Summer of Seafood

It’s been upwards of 90 degrees outside for the last few days (although a woman I work with insists that it’s “a thousand”) and at times I’ve thought that unless I plunge myself into the ocean immediately, I won’t be able to go on. There isn’t a very accessible ocean around here, but seafood is pretty easy to get to, so instead I’ve been plunging myself into that.

First, there was the Swedish Midsummer Festival. The lawns at Battery City Park filled with blond heads wreathed with flowers, sipping champagne and flowery Swedish spirits, dolloping pickled herring onto crackers, and enjoying the view of the water (though unfortunately it wasn’t the kind of water you can jump into). The food vendors had all sorts of specialties – meatballs, cured salmon, new potato salads – but the lines were unfathomably long, and our stomachs dictated that we choose the shortest one, which meant we were getting korv: hot dogs. The hot dogs were served plain or topped with skagen, a shrimp salad with mayonnaise and dill, and as a waited impatiently in line, I realized that I’d much rather have a skagen sandwich than a hot dog with skagen on top of it. I requested this, a little nervously, when I finally reached the front of the line, and they very obligingly made my special order. The cool, creamy salad was the perfect end to a sweltering day.

The next afternoon I headed out into the sun again, to check out something that had been on my to-do list for several months. The food vendors at the Red Hook ballfields have gotten a lot of press lately, and their set up has changed since the Health Department forced them to give up their tents and move into trucks. But the food and the atmosphere seem to have remained intact: the shady sidewalk on Bay Street feels like an escape from the rest of the city, and the cooks are still turning out authentic Latin American food, at a pace that suits them. The shrimp ceviche was perfectly sweet and tangy, with a nice heat from the green hot sauce that they add just before serving. I was also excited to try pupusas, a Salvadoran dish of fried maize flour cakes filled with cheese and vegetables or meat. The pupusas platter was an unbelievable deal: one pork pupusa, one cheese and loroco flower pupusa, a pile of chicharones (fried cubes of fatty pork), and a side of bright purple cabbage slaw, all for only seven dollars. The pupusas were the best part; the mild cheese and soft dough were a decadent combination.

Two servings of shrimp in less than 24 hours seemed like impressive seafood consumption, but I was about to get much, much closer to the fruits of the sea. When I arrived at Talei’s apartment that night, everything seemed fairly normal: spotless as usual, some friendly faces standing around, an open bottle of wine. Except that the sink was full of live crabs. They clawed vaguely at the sides of the sink and at each other, possibly trying to reach the ones neatly stacked on a platter to ask them why they were so…pink. Talei bravely took on the task of transferring the live ones to the pot, but after lifting one of them out of the sink to find that it was gripping the detached claw of a different crab, she declared that they “had personalities” and she didn’t want to kill any more herself. I volunteered to kill one crab, testing out how I felt about my recent decision not to become a vegetarian. In the end, most of the food preparation was done expertly by Paul, who had more seafood experience than the rest of us.

After an informative demonstration by Hien on How to Eat Blue Crab, the twelve of us started grabbing specimens from the two enormous heaps in the middle of the table and cracking into them ourselves. Crab juice, crab guts, and flecks of crab shell flew everywhere. It was hard to get at the meat, but what I did manage to pry out was delicious: subtly sweet and seasoned by the broth it was boiled in. The orange eggs were easier to find; they had the texture of hard-boiled egg yolk, but with a slightly bitter aftertaste. I don’t know how long we stood around the table, our hands dripping with clam juice, prying open crab after crab. We went through at least three large platters before getting tired of it. And then moved on to oysters.

This seafood-filled weekend was a reminder of the advantages of sticking to coasts, never straying too far from the ocean.

National Picnic Day

Happy National Picnic Day! Have you had a picnic yet today? You’ve got half an hour left. I celebrated by eating lunch on the fire escape, feasting my eyes on the view of the BQE onramp (and, to be fair, the distant top of the Statue of Liberty).

I should have gotten to this post sooner, to offer advice for those already planning picnics and to inspire the rest to get up from the computer, go outside, and eat something. But I think what they always say about Earth Day applies here too; therefore, “Every Day Is Picnic Day,” especially at this time of year. Take a look at these pictures and recipes from picnics past, and pack one for tomorrow. There’s no chance of rain.

Gado gado: peanutty potato salad.

Chips and dips are always a good idea.

Flowery cookies to eat amidst flowers.

Does a snack count as a picnic? These spiced cashews were a good accompaniment to reading in Carroll Gardens Park. Combine chili powder, cayenne pepper, dried rosemary, and salt and grind with a mortar and pestle. Spray roasted cashews with cooking spray and stir with spice mix.

Sometimes picnics are best without recipes. A few carefully selected ingredients made a good spread on Governor’s Island. Crunchy vegetable + cheese + bread/crackers + fruit is usually a good combination. And if it’s not enough, there’s always the Dippin Dot vending machine.

Bagels, the Bread of New York

Seems like I keep coming back to breakfast these days. Back to basics. Back to bagels.

You see, with my departure from this city inching closer every day, it’s reaching the point where I try to cram in as much as possible of the stuff I’m going to miss the most. It’s not that there aren’t delicious bagels in my future – everyone in Berkeley knows that you can rely on Noah’s Bagels, and I’m a huge fan of the avocado, sprouts, and cream cheese sandwich from Lox, Stock and Bagel, not to mention the epic BLT at Manhattan Bagel. But these constructions fulfill a completely different purpose from the authentic New York bagel. Here, the essence of the bagel is its simplicity, its ubiquity, its combination of convenience and quality.

People do become loyal to their favorite shops, but this largely depends on neighborhood. Bagels aren’t destination purchases; it would be ridiculous to use any form of transportation other than walking to procure one (driving a car, needless to say, would be unheard of). When I moved from the Village, I worried how I would survive without Bagel Bob’s on University Place, but then I discovered Bergen Bagels right down the street in Prospect Heights. I worried about leaving that bagel source behind too, but it turns out Montague Bagels is almost as reliable. And the staff get to know their customers, reinforcing cozy the neighborhood feeling. The server at Bagel Bob’s must have seen hundreds, if not thousands, of NYU students each day, but he still remembered that I would probably order a plain bagel with plain cream cheese. I can’t say why my boring predictability would be memorable in any way.

Yes, you can find sub-par bagels in this city, but it’s more difficult than finding decent ones. So I wasn’t at all nervous trying out a new bagel place near where I work in Midtown. But Daniel’s Bagels on Third Avenue seemed to be particularly reputable, as it makes the bagels on the premises. They seem to make a lot of other appetizing baked goods as well – something called “Israeli rugelach” that looked like a chocolate-streaked croissant, and a poppy seed strudel with a full inch and a half of poppy seed filling inside.

I’ve moved on from my days of plain orders, and now it’s always a tough choice between pumpernickel, 7-grain, and occasionally cinnamon-raisin. But Daniel’s had "whole wheat everything," a somewhat rare variety, so I order that, toasted with butter. Supplemented by some carrots, yogurt, and an apricot, it was a satisfying lunch, and a nice excuse to get out of the office and sit in the sun for a few minutes.

Again, I’m not worried that I’ll be unhappy with the bagels in California, and to tell the truth, bagels have been more of a substitute while I’ve been in New York – something to comfort me when the distance of Parisian baguettes and Cheeseboard rolls seemed too much to bear. But as such, they’ve become symbolic of this city, and all the things I’ll miss most.

Another reason I might have bagels on my mind: this mountain of bagels I stumbled upon at Figment, an arts festival held on Governor’s Island every summer. It was guarded by a team of aerobics-outfitted women shouting feminist slogans.

Never Had a Crumpet?

It can seem strange that something as basic as breakfast should vary so much across cultures. But the French are boggled by bagels, and Americans would never go for salad before noon, though Israelis happily start the day with a bowl of cucumbers, watermelon, and feta. When the food itself is the same, the way it's served often isn't: my Slovenian homestay family found it extremely bizarre that I liked cold milk on my cereal, as opposed to room temperature.

Even countries that share a native tongue can surprise each other. When my cousin foisted a plate of crumpets on my roommates, they looked suspicious, but accepted, and later told me to "thank her for the...strumpets?" I actually have a hard time comprehending why most Americans have never had a crumpet. The English muffin made it over, so what happened to its pock-marked cousin? I worry that somewhere along the line, an influential American made a fateful mistake: he tried a crumpet without toasting it, spat out the mealy crumbs in disgust, and vowed never to allow the things to be imported to U.S. soil.

You see, crumpets transform magically in the toaster. At room temperature, their texture is, frankly, intolerable, but after a few minutes in the glow of the electric coils their edges crisp up, encasing tender, piping hot insides. They have a tangy taste that goes perfectly with tart jam or slightly salty butter. Anything you spread on top will inevitably seep into the many holes on their surfaces, turning them into something closer to a glaze-soaked tea cake than a boring breakfast toast.

One more thing: after a lot of thought, I've come to the conclusion that crumpets would not, in fact, be improved by the American tradition of putting peanut butter on everything. Their subtle sourdough taste would be completely overpowered by something so rich. But to the English people smirking right now: just wait and see what I can do with Hobnobs.

Lebanese Festival

When I showed up at Henry and Remsen for the Our Lady of Lebanon church festival, things were just starting up. While volunteers were still busy constructing tents and taping down tablecloths, the grills were already hot, the food tables laden, and the music blaring. These people know how to prioritize.

A long buffet offered all kinds of meat and vegetable options: lamb and chicken kebabs, kibbeh (ground meat and spices) pressed into a huge casserole, dolmas, flaky savory pies, grilled corn, and all the side salads you'd expect. We got a sampler platter with lamb, muhadarra, tabloule, green beans, and fatoush, then lined up for some sajj bread.

The sajj cooking stations were metal domes heated from inside by coals or some other kind of roaring fire, and standing next to them in 90-degree weather tested your true desire for some sajj. The volunteer cooks made it look irresistible, though, laying thin discs of dough onto the hot metal and slathering them with different appetizing fillings from meat sauce to cheese to zaatar paste. When the underside was crispy and slightly blackened, they’d fold them in half and serve them straight off the stove: a Middle Eastern quesadilla. A friend got one of the meat-filled versions, and I asked for a plain piece, just to try it out.

We sat down at one of the long tables and started in on our food, pausing only when some people had to stuff a tablecloth underneath it. Though the platter was more expensive and less generous than most of the Middle Eastern restaurants in the area, it did have a noticeable homemade quality that set it apart. The dressing on the fatoush salad had the buttery sweetness that emerges from the right proportions of lemon and olive oil, and the muhadarra, a mix of lentils, rice, and sautéed onions, was extremely flavorful, much better than many versions I’ve had at restaurants, which tend to be a bit dry. The saaj was different from baked pita, chewier and less bready (which is why the sajj at Fatoush made such good breakfast tacos).

I was too full to reap all the benefits of the dessert table, but I sampled a few bites of a Lebanese pudding flavored with almond and cinnamon and sprinkled with coconut flakes. I wish I could have tried the namoura (also called basbousa), a semolina cake soaked in sweet syrup that I discovered earlier this year at my birthday dinner at Waterfalls, but I might try to make it for an upcoming birthday to make up for this missed opportunity.

I passed by the festival later in the afternoon while doing errands, and it was still going strong. By then the bouncy houses were fully inflated and filled with children, and there was still plenty of food and drinks to occupy their parents for many more hours. I could sense a dance party coming on, since I’m sure everyone was drawn to the event, as I was, by the flyer’s promise of a “DJ ALL THREE DAYS.” I didn’t wait around to find out, but I think the block partied late into the evening.