Published Food & Culture Writer
Hell's Kitchen in NYC (2006)
For Delectable Magazine (online)
When I moved to Manhattan eight years ago and set but to explore the myriad of ethnic food shops on Ninth Avenue, I experienced déjà vu. I grew up in the New Orleans and had never been here so why the familiarity. After speaking with long time neighborhood merchants and residents, I learned I was in Hell's Kitchen! No, Hell's Kitchen was the warring gangs in West Side Story, Robert De Niro in Taxi Driver and Ronald Regan and The Dead End Kids in Hell's Kitchen. I realized I recognized the movie set but not the actors. I found myself in a NYC neighborhood known around the world for its colorful history, "exotic" foods and ethnic diversity.
It all began in the 1860's when immigrants flocked to Ellis Island in hopes of realizing the "American Dream". what they discovered were squalid tenements amid slaughterhouses and factories. They settled into an area not yet known as Hell's Kitchen (the name came shortly after when a rookie cop watched the horror and said to veteran cop "This is HELL!". The veteran replied "No, this is HELL' KITCHEN!"). The distinct foods and ingredients from many countries and cultures came together and Paddy's Market was created. The market became a thriving business of pushcart vendors and traces of it survived into 1950's. Today, many "Mom and Pop" shops and restaurants are still owned by the same families who are working along side innovative establishments to create a delectable blend of Old and New Worlds
Every many this neighborhood hosts the Ninth Avenue Food Festival, and international banquet which runs the length of HK from West 34th to West 57th Streets. This annual event attracts millions from around the world to sample indigenous foods from Argentina, Brazil, China, Italy, Ireland, Greece, Ethiopia, Germany, Spain, France, Moroccan, Thailand......... The list goes on!! But they are fed much more than food. They indulge in the interaction with locals who are carrying on the tradition of their grandparents' and great grandparents' work ethic and joy of sharing through food, drink and music.
Just a few of the stars of the show:
Central Fish - Owned by Dominick whose grandfather came from Sicily and decided in 1936 to provide Manhattan with excellent "right of the boat" seafood at reasonable prices. They lament that prices have increased since the FDR administration. The spread that Dominick offers consists of a succulent oyster and clam raw bar, crispy fried soft shell crabs, mounds of shrimp, squid, crawfish and alligator kabobs. (Did I mention, he supplies me with alligators for my Sauce Piquant?!?) Oh, and on any day, customers are always welcome to go in the back for a free lunch of pasta. It's just what you do!
Uncle Nick's Greek Country - Style Cooking: You are transported to the Greek Islands as you savor the meze that Uncle Nick says makes the Greek gods smile. A medley of sweetbreads, Cretan spiced meatballs and sausage sautéed in wine sauce is a start before a marinated and frilled Souvlaki (pork, beef or lamb) served with Tzatzik (yogurt, cucumber and garlic) sauce. Yes, the gods are indeed happy!
Manganero's Hero Boy: The home of the 6 foot hero. When asked what they serve daily and for the fest the immediate response is, "All that makes 9th avenue holy: baked ziti, eggplant Parmigiana, lasagna and meatballs and spaghetti".
Careful, Comrade, Pasta Means Something Else in Russian (May 1995)
For To Market Newspaper
I heard horror story after horror story about the food shortage in Russia. Pack your bag with crackers, candy, cereal - anything to survive the journey.
While most trips conjure up thoughts of new cuisines with rich sauces and decadent desserts, the notion is deprivation, not indulgence, when it comes to Russia.
Why then, once I got there, did I feel like a force fed goose? It had to be a neo-communist plot to turn me into pate for the entire 15 republics.
In reality, my days and nights revolved around food. Curiosity set in and my culinary adventure began. Old Russian sayings started to acho: "You can rack your brain, but you can't beat hospitality" and "I can't eat another bite, but I will have a pie". And I did. Time to indulge in food and drink in Russia.
Arriving in Moscow at 8 p.m. on New Year's Eve, I was whisked off to Andrei and Natasha's flat in the Arbat (Moscow's SOHO). Grandfather Frost was scheduled to come through the window at midnight, so dinner was on the stove and in the oven and the table was set for the 9p.m. feast.
The zakuski ("little bites" - hors d'oeuvres) table is a Russian tradition consisting of smoked fish, Estonian herring in mustard sauce, pates, marinated wild mushrooms, beet salad with walnuts, pickled tomatoes, radishes, potato salad, caviar, pirozhki (little savory meat pies) with sour cream, assorted breads - and butter, to spread on every thing.
Great meal, but I was soon to discover that it was just the prelude. Bring on the chicken in gooseberry sauce with all the trimmings. And the incredible chocolate meringue cake that floated off the plate. Don't forget the Russian champagne.
So much for the special occasion. Today we feast, tomorrow we starve.
The smell of coffee is universal and drew me out of bed to the breakfast table. There was toast, homemade jams, sausages and ponchiki (doughnuts fried in oil with a few tablespoons of vodka to prevent grease absorption). Natasha asked, "Would you like some flattened corn." Politely declining, I watched her serve her children bowls of Kellogg's Corn Flakes.
Flashback to our phone conversation before I crossed the ocean:
"Do you have pasta? If not, I can bring some."
Indignation came through the wire, but she quietly replied, "Of course, we have pasta."
"Pasta" in Russian. I was to learn, is toothpaste, and "macaroni" is used to describe all pastas.
Everything I'd heard about the drudgery of food shopping in Russia didn't dampen my anticipation. The shelves were full, so why the long lines? Careful scrutinization of each item, of course. For example, a Russian woman asked to see one egg. She turned it, held it to the light, shook it, weighed it, rejected it and returned it to the clerk. This went on until she found 10 perfect eggs.
And there were 14 people ahead of us.
When my patience dwindled, I grabbed Natasha, darted to the American supermarket and illustrated the art of "dumping" into the basket. Out in 15 minutes. She preferred them slower method.
While the women stood in their lines, the men congregated in their own. Upon investigation, I discovered they were surrounding popcorn machines.
Next on the agenda: a soviet picnic. First stop was Moscow's Central Market to buy vegetables, fruits flowers, and cray-fish from Armenia. Then to the deli, where pounds of sausages and cheeses were thrown into the picnic basket. Last mission: a bottle of gin. Gin is for afternoon, vodka for evenings.
The picnic ended at 6 p.m. because we had dinner reservations at 7.
As government-owned restaurants become privatized, there is a revival of cuisine, a re-emergence of chefs and expanded menus. The restaurant we dined in was opulent in its return to Czarist times. The table setting was elaborate, with five glasses for each diner: a shot glass for vodka, one for cognac, a goblet for wine, one for champagne and a glass for juice, mineral water or Pepsi. The two women ordered "a wine" and the two men "a vodka." What the waiter brought was two bottles of wine and two bottles of vodka.
In addition to seafood, pork, veal, poultry, lamb and beef, the menu offered fish, mushrooms, berries, and spices that are found only in Russia's lakes and forests. The majority of entrees come with sauces reflecting past French influence: cod with horseradish sauce, sturgeon with tomato/caper/olive sauce, chiken with walnut sauce and pork in apple/beer sauce.
Throughout my stay, it became obvious that culinary rituals are as important to Russians as proverbs and stories about the Czarist era, when parties lasted days and miles of red carpet were streched through the forest for troika rides. The horses drank and were bathed in champagne, I can only imagine what humans did for fun.
For information call the Russian Natioal Tourist Office at (212)758-1162.
Host A San Fermin Fiesta (September 1995)
For To Market Newspaper
Fellow citizens, viva San Fermin! It's noon on July 6, the start of the eight-day Fiesta San Fermin celebration. The crowds squeeze together, barely able to contain their excitement. Ernest Hemingway described it best: "A rocket fires and Pamplona erupts with delicious merriment, as if a charge of electricity had suddenly jolted the town..."
Welcome to Spain and the Running of the Bulls!
What must San Fermin, the patron saint of this "religious celebration," think? Thousands take to the street dressed in red and white. Even the animals and statues sport red scarves. For a week, bands play riau, riau music and crowds twirl in the streets, hands held high. General uninhibited joy reigns, fortified by insanity, brooze or drugs, mozos (young males) run - voluntarily - through the narrow medieval paths ahead of six huge, frenzied bulls. But not to worry, the mozos have asked the saint to deliver them from danger.
So much for spirituality. Let's get to the good stuff: food and drink. The general foods of Pamplona include lamb, trout, game, sausage, and vegetables, especially white asparagus. Specialties are Trucha de la Navarra (trout with cured ham), Cochifrito (lamb stew with garlic and lemon), Pichon a la Cazadora (pigeon in wine sauce), and various sheep's-milk cheeses. What? No oxtail soup?
Local wines that best complement the foods include roses and clarets such as Agramont, Gran Feudo and Vina Marcos. The liqueur of choice is Pacharan, a bilberry and anise blend.
Despair not if your jet is low on fuel and you can't fly off to Spain for the celebration. Have a Fiesta San Femin right here in Philly. White snowfalls of flowers and showers of champagne are guaranteed in Pamplona, clear skies are not. Same is true here, so what you need is a choice of two plans: a delicious indoor peasant dinner or an abundant outdoor picnic.
A perfectly simple yet delicious meal is gazpacho, trout Navarra-style, your favorite potato dish, and fresh steamed veggies. Add a mixed green salad, a loaf of bread and bottle of wine. Decorate with red and white. Pamplona's colors symbolizing pride and good will. If your CD of riau, riau music is worn, play Julio Iglesias, but make sure it's Spanish.
If the sun is shining, pack a basket of roncal, ulzana and urbase (sheep's-milk cheeses), chorizo and buttifara (a white sausage with cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves), an assortment of breads, and a tapa called banderilla. Rent six bulls and head to Broad Street for an adventurous day. But beware, Mummers and Mummer's fans, these bulls do more then strut.
Turkey Day's Philly Roots (November 1995)
For To Market Newspaper
Sure, sure, walk into any department store these days and everything is Santa Claus and snowmen. Halloween's ghosts and goblins retreat to the closets while everyone bolts to the sleigh. Confused? Me, too. So let's talk turkey.
With today's lean and fat-free obsession, old Tom Turkey is cocksure of himself. But his popularity goes back a long time. Ben Franklin himself expressed high esteem for this lowly creature: "I wish the eagle had not been chosen as the representative of our country. He is a bird of bad moral character... The turkey is a much more respectable bird, and withal a true original native of America."
Ben must rest easy today knowing that his little colony of Philadelphia is Thanksgiving Town, USA, and Mr. Tom is revered every year.
We all know the pilgrims celebrated the first Thanksgiving in Plymouth, MA, in 1691. In a sense, that's true. Officially, not so. Thanksgiving became a national holiday on Oct. 3, 1863, when President Abraham Lincoln listened to one Sara Josepha Hale, editor of Goday's Lady's Book, a woman's magazine published on the 200 block of Market Street in Philadelphia. Sara, who also penned "Mary Had A Little Lamb," lobbied to have the last Thursday of November declared Thanksgiving Day. The tradition was interrupted only two years, during the Depression, when FDR hoped that having Thanksgiving on the third rather than fourth Thursday would increase Christmas sales.
Moving along with Philly firsts: Gimbel's Department Store was the first to sponsor a Thanksgiving parade, here in Philadelphia in 1923. New York's Macy's copied and started its own in 1924.
While our friend Tom is proud as a peacock these days, fame does have its downside. As consumer demands for more white meat increases, turkey's diets are changed, and the birds' physiques expand, hindering their ability to perform their conjugal duties. So, artificial insemination has become the norm in turkey land. Ah, the price of fame...
Contributing Writer/Interviewer
A Church On Broadway:
The Story Of St. Malachy's The Actor's Chapel (September,2006)
This centennial book contains interviews with actors, theater executives, restaurateurs, politicians and local residents. It is a record of their stories which comprise a major part of NYC's history.