of oddities and attractions. These were billed as “Venetian sandwiches,” although history seems to peg them as originating in 1920s Turin, an Italian-ized version of English tea sandwiches. The bread here is a first-grader’s dream of what bread might be, crustless and impossibly white and fluffy (so much so that it almost seems steamed). The whole thing somehow reminded me, strangely enough, of Uncrustables, although entirely unmarred by the chemical taste of this monstrosity and its Wonderbready ilk, padded out with nice Genovese tuna and a sliced hard-boiled egg. The theme of lightness continued with Raindrop Cake, a modern riff on Shingen Mochi. This dessert, at least according to early reports, was the photographic standout of this year’s Smorgasburg crop, its ostensible Cronut, and I was thus surprised to see no line at the booth. I assume the crowds have fallen off, having initially been attracted more its appearance than its gentle flavor, and that this delicate delicacy stands up badly against the other taste-bud assaulting fare on display (e.g. the fistfuls of cookie-laced banana pudding sold at a stall across the way). But beyond the hype and forgetting the somewhat steep eight dollar price tag, it actually proved a standout snack, especially in the first few bites, when you’re able to match quivering slices of crystal clear cake (really water jelly formed from agar, with the slurry of matcha-flavored syrup and sawdust crumbles that surround it. Cutting into the blob has the visual effect of flooding a pristine lake (or futuristic pleasure dome?) with toxic waste, and the taste effect is similar (ok, toxic waste may be a bit extreme) the cold gelatin chew of the cake overtaken by the dizzingly sweet punch of the green liquid. These confections fittingly originate in Japan, and unlike the native ramen burger, which seems to fly in the face of Japanese traditions of culinary precision and simplicity, this one perfectly approximates the inherent dynamic of the cuisine. Finally, I went and spoiled an entire day of relatively healthy eating by ordering the stuffed sopaipillas from Zia Green Chile Company. I had only stopped at the stall to order an irresistibly purple prickly pear lemonade, while also hoping to find a light final item from another booth, but gave in to the sight of halved fried dough buns filled with chile-dressed chicken. I can’t say I was unhappy with the result, and the dish, with its mixture of red chile chicken, green chilis, grated cheese and crisp dough, was fantastic. This sandwich-esque treatment of the traditional sopaipilla hails from New Mexico, where the Latin American staple gets a serious enhancement from the local green chiles. Proving that Tex-Mex isn't the only cuisine capable of injecting steroidal brawn into once-humble peasant food, the relleña variety grants the fried delicacy, often served as a complimentary meal accompaniment in NM restaurants, a full-meal quality. I can't definitively say how it stacks up to versions found in the actual Southwest, but the sopaipillas again helped to point out what food fests like this one are best at: acting as a convenient entry point to a host of different culinary inroads.
0 Comments
Leave a Reply. |
The coded language of snacks, sandwiches and seasonings, in NYC and beyond.
Archives
February 2022
Categories
All
|