a week of eating out in new york city
Lord, people, I'm tired. And I still have all those unfinished posts sitting around (the Turkey one metastasized, and will be split in two...tomorrow). But I've been busy, between my night-time Arabic classes, the departures or arrivals of various folk, work (it's been a shitty week for a lot of people and places I care about) plus, of course, that special purgatory that is apartment-hunting on a budget in New York.
I have taken refuge in the pages of Alif Baa (I'm learning to read again!) various forms of writing not suitable to appear here, and the late poetry of Raymond Carver. But since one must give the body its due, there have also been long impromptu meandering walks, fierce quick runs, and other things, and good food. Particularly food. Today was the first time in a week that I've actually cooked a meal in my own kitchen--an almost unprecedented stretch of time for me to go without. Not just for financial reasons, but because I actually love to cook, and find it remarkably soothing: as a way of slowing down, taking care of myself.
But in a week where I was barely home long enough to sleep and shower, I did manage to hit several of my favorite restaurants in NYC--and discover at least one new one. And it was all the sort of food I love best--cheap, quick, pungent, satisfying. I've been treated to meals at one or two fancy restaurants here, and they were certainly pleasant. But I don't think I've enjoyed any of them half as much as a really perfect lamb döner kebab, or pad thai in a banana leaf from a street stall. Perhaps my tastes aren't refined enough for haute cuisine: so be it. None of these meals took more than ten minutes to arrive, and none of them cost more than $10. Here's how to eat your way through three boroughs of New York in a week.
It started last Friday, after work: I had a few beers with my co-workers in a dive bar in Hell's Kitchen, then headed back to the office to pick up some papers I had to read over the weekend. I was in a cheerful mood (no doubt heightened by the Brooklyner Weisse) and it was a lovely evening, still just humid enough to allow the day's warmth to cling to the darkening air. There was no way I'd get back to Brooklyn in time to go running in the park, and I couldn't abide the thought of heading underground to sit in a chilly metal tube. So I started walking, and just kept walking (this is a hazard in agreeable weather, and when I'm wearing comfortable shoes: I'm liable to just keep going for hours)--from Columbus Circle over to Sixth Ave, down past Bryant Park and the library; and onwards. By the time I made it to 30th street or so, it occurred to me that were I only to walk a couple avenues east, I could have dosas! and that was all the lure I needed. Ten minutes later I was in sitting in Saravanaas--the only white person there except the waiter, who turned out to be Armenian (!) and also the only one dining alone. One of the benefits of having spent a lot of time travelling on my own--often in countries where women rarely dine solo in public--is that I've mostly gotten over any self-consciousness I used to feel. If I have my food and a book to keep me company, I'm happy. In this case I had the fine acquaintance of an onion rava masala dosa, and I was glad that my reading consisted of photocopies--no sin to smudge them with sambhar-stained fingers. After the meal, fueled by full-bellied happiness, I walked another twenty-plus blocks, before reluctantly boarding the N-train. One of these days I'm going to just walk across the bridge instead.
Saturday I was unwell, and ate neither out nor in, really: just drank some carrot soup and tea, waited for the painkillers to start working, while I buried myself in Carver and Chaudhuri.
On Sunday, I brought home produce from the co-op, with full intention of cooking it. But then Sashi called, and since he's about to be shipped off to Dubai or god knows where, I said yes, dinner--Vietnamese? Ok, perfect-- and so we met in Canal Street and headed to Nha Trang on Baxter Street, which currently is my favorite Vietnamese restaurant in NY at the moment. Nha Trang is (almost) all one could hope for: the food costs very little, it arrives very quickly, and in ample quantities. The menu is long and varied, and most importantly, they have great pho (which is excellent, but does not expatiate my mournful longing for Than Brothers back home). It was a breezy warm evening, so I decided to forgo the soup for a wonderful cold beef salad topped with ample fresh coriander and mint, accompanied by milky, chicory-laced Vietnamese coffee. Then talk of books and politics for a good several hours more, peering over empty beer glasses in a little Lower East Side bar I love to much to give away.
Monday was my first Arabic class, and I stumbled out afterwards starving, my head full of ayn and alif and ana adros al-lugha al-arabiyaa fi jamiyyat Noo-yoo York!--so I went looking for a Lebanese falafel stand I recalled being in the vicinity. It proved elusive, but I happened upon another, an kosher joint called Olympic off University Place that offers typical Israeli service (which is to say, curt to the point of rudeness) and typical Israeli falafel (which is to say, delicious: adulterated with tahina and chili sauces, hummus, some sort of wonderful tangy red cabbage slaw, and sour-hot pickles). I'd devoured most of it before I even made it up to Union Square, and sat on a bench to enjoy the remnants more slowly, watching old men play chess in the dusk and college kids flirt on the steps.
Tuesday evening featured scattershot viewing of apartments we can't really afford. After which I decided it would be a fine idea to just eat cinnamon gelato on a sugar cone for supper (later supplemented with chili-lime mango, some excellent black licorice, and a bottle of Negro Modelo). Nutritionists call this "stress eating", no?
Wednesday I truly meant to behave myself and go straight home after class to cook all the okra sitting in my kitchen. But then I walked out into a downpour, with a crooked umbrella and unsuitable shoes, and my classroom is in a building catty-corner across the street from Dojo. Dojo's one of the first places I ever ate in NY, back on some teenage visit to G. when she moved out here halfway through our undergraduate years. There is something magic about the veggie burgers, of all things--stuffed with that addictive carrot dressing. Also they sell mugs of Brooklyn Lager for $2.75--how can you beat that? I drank mine while tracing out the letters baa, taa, and thaa over and over again in my workbook, waiting for the rain to settle down outside.
On Thursday I went to Queens to see an orthodontist (part of a longer and more tiresome story of interest to no one.) By the time it was over, it was late, and I was hungry, but I had a shopping bag full of subcontinental goodies, so it seemed foolish to eat out. Until I remembered that ever since I moved to NY and commenced complaining about the Thai food here (and this is not a purer-than-thou rant against American Thai. I like American-style Thai just fine, but its Brooklyn purveyors are almost uniformly awful) people had been telling me of this wonderful restaurant, some storied Thai-food mecca off the 7-train. But I couldn't remember the name. Dude, I thought, this must be why people like their damn Blackberries so much. I don't have one, but I know people who do, so I rang one of them and said, you'll think I'm mad, but I'm standing in Jackson Heights, and there's this Thai restaurant, only I can't remember how to spell its name, which starts with Sri, so can you Google it for me? (I felt less sheepish a couple of days later, when I found myself supplying transatlantic culinary advice via text message after my phone beeped abruptly with a query from thariel reading "Urgent! Is there another name for cilantro leaves? What the hell are they?") Google and S.D. having supplied me with the cross streets, I set off, and a fifteen-minute walk later, finally found myself at Sripraphai. You know what's a good sign at a Thai restaurant? When your plate arrives accompanied by a small saucer of chopped green chilis in fish sauce. I upturned the whole of it over my gai ka prow, and ate with glee. Jesus, I love food.
On Friday, I heated up the leftovers, and rested. Today, I got my pots and pans out, and cooked.
Saravaanas: 26th and Lexington, northeast corner. Pretty much every friend I have in NY has been dragged here at one point or another. If it's closed or full, Saravana Bhavan one block up is also very good. I keep meaning to explore more of the menu, but the masala dosa, paper masala dosa, and onion rava masala dosa are so good that I just end up repeating myself.
Nha Trang: 87 Baxter Street, just south of Canal. There's also one on Centre street. Everything I've had here has been delicious, even if 90% of the time "everything" = the pho tai. It's especially comforting on rainy winter days, and your soup arrives, on average, about 2-3 minutes after you order.
Olympic Pita: 12th St and University Place. The shwarma looks like the real deal, too-I'm going to try some this week. Get all the toppings, especially the odd-coloured pickled ones.
Dojo: 14 W. 4th Street, at the corner of Mercer. The "Japanese" food isn't that impressive (though it's tasty in a slapdash comfort-food way) but the carrot dressing is like orange tangy crack. All of the salad and health-foodie things are suspiciously good: what on earth is in that veggie burger?
Cinnamon gelato can presumably be had at many places, but mine came from Tempo Presto on 7th Ave in Park Slope.
Sripraphai: 64-39 39th Avenue, Woodside, Queens. It is as good as all those crazy people on Chowhound say. I am compelled to return again and again to eat my way through the menu, but the gai ka prow was lovely.
I have taken refuge in the pages of Alif Baa (I'm learning to read again!) various forms of writing not suitable to appear here, and the late poetry of Raymond Carver. But since one must give the body its due, there have also been long impromptu meandering walks, fierce quick runs, and other things, and good food. Particularly food. Today was the first time in a week that I've actually cooked a meal in my own kitchen--an almost unprecedented stretch of time for me to go without. Not just for financial reasons, but because I actually love to cook, and find it remarkably soothing: as a way of slowing down, taking care of myself.
But in a week where I was barely home long enough to sleep and shower, I did manage to hit several of my favorite restaurants in NYC--and discover at least one new one. And it was all the sort of food I love best--cheap, quick, pungent, satisfying. I've been treated to meals at one or two fancy restaurants here, and they were certainly pleasant. But I don't think I've enjoyed any of them half as much as a really perfect lamb döner kebab, or pad thai in a banana leaf from a street stall. Perhaps my tastes aren't refined enough for haute cuisine: so be it. None of these meals took more than ten minutes to arrive, and none of them cost more than $10. Here's how to eat your way through three boroughs of New York in a week.
It started last Friday, after work: I had a few beers with my co-workers in a dive bar in Hell's Kitchen, then headed back to the office to pick up some papers I had to read over the weekend. I was in a cheerful mood (no doubt heightened by the Brooklyner Weisse) and it was a lovely evening, still just humid enough to allow the day's warmth to cling to the darkening air. There was no way I'd get back to Brooklyn in time to go running in the park, and I couldn't abide the thought of heading underground to sit in a chilly metal tube. So I started walking, and just kept walking (this is a hazard in agreeable weather, and when I'm wearing comfortable shoes: I'm liable to just keep going for hours)--from Columbus Circle over to Sixth Ave, down past Bryant Park and the library; and onwards. By the time I made it to 30th street or so, it occurred to me that were I only to walk a couple avenues east, I could have dosas! and that was all the lure I needed. Ten minutes later I was in sitting in Saravanaas--the only white person there except the waiter, who turned out to be Armenian (!) and also the only one dining alone. One of the benefits of having spent a lot of time travelling on my own--often in countries where women rarely dine solo in public--is that I've mostly gotten over any self-consciousness I used to feel. If I have my food and a book to keep me company, I'm happy. In this case I had the fine acquaintance of an onion rava masala dosa, and I was glad that my reading consisted of photocopies--no sin to smudge them with sambhar-stained fingers. After the meal, fueled by full-bellied happiness, I walked another twenty-plus blocks, before reluctantly boarding the N-train. One of these days I'm going to just walk across the bridge instead.
Saturday I was unwell, and ate neither out nor in, really: just drank some carrot soup and tea, waited for the painkillers to start working, while I buried myself in Carver and Chaudhuri.
On Sunday, I brought home produce from the co-op, with full intention of cooking it. But then Sashi called, and since he's about to be shipped off to Dubai or god knows where, I said yes, dinner--Vietnamese? Ok, perfect-- and so we met in Canal Street and headed to Nha Trang on Baxter Street, which currently is my favorite Vietnamese restaurant in NY at the moment. Nha Trang is (almost) all one could hope for: the food costs very little, it arrives very quickly, and in ample quantities. The menu is long and varied, and most importantly, they have great pho (which is excellent, but does not expatiate my mournful longing for Than Brothers back home). It was a breezy warm evening, so I decided to forgo the soup for a wonderful cold beef salad topped with ample fresh coriander and mint, accompanied by milky, chicory-laced Vietnamese coffee. Then talk of books and politics for a good several hours more, peering over empty beer glasses in a little Lower East Side bar I love to much to give away.
Monday was my first Arabic class, and I stumbled out afterwards starving, my head full of ayn and alif and ana adros al-lugha al-arabiyaa fi jamiyyat Noo-yoo York!--so I went looking for a Lebanese falafel stand I recalled being in the vicinity. It proved elusive, but I happened upon another, an kosher joint called Olympic off University Place that offers typical Israeli service (which is to say, curt to the point of rudeness) and typical Israeli falafel (which is to say, delicious: adulterated with tahina and chili sauces, hummus, some sort of wonderful tangy red cabbage slaw, and sour-hot pickles). I'd devoured most of it before I even made it up to Union Square, and sat on a bench to enjoy the remnants more slowly, watching old men play chess in the dusk and college kids flirt on the steps.
Tuesday evening featured scattershot viewing of apartments we can't really afford. After which I decided it would be a fine idea to just eat cinnamon gelato on a sugar cone for supper (later supplemented with chili-lime mango, some excellent black licorice, and a bottle of Negro Modelo). Nutritionists call this "stress eating", no?
Wednesday I truly meant to behave myself and go straight home after class to cook all the okra sitting in my kitchen. But then I walked out into a downpour, with a crooked umbrella and unsuitable shoes, and my classroom is in a building catty-corner across the street from Dojo. Dojo's one of the first places I ever ate in NY, back on some teenage visit to G. when she moved out here halfway through our undergraduate years. There is something magic about the veggie burgers, of all things--stuffed with that addictive carrot dressing. Also they sell mugs of Brooklyn Lager for $2.75--how can you beat that? I drank mine while tracing out the letters baa, taa, and thaa over and over again in my workbook, waiting for the rain to settle down outside.
On Thursday I went to Queens to see an orthodontist (part of a longer and more tiresome story of interest to no one.) By the time it was over, it was late, and I was hungry, but I had a shopping bag full of subcontinental goodies, so it seemed foolish to eat out. Until I remembered that ever since I moved to NY and commenced complaining about the Thai food here (and this is not a purer-than-thou rant against American Thai. I like American-style Thai just fine, but its Brooklyn purveyors are almost uniformly awful) people had been telling me of this wonderful restaurant, some storied Thai-food mecca off the 7-train. But I couldn't remember the name. Dude, I thought, this must be why people like their damn Blackberries so much. I don't have one, but I know people who do, so I rang one of them and said, you'll think I'm mad, but I'm standing in Jackson Heights, and there's this Thai restaurant, only I can't remember how to spell its name, which starts with Sri, so can you Google it for me? (I felt less sheepish a couple of days later, when I found myself supplying transatlantic culinary advice via text message after my phone beeped abruptly with a query from thariel reading "Urgent! Is there another name for cilantro leaves? What the hell are they?") Google and S.D. having supplied me with the cross streets, I set off, and a fifteen-minute walk later, finally found myself at Sripraphai. You know what's a good sign at a Thai restaurant? When your plate arrives accompanied by a small saucer of chopped green chilis in fish sauce. I upturned the whole of it over my gai ka prow, and ate with glee. Jesus, I love food.
On Friday, I heated up the leftovers, and rested. Today, I got my pots and pans out, and cooked.
Saravaanas: 26th and Lexington, northeast corner. Pretty much every friend I have in NY has been dragged here at one point or another. If it's closed or full, Saravana Bhavan one block up is also very good. I keep meaning to explore more of the menu, but the masala dosa, paper masala dosa, and onion rava masala dosa are so good that I just end up repeating myself.
Nha Trang: 87 Baxter Street, just south of Canal. There's also one on Centre street. Everything I've had here has been delicious, even if 90% of the time "everything" = the pho tai. It's especially comforting on rainy winter days, and your soup arrives, on average, about 2-3 minutes after you order.
Olympic Pita: 12th St and University Place. The shwarma looks like the real deal, too-I'm going to try some this week. Get all the toppings, especially the odd-coloured pickled ones.
Dojo: 14 W. 4th Street, at the corner of Mercer. The "Japanese" food isn't that impressive (though it's tasty in a slapdash comfort-food way) but the carrot dressing is like orange tangy crack. All of the salad and health-foodie things are suspiciously good: what on earth is in that veggie burger?
Cinnamon gelato can presumably be had at many places, but mine came from Tempo Presto on 7th Ave in Park Slope.
Sripraphai: 64-39 39th Avenue, Woodside, Queens. It is as good as all those crazy people on Chowhound say. I am compelled to return again and again to eat my way through the menu, but the gai ka prow was lovely.
posted by kitabet at 11:44 PM
8 Comments:
love it, love it, love it! you jut named two of my favorite restaurants in NYC: sri praphai and saravanaas. a third, also cheap, is stir it up, a west indian place in b'lyn on 3rd ave and atlantic. theyhave delicious veggie jerk chicken, and i hear the meat one is good too!
most of the korean places in koreatown are fast, cheap and delicious, too! yummm!!
You can also try another Thai just north of Roosevelt Avenue and 79th Street called Arunee. It's not as well known as Sripriphai, but just as good, if not better...
Gah..you just made me very hungry. It's funny but the only India food I ever get homesick for is Sambhar and coconut chutney (with rice or dosa). It makes my mother say that after living in Kerala for 6 years I've morphed into a malayali :D
And I already know I'll probably put on a gazzilion kilos in Istanbul...all that food...and baklavas...gah...
It's stuff like this that makes me love NY, even as I hate it.
And then I go to the supermarket here in Moscow, where a box of strawberries cost $60. And I cry.
This post is going to be my food guide on my next visit to NY. Thanks!
i love how a food post brings lurkers and new people out of the woodwork! welcome, all.
ganesh: o, yes, i walk past Stir it Up en route to Sahadi's-- next time will stop and head inside. I canNOT believe it took me this long to finally try Sripraphai, but Saravanaas has been a fave almost since I moved here, thanks to my friend V.
deniz: merhaba! Tavsiye icin cok tesekkurler. I will try Arunee next time.
Szerelem: six DAYS in Kerala was all it took to start my lifelong passion for sambhar + dosa. Also: I will be whimpering in front of my computer with hunger-envy once you're in Istanbul. Eat simit every morning. And dondurma from Mado. Oh, God.
t: the tomatoes in England induced similar fits of weeping. Can one get good Georgian food in Moscow, or is it politically suspect now, like the wine?
bess: welcome! and thanks.
A walk from the UES to Park Slope is definitely doable, though preferably not when all the city's lights are out, and young men heckle out to you (cutely enough!) "Hey girl, wanna make some babies?" ... The first time I did so was on August 14, 2003. After being reassured that my compatriots had not decided to celebrate Independence Day by blowing out New York's power lines, I walked in very very high heels and tight black skirt all the way from 68th and Park to 7th Avenue in Park Slope. It was fantastic. Made me love New York even more.
-S
darling, this summer let's stomp across the city (will leave the high heels to you, but i'll wear a short skirt) and eat gelato and snarl at the hecklers. welcome back.
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