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.

Fifth Avenue Fair

By far, the best part of summer is being outside most of the time, and an important sub-part of that is eating and drinking outside. If, like many urban dwellers, you don’t have a backyard, it can be slightly more difficult to arrange these kinds of activities. Some countries make it easy, and the summer I spent in Paris was full of night-picnicking on the steps of Sacre Coeur or on the lawn of the Champ de Mars with a slab of Comté, a few baguettes, and several bottles of wine.

But this Puritan nation of ours is less accommodating (in more areas than this), and we have to be more surreptitious here. Except on those lovely days when the city fences off a length of an avenue for the most delightful of summer events: the street fair.

The 5^th Avenue Fair, which happened a few weekends ago, includes many of the less exciting aspects of those generic street fairs that pop up on blocks of the Village every weekend between May and October, but it goes far beyond Mozzarepas and fake silk scarves. All the local restaurants make an appearance, and there’s a lot of good food to choose from. We started out at the Bierkraft stand, which was selling gigantic pulled pork sandwiches and watermelon beer. The beer tasted like a yeasty Jolly Rancher, which was actually very refreshing in the heat.

I had considerable trouble deciding between the many Greek and South American food carts, but was very happy with the hummus wrap I settled on, a sun-dried tomato tortilla filled with hummus, kalamata olives, tomatoes, and feta. We then met up with a few more friends, who were coming from brunch and didn’t need more food, but had a different excellent idea: margaritas.

Naturally, I had already identified the cheapest margarita stand, so we all lined up there. As we each successively took a first sip from our to-go cup, the same reaction passed over each of our faces, an expression of the thought, “Oh, this is much stronger than I had expected.” We continued down 5^th Avenue, sipping our sour tequila, slowly fading into a sun-soaked daze. It was a beautiful day, and one of those prized opportunities to walk around in a slightly heightened state in a crowd of several thousand happy Brooklynites of all ages, shapes, and colors.

Stay tuned for more summer food festivals: The Lebanese, Greek, and Swedish Midsummer Festivals are all coming up.

Waffleschmarrn

Dinner at Die Blaue Gans the other night was more than satisfying: a spicy cheese spread and a tower of potatoes, sauerkraut, and blood sausage were a rich start to a filling main course of pan-fried trout with cauliflower and pine nuts in a buttery white wine sauce. I was nonetheless coaxed into ordering dessert, partially out of peer pressure, but also because “Schwartzwälder Torte” looked fun to pronounce. But when the desserts arrived at the table and everyone saw what was placed in front of Chase, we all instantly wished we had been savvy enough to say “Kaiserschmarrn.”

It wasn’t that the presentation was that spectacular. It looked like, and was, a heap of mangled and nearly-burnt pancakes. But the scent of butter and sugar rising from it set off whatever sensory receptors are responsible for telling the brain “There is something nearby that should be eaten immediately.” I don’t remember if I asked permission before extending my fork; all I remember is the decadent taste of butter saturation and chewy caramelized edges.

“Kaiserschmarrn” is a dessert version of the original “Schmarrn,” a shredded omelet, but the same word can be used to mean “rubbish.” It’s clear, to me at least, that this traditional Austrian dish is the product of incompetence in the kitchen: the delicious result of being unable to flip an omelet or a pancake without destroying it, followed by the chef's giving up and calling it something else. So as I surreptitiously devoured Chase’s dessert, I started thinking about how to make it myself.

But while I pondered whether it would be best to use a cast-iron skillet or non-stick pan, another experiment occurred to me, one that would use up the leftovers from a previous weekend brunch that were now sitting in the freezer. “Waffleschmarrn” seemed like it would have potential – the many edges would allow for even more caramelization.

It was experimental cooking, played entirely by ear. I melted two tablespoons of butter in a frying pan, and zapped two frozen waffles in the microwave for a minute or so, sprinkling them with lemon juice when they came out to make sure they stayed soft. I tore them into irregular chunks and threw them into the melted butter, then added a tablespoon or two of powdered sugar and turned the heat up to high. After a few minutes the edges were crisping up and the sugar was caramelizing nicely in places. I piled all of it onto a plate and spooned some blueberries (also thawed in the microwave) over the top.

I would say the experiment worked. Next time I might brown the butter a bit more and add sugar to the pan before the waffles to get a deeper caramel going, but it was still a very tasty dessert. When you think about it, it’s nothing more than a butter-soaked heap of rag-like breakfast pastry bits, but when you can describe something using the words “butter-soaked” and “heap,” it's clearly not the time or place for skepticism.

Brooklyn Flea

The Williamsburg Savings Bank at One Hanson Place is a fixture of the landscape from any vantage point in downtown Brooklyn and the surrounding neighborhoods, including Boerum Hill, north Park Slope, Fort Greene, and Prospect Heights. Its skinny clock tower informs commuters getting off at the Atlantic Terminal just how long it took them to get over the bridge, and runners emerging from Prospect Park and shooting down Flatbush Avenue can check it to see exactly how long they have to get back home if they want to be on time for work. The building's stately architecture lent some class to the view from my fire escape on Pacific Street, counteracting the neon signs of Chuck E. Cheese and "HOME EATER PRO" (once "Home Theater Pro-Line," before light bulbs got too expensive to replace).

But the exterior, nice as it is, does not betray the impressiveness of the design inside the building, which is now open to visitors as the Sunday location of the Brooklyn Flea. Once inside, you find yourself surrounded by soft pink marble, vaulted ceilings with detailed midnight blue and gold designs, doors and corridors framed by wrought-iron gratings. All that and the signs pointing you to "Life Insurance" and "Bonds" are enough to make you think you've stepped into a different era, but the feeling is enhanced by the fact that it's a flea market, so, naturally, you're surrounded by a lot of old stuff. Vintage boots, antique posters, assorted taxidermy - all things I would contemplate saving up for if I weren't dreading the task of transporting all the belongings I already have across the country in a few months. But even if you're not in the market for any retro knickknacks, it's an entertaining environment to walk around in for an hour or so.

The food offerings at the Brooklyn Flea, meanwhile, are entirely representative of Brooklyn in the present moment. At the McClure's Pickles table I sampled some Bloody Mary mix made with their spicy garlic dill pickles and some tomato puree, which was delicious, but probably too salty to drink in large quantities. There was artisanal chocolate flecked with sea salt crystals, and home-brewing kits with everything you need to make one gallon of your own lavender-flavored beer. Then, more pickles to rival McClure's: Rick's Pick's table was covered with jars of pickled okra, asparagus, red peppers, and green beans. I also finally discovered that Kumquat Cupcakes, which I had seen advertised on a cafe chalkboard near my apartment, does not refer to any kind of citrusy confection, but rather to an entire bakery operation. And their signature cupcake is hardly fruity: a maple pecan cake topped with creamy frosting and a piece of bacon.

I worry that Brooklyn’s bounty of historic buildings, inventive baking, and obsessive pickling has spoiled me; but I suppose I have to enjoy it while I can, and I’m glad I happened to stumble upon the flea market at One Hanson this weekend.