Author: zora

Best. Avocado. Ever.

It was only a garnish with a plate of chicken, and it was only about a fifth of one, nowhere near the whole thing. But there it was, bright buttery yellow with a rim of delectable green, and it tasted so good.

So sweet, I could see immediately how tasty it would be as a sugary drink, say–something that had never occurred to me about avocadoes until a few years ago, when some Ecuadoran guy told me this was standard practice.

And I’d never imagine saying this was a positive, but it was a little watery, almost succulent. This wasn’t the typical I’m-so-rich-and-fatty boasting of your standard Haas. This av was more confident–it stood on its own, and it was very clearly a fruit, which isn’t usually obvious with a grocery-store avocado.

This all went down at the fantastic Restaurante Los Tres Reyes, in Tizimín. Ideally when you go, I would hope you get to see the bullfight on TV, and get the good waiter: an older guy with gray hair in a ponytail, thick glasses and a jaunty hat. He knows what you want, and he just gives it to you. He’s proud of the food: the handmade tortillas (you can hear the pat-pat-pat back behind the screen–and then see the operation when you duck back there to use the toilets), and the fried winter squash, and he just tells you to get the special, which in my case was pollo en pipian.

I was expecting a thick green sauce, but this was reddish and light and bright, a little earthy, but the taste of the chicken really stood out. This may have been a chicken I saw strutting around by a speed bump just hours before, for all I know. I’d be raving about the chicken if it weren’t for that avocado.

About two-thirds of the way through my chicken (a thigh, a leg and a wing), I realized I’d totally overlooked the black-bean soup. Which was also delicious. And did I mention the smoky habanero salsa? And of course fresh chips.

Oh, and I have a huge soft spot for ridiculous boasting in a restaurant context (viz. Kabab Cafe): Los Tres Reyes says, in very fancy Spanish, that at the turn of the millennium, it is proud to be serving its fine customers, and testifies that it will serve them until the year 3000. And its food is “tradicional, tipica, regional, nacional, internacional, mundial e interplanetaria.” I can repeat this because my lovely waiter gave me a souvenir business card, after a brief lecture on the health benefits of chaya (a great leafy green that grows everywhere here), as well as an utterly perfect little cup of coconut pudding, flecked with chewy bits of coconut flesh and served with a shaker of cinnamon, so I could season as I pleased.

And was I ever pleased, as is abundantly clear by now. The trouble with Los Tres Reyes is that it’s in Tizimin, which is just a big cow town, and sometimes where people change buses. It’s genuinely worth getting off the bus for, but I doubt anyone will. Basically, the chance of any tourist not traveling in his own car, and not utterly obsessed with food, actually going to this place is nil. But for those who do: make sure you get some avocado on the side.

I love Spain: Despana Brand Foods

Even when I’m not in Spain, I love it.

Sunday Night Dinner was celebrating (loosely and late) Columbus Day with Spanish food, and I’d worked up a varied menu, but really, I was just looking for an excuse to buy a ham. Several years ago, some friends of mine got married in Spain, and at one of the parties, they had a ham hanging from the rafters, and everyone could just go slice off a bit–I always thought that was classy.

So yesterday I biked to Despana Brand Foods in Jackson Heights to buy a ham.

This was the first time I’d be buying a whole entire jamon, still on the bone, and I was excited. I’d never been to Despana, because for a while we had a Spanish grocery right in Astoria (now taken over by Croatians, alas).

Despana isn’t the most welcoming-looking place–there’s no display window, just a granite facade. So I walked in, blinking in the dim light (and waiting for my stupid glasses to adjust–Transitions, you suck). The place is quite small, it turns out, considering it is Spanish Ham HQ in NYC–and I was a little disappointed that there weren’t hams hanging from the ceiling.

Just on my right were a couple of shallow shelves, though, and they were filled with paper plates. The plates, in turn, were filled with five different sorts of chorizo, three kinds of cheese, wedges of quince paste, olives stuffed with anchovies, a heap of boquerones…and there was also an open jar of Spain’s answer to Nutella, as well as a little basket full of turron (nougat). They looked like plates of samples, but never in my life have I seen such heaping plates of free samples. There was a little clay bowl full of toothpicks, though, so I picked one up and speared a chunk of Las Cuevas del Mar cheese.

Just as I’m lifting the cheese to my mouth, a man springs out from the back of the store. “Debestomarelvinotambien,” he rattles at me.

Huh–I could’ve sworn I heard the words ‘drink wine,’ but I haven’t really spoken Spanish in a couple of years, and really, he must be joking, right? It’s 10:30 a.m. And where would I get any wine, anyway?

Well, out jumps another man, wine bottle in one hand and plastic cup in the other. Glurk, glurk, glurk…he fills my 8 oz. cup nearly to the brim, and hands it to me.

“El vino,” he says.

“Gracias,” I stammer.

This was all before I’d made any indication that I was a grocery high-roller, that I was about to plunk down $190 on an animal haunch. This is how they treat the common man in Despana! Did I mention it was 10:30 a.m.?

I finally managed to drink all my wine, and then I loaded my 17 pounds of pig into my bike bag (along with some of that cheese–the samples had worked!), and then I weaved home. (I blamed that on the fact that my bike was out of balance, not on the wine.)

Our dinner guests, predictably, made only the tiniest of dents in jamon, and now it’s hanging in our pantry. It was funny–I was thinking what a shame it was that the Spanish grocery here in our neighborhood closed, because it was a little more deli-like (whereas Despana is more of a wholesaler of prepackaged stuff), and I think it would’ve been able to buy pieces of ham bone there. And then I realized that, duh, I am the proud owner of a whole lot of ham bone. I just have to get to it.

I think this might be the beginning of an annual tradition of ham purchasing–though I’ll definitely be going back to Despana before then. Maybe next time I’m thirsty.

NYC Prosperity Index #179: The Triboro Bridge Walkway/Bike Path

I know, the signs say it’s prohibited to ride your bike across the bridge. So then why do they put those little ramps on the stairs? But wait, they put them on the _wrong side_–at least it’s the wrong side if you’re me, trying to lug your bike up the stairs. I guess if you’re coming down, it’s the right side, but I’ve still never seen anyone use them.

But anyway: I rode across the Triboro today. It takes freakin’ forever. I haven’t been there since maybe 2004, when Peter fell off his bike and cracked a rib. (Maybe that’s why you’re prohibited to ride a bike here? Nah.) The last time I crossed, there was a lot of broken glass on the Queens leg, but the Manhattan leg was much nicer, because it only smelled of five decades of accumulated pee.

But this time, sweet Jesus, things have gone downhill. People may be snapping up brownstones in Bed-Stuy, but the far west end of the north-side bike path is a study in urban misery.

The bike path (ahem, walkway) is pretty narrow, barely wide enough for two bikes to pass, so I do a lot of looking way ahead to anticipate problems. The first problems I see are some legs. Turns out they’re two sets of legs, and they’re attached to two guys who are covered in oozing sores. They’re chatting away, but then as I bike by, they both look up and gawk at me, and I gawk back at all their sores. Yipes, whoa. Eyes ahead.

And good thing, too, because there’s obstacle No. 2: an arm. This is attached to a guy flat on his back, surrounded by bottles wrapped in paper bags. I swear one had a straw in it, which suggests a certain style for this wino.

No sooner do I swerve around this guy than I ride right through a puddle of very fresh urine. But no time to fret, because there appears to be a woman ahead of me crouching and taking a shit.

Really? Please, of all things. This is just the ultimate symbol of how cities can fail people. Bowels can fail people too, I understand, but when you have to take a crap on the street, there’s a little blame on both sides. Am I soft and liberal for saying that?

So I’m trying to avert my gaze, swallowing the urge to say, “Sorry, sorry, excuse me, sorry, just inching by here…” to no one in particular. But soon I’m close enough to see that her pants are right where they should be, and not around her ankles. A relief. As I wiggle by on my bike, she hunkers farther down and turns away over a pipe of something that smells pretty acrid.

And then, before I know it, I’m down at street level, and cars are zipping by, and everything’s industrious and thriving and urban-exciting. The smell of bus exhaust is refreshing compared to the smell of drugs and year-long benders. Honestly, only about 20 feet and a small curve separates these people from all the going and doing and zipping around.

I’m late for my doctor’s appointment, but not worried at all, because I feel pretty healthy compared.

I guess I come off as naive (we just don’t have this sort of thing in Astoria!), but I do see milder variations on this somewhat frequently. Take away a few feet of personal space, though, and it’s a whole different perspective on the city.

More Astoria shopping: vintage bonanza every Saturday

So this woman is selling off the contents of this hundred-year-old house, plus assorted other vintage goodness. I just spent hooouuurs roaming around picking up knickknacks and putting them down, holding up too-small vintage dresses in the mirror, trying on feather-trimmed hats and so on. Very absorbing. We came away with a groovy two-tone green Swingline stapler, a great alabaster lamp, and a Kurtis Blow album. And if anyone wants a vintage pink rotary-dial wall phone, Peter can sell you two for a special price.

And my joy can be yours: this is happening every Saturday until all the stuff is sold, including the cast-iron claw-foot bathtub. The address: the wonderfully mnemonic 11-21 31st Drive, which is right off Socrates Sculpture Park–north side of the street, walk upstairs.

“Kitchen Cuts” on eGullet

Thought-provoking essay on eGullet about the best music to cook by, followed by spirited discussion, and a nod to this bizarre YouTube concoction. Reminded me and Tamara cranking the Zep recently, then pouring ourselves glasses of Lillet, and getting down to work.

But this was under the gaze of a video camera, so then, for syncing reasons, we had to do the whole thing again without sound. If you’ve never mimed rocking out to a classic guitar riff, I can tell you it’s a little awkward. I guess I just need to practice.

Putting on the music in the kitchen is Step One in getting into the mindset I like better than any other: getting ready for a Huge Party. I honestly like the getting-ready part much better than the party itself. Everything’s relatively calm, you can concentrate on one task and let your mind wander to later possibilities…

And you’ve usually got the place to yourself, or relatively, so you can blast (and sing along to) whatever music you like, which isn’t always the case at the party itself. That’s when all the loud guitar and rowdy lyrics and heartbreaking country twang comes out–you can get the party started right then and there, without having to go through the obligatory mellow-background-for-the-first-hour phase. Gang of Four, for instance, Loretta Lynn at volume loud enough to obscure my own terrible voice, Brian Eno…

One of the huge selling points of working at Prune was the top-volume David Bowie; one of the massive drawbacks of working at Dish was the mind-numbing top-40 radio (how many times can a body hear “It’s Your Birthday”?).

And then I hate it when I’m almost done cooking and I realize I never took the time to put on music–such a waste. Random play can produce pleasant surprises, but starting with a musical plan guarantees much better results.

Peter’s got “Freaks Come Out at Night” on right now, and dinner’s just done. Gotta rock and run…

UPDATE: Hey, the essay author is right: The Pretenders’ “Tattooed Love Boys” is a great song to cook to fast!

While I was out: Le Petit Prince bakery

While I was driving around rural New Mexico and eating meals that made me say, “Well, I guess this is pretty good, considering…” all of Astoria was on fire with news of the new French bakery, Le Petit Prince, on Broadway–where things are honestly good, with no qualifications whatsoever.

I can’t tell you how jealous I am that I missed all the initial flurry. Especially because I biked right past it the day before I left for New Mexico–but for some reason I thought that picking up my sewing machine was more important than discovering real French baguettes and buttery treats in my very own neighborhood.

I’ve complained about the faux-bistro phenomenon here in Astoria before, and I got burned at the supposedly authentic French bakery that was down on the other side of Broadway a couple of years back. But this is nothing like either of those things. This is real. The guys who run it are French. They’re selling French things. They’re using buckets and buckets of butter.

When I looked in the cases, at the pains au chocolat and the almond croissants, and the little pistachio macarons, I couldn’t help but gasp and clutch my hands together with glee. Tamara and Karl, who are already getting jaded, just sat and laughed while I did my little dance of joy. (For some pics, see Joey in Astoria.)

Then it was so heartwarming to sit there, sipping my espresso and nibbling my little raspberry-almond cake and watching people look in the window and react just the way I did: eyes widening, excitement growing, a half-smile conveying “I can’t believe I’m really seeing this.” And there were of course a few crotchety old ladies, who sniffed with scorn and kept walking–but they’re just part of what makes Astoria great.

For a while, I guess I wanted Astoria to have a little hipster scene, and maybe some more stylish, real-bistro restaurants. Now that Le Petit Prince is here, I realize that’s the only element of gentrification that I really wanted: great bread and pastries. And it’s a fantastic miracle that Astoria can get that without all the other byproducts of economic growth, such as cool home-decor shops, tapas bars, double-wide strollers, and lounges in converted factories. I will even quit complaining about the insanely ugly Pistilli/Eagle Electric building.

Astoria is complete.

And then a snake dropped out of the ceiling.

It was shaping up to be a really less-than-action-packed trip, but then, on the last day, the snake thing happened.

I’d actually gotten done with my planned itinerary early. This absolutely never happens, which makes me wonder if I totally overlooked a page in the atlas. Beverly and I were a full day ahead of schedule when we rolled into Chama.

I had thought Chama was kind of a big deal, tourism-wise, because the cool old Cumbres & Toltec Scenic Railroad starts there. Well, there’s that–but only that, and it turns out that railfan tourism isn’t really the bonanza I thought it was. Just because I like trains doesn’t mean lots of other people do too. Odd. Anyway, we visited all the motels and lodges and I took some pictures of the train, and we had pretty much done Chama in about three hours.

In the process, I happened to encounter my first real live case of meth mouth. Like Republicans, tweakers are a phenomenon you hear spine-tingling tales of terror about in New York City—usually via public radio—but you never see them in real life. But unlike Peter’s kindly Republican friends in Baltimore, this chick who was the caretaker at a Lodge That Shall Not Be Named (But Has Very Big Trees Out Front and Is Named for Them) did not make me feel as though there was hope for all humanity to live as one. I checked my wallet, and backed away when she coughed her hacking cough.

So that was Chama. The antidote to the speed-freak encounter was a very pleasant dinner in a place called Marion’s, where the waitress squeezed us on the shoulder a lot and the view was lovely. And then we split, and drove back home that very night.

What I’m getting around to saying is that this left me with a whole two extra days of unscheduled fun. I spent one day tooling around Albuquerque and checking up on things, and the next we bundled in the car and went down to the Salinas mission ruins around Mountainair.

To get off track again, let me just add that I was exceedingly grumpy about being accompanied. I can’t ever decide whether it’s better to have people along on a research trip (staves off total boredom) or go it alone (much faster, and sometimes cheaper, but you can’t drive and take notes at the same time). Invariably, whichever way it is, I’m always wishing it was the other. So on this last day of work, I was looking forward to just zipping out and doing it quick, and maybe listening to the radio really loud in the car.

But if Casey and Beverly hadn’t come, they wouldn’t have been there in the Shaffer Hotel dining room in Mountainair with me, ogling the beautifully carved and painted ceiling. The Shaffer is this great old Pueblo Deco building that was just renovated and opened in December ’05. About 10 minutes after I’d finishing writing in my notebook, “carved wood ceiling crawling with turtles, lizards, birds and snakes,” we heard this light smacking noise and looked over. A snake—an actual live one—had fallen out of the ceiling and was sitting there, stunned, on the table.

Sure, it was a very, very small snake, as big as my hand. And just a garter snake, not anything venomous. And it didn’t fall on our table—it fell on a table over by the window, where no one was sitting.

Casey nipped over and picked it up and then he went to show the kitchen staff. That wouldn’t have been my first move, because not everyone in the world has been raised not to fear snakes. But fortunately no one in the kitchen got too hysterical, and our waitress said, “Yup. At least it wasn’t a rattler.”

Oh, fair New Mexico. We love, we love you so.

“They’re very artistic.”

I’m so afraid: the butt-ugly Eagle Electric apartments are going on sale, and the developers say they’re “artistic.” Judging from the exterior–and every other heinous Pistilli project in Astoria–I can’t imagine what that could possibly mean. Except perhaps a lot of mirrors?

Maybe Peter and Ali will do an encore of their gay-couple-from-Jackson-Heights act, and check these out too.

(For pics, see this post.)

Clayton, I’m so sorry.

I take it all back. Any snippiness about cowtowns and slow Friday nights–forget I ever said it.

Now I’m in Raton, NM, and it’s a Saturday night, and there’s not even a movie like Step Up to go see. Because the goddamn movie theater is closed.

Beverly and I were barely able to get dinner. Options included the steak-and-chops family place, and the steak-and-chops more-adulty place, and the Pizza Hut. Finally some extremely nice guys reopened their restaurant (La Casita on 1st St.) to feed us. Fortunately, it was extremely fantastic, or I would’ve had a breakdown right there. My carne adovada was deliciously porky and endorphin-fueling spicy, and we got two sopaipillas each. Amen.

Raton won’t even have a chance to redeem itself tomorrow, because it’s Sunday, and it looks like absolutely everything is shut. Well, really, it looks like everything is shut right now, and it’s Saturday night. There aren’t even lights on in people’s houses, and zero traffic on the streets. It’s creepy. Either the rapture came, or they went to Colorado to go to the movies.

Anyway, I’m a little worried about breakfast tomorrow, but at least we’ve got a little safety net in our dinner leftovers. Monday: Taos, and I know that place has a multiscreen movie theater. Jackass 2, I will see you yet.