Magazine articles

America and Lox Around the Clock

CaB Magazine
January 1993

You Are Where You Eat
Restaurant Reviews

The New Year is a time of noise. Balls dropping, crowds cheering, Royal Canadians playing, party horns bleating, bells ringing, and resolutions breaking. Auld Lang Syne is the song of the moment, the Superbowl is filling the airwaves, and another year has passed, leaving us, as always, hungry for more.

Once the hangover passes (the punch must have been spiked with Everclear), it’s time to continue our early year noise binge. Sometimes the gang is just in the mood for loud. Someplace with an ear-pounding, mind-numbing ambience, where not only can you not hear yourself think, but you know there’s no sense in even trying.

When the desire of the moment is the din of hundreds of voices, each raised to out-decibel its neighbors, we head for America. From the massive glass and brass doors to the neon stripes washing across the ceiling, from colorful murals adorning the walls and ceiling to a bar raised like a dais almost half a block away from the entrance, America is big, bright, bold, and brassy, a reflection of the owner’s concept of the country it is named for. Everything is oversized, with plates and bowls big enough for family servings.

The food, too, is America. There are South Carolina Low Country Crab Cakes, New Orleans Oyster Po’Boys, Cajun sausage Po’Boys, and Wisconsin garlic sausage sandwiches with sauerkraut and brown mustard. Chowders from New England Clam to Southwestern Corn, California avocados, New Jersey tomatoes, and New Mexican blue corn dot the menu. There’s even a Fluffernutter Sandwich (for those poor, unfortunate souls who haven’t a clue, it’s a peanut butter and marshmallow “fluff” on white bread). The menu stretches ever on and on, and we’ve spent upwards of half an hour just to figure out which of the fourteen categories (Soups, Appetizers, Egg Dishes, Omelettes, Salads, Griddle Cakes, Side Dishes, Entrées, America’s Sliders, Hamburgers, Pastas, Sandwiches, Pizzas, and Desserts) our food will come from. We haven’t even looked at the “special” menu.

One ritual must for the table is a basket of semolina herb bread topped with avocado butter, sundried tomatoes and Vermont brie. Start with the wild mushroom and shallot strudel, the duck terrine with apricots, walnuts, and pear chutney, or maybe the grilled duck sausage with Creole mustard sauce. It you’re in the mood for some spice, the quesadilla with chorizo sausage and poblano peppers or the New Mexican black bean cakes are hits, if a touch mild for my personal tastes. The applewood smoked chicken salad is one of our favorites, the San Francisco duck salad with macadamias and ginger chutney comes in a close second. We haven’t tried, but we’ve noted the Salade Mimi, with its iceberg lettuce and Thousand Island dressing.

There are almost too many things to choose from for our entrées. Will it be a night of pizza, with lamb sausage and roasted sweet peppers, or wild mushroom and pesto, or four cheeses? Perhaps dishes from the griddle menu, like apple and black pecan flapjacks, or Indian corn cakes with bacon and maple syrup. We pass on the Blue Plate Special, and decide that if we ever want “sliders”, we’ll hit the local White Castle. Maybe the Long Island duck pot pie or the Jersey pork chops with onions, gravy, dream whips and sautéed apples. One of my favorites is from the pasta menu, duckling meatballs braised in demi-glace with Cabernet Sauvignon and buckwheat noodles. Another thumbs up for the angel hair with rock shrimp and a tomato dill cream sauce.

Coffee is served in mugs the size of soup bowls. Death by Chocolate is a definite killer, with enough chocolate and enough size for the most dedicated chocoholics among us. The Mendocino Mud Pie with vanilla bean ice cream isn’t far behind. A White Chocolate mousse cake gets the nod from the gang’s white chocolate fanatic. And there’s even a real Key Lime Pie with just enough bite to brighten the end of the meal.

America, 9 East 18th Street (between Fifth Avenue and Broadway), 505-2110. Open for lunch and dinner, 7 days a week. Reservations recommended. All major credit cards accepted. Lunch $20-30. Dinner $30-40.

“Music so loud, it’ll spin you around, till your soul has lost its way…” Sometimes the pandemonium we’re looking for is that of lyrics and tunes. Booming from speakers mounted above in the the exposed pipe and brick trendy architecture. We stumble our way to Lox Around the Clock. Chelsea’s answer to the Lower East Side’s old line lox shops and Broadway’s touristy pastrami palaces.

I grew up hearing that there were basically five kinds of Jews; Hasidic, Orthodox, Conservative, Reform, and Gastronomic. Lox Around the Clock is the in-vogue stop for the latter. Service is a bit ditzy, but always with a smile. Our waiter can be counted on to recommend “whatever you feel like eating.” The multi-paned windows give a great view of passing foot traffic, with its usual Chelsea amusements.

We may as well start with a selection of all of our favorites. The chopped chicken liver prepared with garlic and hard boiled eggs, maybe a little hummus plate with pita bread, and a few cheese blintzes and pierogi. My choice, the potato pancakes, can be had with the traditional applesauce and sour cream or fancied-up with smoked salmon and salmon caviar. Personally, I’m not a borscht fan, but friends at the table say this one is first rate. The chicken and matzoh-ball soup certain is.

Entrées center around the world of sandwiches. I’m not sure if we’ve tried anything else. Sometimes we want something as simple as bagels with lox and cream cheese, or smoked whitefish, or even a little more chopped liver. Other times, a reasonably good burger, available in ground beef and turkey versions. But the homemade challah bread makes the regular sandwich selection the hands-down favorites. The curried chicken salad and sliced turkey breast sandwiches get good marks. But the all around winners are the lobster club with lobster, avocado, egg, bacon, lettuce and tomato, and the lox, cream cheese, capers, red onion, and tomato sandwich.

By the time we get to dessert, most of us are too full to move. But on occasion, we’ve managed to inhale a brownie a la mode, the sour cream apple walnut pie, or a banana split. I go for the bread pudding soaked in brandy. All this, they’re open late, and the Limelight is just down the block…

Lox Around the Clock, 676 Sixth Avenue (at 21st Street), 691-3535. Open for breakfast, lunch, and dinner (7 a.m. to 4 a.m. Sunday to Thursday and 24 hours on Friday and Saturday). Take-out and delivery available. American Express, Visa, Mastercard, and Transmedia credit cards accepted. Lunch or dinner $15-20.

CaB magazine was one of the first publications I ever wrote for. Published by my dear friend Andrew Martin, it covered the Cabaret, Theater, Music and Dining scene in New York City, long before slick publications like Time Out NY and Where NY became popular. We had great fun writing it, and some wonderful writers contributed to its pages. When the magazine folded in the mid-90s, Andrew disappeared from the scene, and rumors had it that he departed from this existence not long after. I was thrilled to find out in mid-October 2005, a decade later, that the rumors were just that. Andrew contacted me after finding my site via that omnipresent force, Google. He’s alive and well and a member of a comedy troupe called Meet the Mistake. Somehow quite fitting!

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Food, Fun, and Karaoke Abound In Hotel Convention at Javits

CaB Magazine
Christmas 1992

I’m now quite sure that karaoke is the in thing. I know because the Javits Center has more karaoke machines in it than there are bars in Hell’s Kitchen. I’m at the 77th Annual International Hotel/Motel & Restaurant Show (November 7th-10th) to find out what’s new, what’s old, what’s in, what’s out, what’s hot and what’s not. Fifteen hundred exhibits, educational seminars, a Discovery Room, Demonstration Kitchen, and the Salon of Culinary Art. And everywhere, I hear music playing and atonal singing.

The IH/M&RS is, as far as I know, the largest gathering of people who want to do business with those of us in the hospitality industry. Exhibitors and visitors come from all over the world. Chefs, restaurateurs, hoteliers and students from down-under mingle with those from down the block. I spot some name tags from a cafe in the Guatemalan hills, from a trendy bistro in Tokyo (where, no doubt, karaoke machines are installed), and from a renowned school in snow-covered Lausanne, Switzerland. New Jersey seems heavily represented.

Like most conventions, the vast majority of attendees mix and mingle, looking for familiar faces or a product that catches their eye. Unlike most, the IH/M&RS has samples of free food and drink as far as the eye can see. Tidbits available for snacking range from fast food pizza and fried chicken from numerous purveyors to grilled wood grouse from D’Artagnan Wild Game and Food Specialists, and seafood gumbo from Chef Paul Prudhomme of K-Paul’s Louisiana Kitchen. Gourmet cheesecakes are definitely in this year, as are sourdough breads. Espresso and cappucino brew merrily, but “just coffee” is in scarce supply. Everyone wants to sell me an air filtration machine, and at least three people try to get me to try on a pair of clogs. Eight try to get yours truly to sing into a microphone while words and video flash by on a screen.

I check out the latest in gleaming kitchenware, point-of-sale computers, linens, uniforms and insecticides. The seminar rooms are filled with eager students of the trade, looking for ideas on global marketing, resume writing, energy management, franchising, menu design, new opportunities in the Eastern European market, and African design. Julia Child speaks out on modern food myths. Robin Leach delivers a nasal presentation on, surprise, the rich and famous. Phil McConkey rouses the group with a speech on winning attitudes. Panel discussions on bar sales and profits, foreign markets, “imaging”, and sexual harassment are the focus in another room.

The Salon of Culinary Arts features “food as art” creations. Some of the nation’s most famous chefs built stunning creations that range from ice sculpture to towering cakes, to gorgeous plates of food. Showcased in the Discovery Room this year are new products, technologies and services that were designed in response to the passage of the Americans With Disabilities Act. I see nothing to assist the singing-on-key challenged.

The Demonstration Kitchen is a hotbed of activity. Paul Prudhomme drops in to demonstrate his unique Louisiana cooking. Nick Maglieri, one of New York’s top pastry instructors shows off a little magic with Italian desserts. The list goes on with chefs from Cite, Tatou, the “21” Club, Peacock Alley, Vince and Eddie’s, Tropica, Windows on the World, Silver Fox Studios and The Water Club; and instructors from Hudson Community College, Peter Kump’s New York Cooking School, and the Culinary Institute of America.

While most visitors are members of the hospitality industry, it’s not unusual to have folks who are just plain interested in food, restaurants and hotels mucking about. Watch for the 78th Annual International Hotel/Motel & Restaurant Show next November! And let’s hope karaoke is a thing of the past.

CaB magazine was one of the first publications I ever wrote for. Published by my dear friend Andrew Martin, it covered the Cabaret, Theater, Music and Dining scene in New York City, long before slick publications like Time Out NY and Where NY became popular. We had great fun writing it, and some wonderful writers contributed to its pages. When the magazine folded in the mid-90s, Andrew disappeared from the scene, and rumors had it that he departed from this existence not long after. I was thrilled to find out in mid-October 2005, a decade later, that the rumors were just that. Andrew contacted me after finding my site via that omnipresent force, Google. He’s alive and well and a member of a comedy troupe called Meet the Mistake. Somehow quite fitting!

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Miss Elle’s Homesick Bar and Grill, Roettele A.G.

CaB Magazine
Christmas 1992

You Are Where You Eat
Restaurant Reviews

Home for the holidays. An image that conjures up either nostalgia or terror, and sometimes both. For those who are off to visit the sites of childhood, parental retirement, or sibling settlement, I wish you well, peace on earth, joy to the world, etc., etc. For those away from home who remain behind in the Big Apple, I wish you a season safe from marauding tourists and roving packs of Kris Kringle Klones.

Although I would normally refrain from connecting food and illness, one malady seems fitting at this time of year. An infirmity which strikes when least expected – homesickness. The cure is not to pack your bags and hop on the next bus to the family estate. The reality of home has little to do with the imagined version. Better to hike yourself over to the closest “home-cooking” establishment and inhale the aromas of food that your mom never really did prepare, even though you’re quite sure you remember it that way…

I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to round up the gang and head over to a place called Miss Elle’s Homesick Bar and Grill. It’s not often that we venture to the Upper West Side, but I figured we could always drop in for a set at Stand-Up New York after we dined.

Let me just say I really do mean the following as a compliment. Miss Elle herself greeted us, and as she guided us through the eclectically southern kitsch bar and dining areas, I found myself having visions of Miss Mona and The Chicken Ranch. There was a homey, easy quality about the room that, without being elegant, defines southern charm.

We came in with the expectation that the menu would be loaded with southern fare. While Miss Elle’s certainly serves southern dishes, especially side dishes, the menu is an interesting selection of cross-country entries, plus an entire section devoted to Italian pastas. Although peanut butter and banana (or jelly) sandwiches, chips and dip, beaners and wieners, and the “left-over sandwich (ask!)” provided us with amusing conversational ice-breakers, we decided on slightly more sophisticated sustenance.

Fried calamari was crisp and light, though just slightly over-cooked. Its mild dipping sauce was a nice change from the sweat-inducing condiments generally served with this dish. Cream of mushroom soup was hearty and tasty. And Aunt Sadie’s Chopped Liver was just as I imagine Aunt Sadie made it. Although good, it could have used a little seasoning.

We passed on the Italian fare, which seemed fairly simple, ranging from basic spaghetti and meatballs to fusilli with broccoli and mushrooms in garlic butter, after passing through “Oo-La-La-Lasagana”. I recommend the chicken dishes and the Chicken Française in particular. Lightly breaded and sautéed it was topped with an unusually intense lemon and butter sauce. A butterflied rainbow trout was topped with capers the size of marbles and bits of lemon pulp that, while delicious on their own, overpowered the delicacy of the fish. A grilled tuna steak was simply prepared, and cooked medium – slightly more than we generally like it, but not overdone. Accompaniments incline toward the south with light and fluffy mashed potatoes, carrots slightly candied with cinnamon, sweet potato fries, macaroni and cheese, and fried cauliflower among the offerings.

The dessert list was pure indulgence. Peach pie, berry pie, cheesecake, and banana cream pie all peaked our interest. Our chocoholics opted for the fudge cake, and deemed it a hit. My personal favorite was the harvest pie, a composite of apples, pears, and apricots in a flaky crust with a crumble topping. Warmed with vanilla ice cream on the side, the pies are definite musts. If, for some inexplicable reason, you find yourself on the Upper West Side, Miss Elle’s makes a nice home away from home.

Miss Elle’s Homesick Bar and Grill, 226 West 79th Street (near Broadway), 595-4350. Open 7 days a week for lunch, brunch and dinner. All major credit cards. Lunch $5-15, Brunch $10-15, Dinner $15-25. Free delivery to the Upper West Side.

I wanted to continue our venturing to the far reaches of the East Village, so when I spotted “home-cooking” in a Zagat guide description, we headed for the border of Alphabetland. Billing itself as German-Swiss with a touch of French and Italian, Roettele A.G. conjured a vision that it lived up to. We entered through a narrow foyer with pastry display case and take-out counter. Two long rooms, barely wider than the foyer are dark, with heavy wood beams and paneling. A string trio in traditional suspenders contrasted with dangling silver earrings played bas, fiddle and hammered autoharp in the corner.

A beer and wine list was presented first and included a small but very select group. German beers and wines top the list, a few French and Italian selections follow. We promptly ordered a round or two. The all-around favorite at the table was a Doppel Bokk beer with a name longer than a stretch limo and a rich, smoky and slightly sweet flavor that impressed even our non-beer drinkers. We were also presented with a “fondue” menu, with prix fixe mega-cheese dinners in three varieties. We passed and turned to the regular menu, which changes weekly.

The polyglot menu is a trifle disconcerting with German, French, and Italian lined up in random order, but at least they relate to the origins of the particular dishes they title. English translations are scripted below each. The “vorspelsen”, or appetizers this week covered a mixed salad, a frisée salad with bacon and sausage, a herring and potato salad, onion tart, lentil soup, mozzarella with tomato coulis, duck liver mousse, dried Swiss beef, and melted Belsano cheese with cornichons and boiled potatoes. My personal favorite was the Stuttgarter Zwiebelkuchen, or classic Stuttgart onion tart, which was beautifully presented and savory with sweet onions. Appetizer portions are a bit small given their prices, but the entrées more than make up for the missing volume.

“Hauptapeisen”, or main courses were divided by country, and were more evenly divided among the cuisines. The German dishes were a perfectly cooked, yet very simple, Jagerschnitzel, or veal cutlet with mushroom gravy, a sautéed red snapper in Champagne sauce, and roasted brook trout in Riesling sauce. The Swiss entrée was roasted veal in a white wine cream sauce. Italian fare consisted of a wild porcini risotto and spaghetti with pancetta and peppers in a spicy tomato sauce. From the French came a leg of lamb with sweet garlic flan, a filet mignon with Pinot Noir sauce, and roasted baby chicken with Calvados and cider. Everything we sampled was well cooked, simply presented, and not exceptional. But then that’s what good home cooking is.

We were almost too full for dessert, but managed to nibble at Linzer and Sachertortes. Both were dense and rich, almost to excess, but somehow, just the way I’d want them made at home. Put Roettele A.G. on your must visit list this winter.

Roettele A.G., 126 E. 7th Street (near Avenue A), 674-4140. Closed Sundays.

CaB magazine was one of the first publications I ever wrote for. Published by my dear friend Andrew Martin, it covered the Cabaret, Theater, Music and Dining scene in New York City, long before slick publications like Time Out NY and Where NY became popular. We had great fun writing it, and some wonderful writers contributed to its pages. When the magazine folded in the mid-90s, Andrew disappeared from the scene, and rumors had it that he departed from this existence not long after. I was thrilled to find out in mid-October 2005, a decade later, that the rumors were just that. Andrew contacted me after finding my site via that omnipresent force, Google. He’s alive and well and a member of a comedy troupe called Meet the Mistake. Somehow quite fitting!

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Heard the One About…?

GENRE
November 1992

Parting Glances
Heard the One About…?

Heading Straight for the Funny Farm

GenreBetween June 7th and October 4th, 1995, 27-year old aspiring comedian Benny Goldschmidt received major yawns and was booed off the stage of virtually every major comedy club on the East Coast after telling jokes involving a heterosexual spouse. In frustration, he crashed the Comic Triangle awards banquet for top comedy entertainers of the year and attempted a string of Henny Youngman style one-liners. “Take my wife, please!” he shouted again and again as he was dragged offstage by New York City’s finest. No one laughed.

GENRE staffer Dan Perlman visited Mr. Goldschmidt for this exclusive interview in Bellevue Hospital’s lock-up ward where he is under observation while awaiting trial. Mr. Goldschmidt was under fairly heavy sedation, but even in this condition, his speech was punctuated with outburts of pathetic jokes.

GENRE: Mr. Goldschmidt…

Benny Goldschmidt: Benny, please.

GENRE: Okay, Benny. Let me ask the obvious question. Why would any aspiring comedian in the ’90s use such stale material?

BG: You mean the straight stuff, right? What’s the difference between a blond cocktail waitress and…

GENRE: Well, yes. Heterosexual comedy is just passé, don’t you think?

BG: Hey, I’m on the edge, you know, very Lenny Bruce. Talking about the people who just don’t get talked about anymore. My mother-in-law is so-o-o ugly…

GENRE: Lenny Bruce was talking about oppressed minorities.

BG: That’s just my point. Straights are the oppressed now, you guys get all the good gigs. My girlfriends gives such good…

GENRE: You can’t be serious.

BG: Of course I am. I called Arsenio, I called Sally Jesse, I called Oprah, I called Phil. I told them I do straight material and they hung up. I called Geraldo and offered to do gay material, you know, what did one fag say to the other fag…I even called Regis Philbin…

GENRE: You called Regis Philbin?

BG: Yeah, he sympathized, but said he didn’t think he could use me before 1997, and no stuff about women. My act is women. I love women. As a matter of fact, let me tell you about the time I loved two…

GENRE: Excuse me, but don’t you think comedy changes? People don’t want to hear heterosexual stuff anymore. The jokes are just plain old, like cooties jokes we used to tell in grade school. We outgrew them.

BG: Let me tell you, there’s always a place for the classics. Ministers, rabbis, priests, lawyers, wives, mothers-in-law. Did ya’ hear the one about the farmer’s daughter?

GENRE: You’ve certainly got a handle on bad jokes – everything from borscht belt to raunch…

BG: Bad? Bad? Somebody’s got to preserve these jokes. I think of myself as sort of a Jackie Mason, Bob Hope, Andrew Dice Clay and Sam Kinison all in one. Hey, do you know what the face of a married man looks…

GENRE: You think of yourself as Bob Hope?

BG: I got to. It gives me my edge. Besides, I want to do military shows, you know, USO kind of stuff. So this WAC comes up to me…

GENRE: You want to try that out in front of the lesbian militia?

BG: Like I got a shot. They got this trio of queers doin’ the shows. And some drag queen from L.A. looks like Whoopi. You know, that’s not her real name. So my friend asks me, is it true about black women…

GENRE: I’ve got to ask. Why crash the Comic Triangle awards? It’s for gay comedians.

BG: I had to make my point. I mean, I can tell a joke about blowin’ the chauffeur and sittin’ on barstools upside down as well as anyone…

GENRE: Wait a minute! That’s the kind of joke you’d tell about us. Not what we’d tell about ourselves!

BG: Yeah? Whatever. I had to show them that straight stuff is funny. You ever hear the one about my wife and the lost credit cards…

GENRE: But the stuff isn’t funny. No one laughed.

BG: Yeah, well, they didn’t give me enough time. I coulda got those pansies rollin’ in the aisles. So this burglar breaks into my house…

GENRE: Yeah, yeah, we all know that one. “Take my domestic partner. Please.”


Genre is a gay “lifestyle” and travel magazine. It was launched in 1992 by three entrepreneurs, two of whom shortly thereafter left to found QSF magazine. I went with them…

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La Metairie, Zutto, Ci Vediamo

CaB Magazine
November 1992

You Are Where You Eat
Restaurant Reviews

The world didn’t end. We know that because you’re reading this after October 28, 1992. The Rapture. Judgment Day. With life continuing on, I, for one, am breathing heartfelt sighs of relief. It’s dinner time.

Where to venture, knowing that we just barely squeaked by my final reward? We immediately eliminate any place where the clientele think a budget is something for Congress to play with rather than a personal amusement. Even at the end of the world we have principles. Our favorite cuisines come to mind. French, Japanese, and Italian. All three will have to do.

French restaurants in New York are often so stuffy you just want to yell “Fire” to see if anyone reacts. We prefer somewhere with a little life. Just off Sheridan Square, its awning enclosed by a gaggle of geese or brood of ducks (I’ve never been quite sure which), is La Metairie.

The name translates to something like “sharecropper farm,” which definitely fits the look. The rustic farmhouse guise is encouraging from moment one. The tables are packed a trifle close, which can turn an intimate dinner into a group affair. If you don’t mind sharing airspace with your neighbors, you’ll love it.

There is something to be said for haute cuisine with delicate portions and dainty sauces. Admittedly, I’m generally not the one to say it. I like food with flavor and substance, and La Metairie’s kitchen delivers. Whether you want a galantine of duck with a bright fruity sauce, tuna and salmon carpaccio with garden herbs, or seafood sausage, start with anything from the appetizer list. If you’re like me, you’ll order the garlic flan with wild mushrooms. Heaven on earth.

For your main course, I always find it difficult to decide. There’s a grilled poussin (young chicken), roast chicken breast, salmon with ginger and star anise, or provençale style rack of lamb. My personal favorite is the duck breast, which is served with a different sauce each day. Raspberry takes the top of my list.

Desserts vary from time to time. I’m not a big creme brulee fan, but for those who are, my friends tell me La Metairie’s is exceptional. When they have it, the pommes glace is topnotch. If you love French food, don’t pass up an opportunity to savor the moment here.

La Metairie, 189 West 10th Street (at West 4th), 212-989-0343. Open for dinner 7 days a week. All major credit cards. Reservations a must. Dinner $35-40 per person.

Down in that Triangle Below Canal (you did know TriBeCa was an acronym, didn’t you?) is the first place where I first sunk my eyeteeth into a sliver of shimmering fish on sweet vinegared rice. Zutto. The best sushi bar in New York City. Every time I say this, someone is sure to ask, “How can you tell?” I can’t, it’s just a gut feeling. The sushi is always wonderfully fresh, perfectly prepared, and simply yet elegantly presented. Maybe it’s like your first love, the one you never forget and no one every compares with.

There is a modest reserve to the decor, with exposed brick, polished wood, a casual scattering of plants, and Japanese art works. A glass case displays traditional tea service and pottery. The shiny hardwood sushi bar beckons from the back. We traipse our way over and settle down to splurge. Initially formal and correct, the sushi chef loosens up when he realizes we know what we’re looking for.

Everyone has their favorite selection of sushi. While you’re certainly welcome to sample a preset combination plate, I recommend selecting from what looks good right in front of your eyes. Start with a steaming bowl of clear soup, a flavorful dashi (bonito broth) decorated with sea vegetables and crab meat. Green tea or a flask of sake on one side, and it’s time to choose from the array of glistening fish fillets mere inches away.

My personal selection can be counted on to include rich and unctuous hamachi (yellowtail), toasty, seasoned unagi (eel), crunchy and tangy kappa-maki (cucumber and plum roll), and the true test of the sushi aficionado, that quivering bubble of uni (sea urchin roe). Take your chances, and ask the chef to include a few of his own favorites. You won’t be disappointed.

If you simply mush have something besides sushi, Zutto also has a wonderful kitchen. The nega-maki (rolled beef and scallions), the shumai (shrimp dumplings), and hijiki (dark seaweed) with sake sauce are without peer. The broiled salmon teriyaki is one of the finest fillets you’ll find.

For dessert, there is the ubiquitous selection of ice creams; ginger, green tea, and red bean. For something a bit more traditional, try the yokan, sweet red bean cakes.

Zutto, 77 Hudson Street (at Harrison), 212-233-3287. Open for dinner 7 days a week. All major credit cards. Dinner, depending on your appetite for sushi – $20-50 per person.

For those who’ve never ventured into Alphabet City at the far fringe of the East Village, it’s time to check it out. For a first trip, you may want to penetrate just barely over the line, to Avenue A and 6th Street. Ci Vediamo bills itself as “an Italian eatery underground.” And it is. Underground.

New York has more Italian restaurants than we need. It wouldn’t surprise me to find out it has more Italian restaurants than Italy. Yet few of them are worth the trip. When a friend told me about Ci Vediamo, I promptly forgot about it. When a patrol officer on her scooter told me, I went. It was worth the trip.

We walked down the steps into a gleaming space in bold black, white, and red. A wall of mirrors doubles the visual space. The kitchen, which is one of the cleanest I’ve ever seen in a restaurant, is framed by shelves of Italian goodies like pasta, vinegar, and olive oil. The hyperkinetic staff is friendly and cheerful.

Try the garlic sautéed wild mushrooms, a decent mozzarella and plum tomato salad, or mussels simmered in a tasty marinara sauce. Pass on the Antipasto Rustico, lackluster at best. The polenta was topped with a great mushroom sauce, but could have used a little seasoning itself. The top choice has got be the toasted Italian bread in basil pesto. Richly mingled flavors of garlic, parmesan, and basil had us mopping up every last drop.

For our secondi piatti, or second and main course, we had the chance to sample from ricotta and spinach stuffed canelloni in fresh tomato sauce, zucchini and asparagus ravioli with artichoke purée, risotto primavera, bowtie pasta in vodka cream sauce, grilled salmon. The linguini with a rich puttanesca sauce; capers, anchovies, green and black olives is outstanding. The waiters regularly recommend against the individual pizzas. Surprisingly, everything a Ci Vediamo is inexpensive, with no item on the menu over $10.

Desserts are a trifle overly sweet, though acceptable, and change regularly. The ricotta cheesecake is my personal favorite, and the chocolate mousse cake is pretty tasty. The tiramisu, which would classically by filled with a marsala tinged mascarpone, is filled with whipped cream. The fruit tart is delicious, though the puff pastry is a little heavy. On the other hand, the espresso was among the better cups I’ve had in New York. The complimentary glass of port is a nice touch. Time to check out the far reaches of the East Village. Wonder what’s happening at the Pyramid…

Ci Vediamo, 85 Avenue A (at 6th Street), 212-995-5300. No reservations. Open for dinner 7 days a week. Cash only. Dinner $20-25 per person.

CaB magazine was one of the first publications I ever wrote for. Published by my dear friend Andrew Martin, it covered the Cabaret, Theater, Music and Dining scene in New York City, long before slick publications like Time Out NY and Where NY became popular. We had great fun writing it, and some wonderful writers contributed to its pages. When the magazine folded in the mid-90s, Andrew disappeared from the scene, and rumors had it that he departed from this existence not long after. I was thrilled to find out in mid-October 2005, a decade later, that the rumors were just that. Andrew contacted me after finding my site via that omnipresent force, Google. He’s alive and well and a member of a comedy troupe called Meet the Mistake. Somehow quite fitting!

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Shojin, Boostan, Hot Stuff

CaB Magazine
October 1992

You Are Where You Eat
Restaurant Reviews

If you have been following this column over the last couple of issues, I have no doubt that you now picture me in bursting, rotund glory, oil dribbling down my chin, gingers sticky with grease and barbecue sauces of varying hues spattering my formerly gleaming white linen shirt like bad tie-dye. While I number such companions among my friends, I concede to none of the above. Yours truly stands just five and a half feet in height and weighs in at a mere one hundred and twenty-five pounds – soaking wet. But, cholesterol-laden feeding frenzies are an occasional part of my life, not unlike shopping sprees.

I promised several friends to point my pen in a lighter direction for this back-to-school column. I cannot lay claim to being vegetarian in any of its aspects. I am not classifiable as ovo-lacto-, ovo-, lacto-, or pure vegan. I am, by nature and habit, an omnivore. If it is presented as food, I am quite willing to taste, to nibble, to consume. Nonetheless, I and my dining companions regularly find ourselves seated in the company of those who decline to ingest nervous systems.

We begin one evening, as we often do, in the West Village. My favorite lane is close at hand, with its trees, its row houses, its mews and theater. Strolling peacefully down Commerce Street, we round the bend. Halfway down the block we arrive at Shojin, our destination for the evening’s repast. A simple wood and glass exterior greets us, a somewhat bare white interior dotted with plants awaits.

The atmosphere is perhaps beyond relaxed. It is not unusual to find someone occupying a table solo for many hours, as they peruse the pages of some tome or another. Conversations throughout the dining room are engaging, and we often participate, table to table. Both the staff and fellow patrons are friendly, and we have seen groups from neighborhing seating join each other to complete a meal, and leave together for further festivities of the evening.

The menu is likewise friendly and simple, and states “Strictly Vegetarian Foods for Your Health of Soul”. The Japanese-style dishes are explained in easy terms. Questions are quickly answered and concerns are resolved by the chipper staff. The selection is varied, with something for everyone’s tastes.

Start with a soup, either the miso or the daily special, which ranges far and wide in the quest to whet your appetite. Follow it up with vegetable spring rols, soba noodles, deep-fried eggplant, or my favorite, the hijiki (seaweed) sautéed with carrots. The whole wheat bread with peanut-tahini spread is wonderful, especially dunked in the soups.

Tofu shows up in several guises, from a delicious teriyaki marinade to the tasty sauté with ginger-miso and vegetables. Gluten, often used as a meat substitute, shows up in cutlet form with vegetables, with curry, in sweet soy-broth, or my personal choice, barbecued (well, I can’t completely escape my past). Buckwheat soba noodles are somewhat bland, but for those who simply must have pasta… My favorite is the tempura, a heaping platter of fresh vegetables, deep-fried in whole wheat batter, with a ginger dipping sauce.

For dessert, there is, of course, the staple of vegetarian cuisine; carrot cake. It is good, but Shojin has a dessert that is a must-try – the tofu pie, with fruit topping, or blended with pumpkin, or even my personal favorite, plain. It easily rivals the cheesecakes served at most eateries in the Big Apple, without the cheese. Definitely drop in here when it’s time to clear out those arteries.

Shojin, 23 Commerce Street (near 7th Avenue), 212-989-3530. No credit cards. Open Monday through Saturday for dinner. Takeout available. Dinner $15-20.

Among my favorite cuisines are those of the Middle East. I can’t claim it’s because my people are desert people; as far back as the dark ages, we’re Eastern Europeans. Maybe it was watching Lawrence of Arabia, or Casablanca – I’m fairly sure it wasn’t Ishtar. Most Middle Eastern cuisines lend themselves well to vegetarian cooking, and I was thrilled ro find someone specializing in doing just that. Moving a bit towards the center of the Village, we wandered our way down MacDougal Street to Boostan.

It would be easy to describe this little cafe as a hole-in-the-wall, though that conjures up images that are not conducive to eating. Nonetheless, clean and bright as it is, hole-in-the-wall is a good description. We opted for the outdoor tables, which, likely, are limited to the summer months. The floor staff is friendly, though tend to be forgetful, and you may have to reorder items you were quite sure were on the way. But the wait is worth it.

From the miniscule kitchen in the rear, a parade of mouthwatering, hearty and healthy dishes emerge. I cannot begin to recommend the Potato Mushroom Pie highly enough – layers of mashed potatoes with savory mushrooms, onions, and walnuts. The grape leaves stuffed with brown rice, onions, herbs and lemon have a bright zip. The fava bean salad with tomatoes, cucumber and mint makes a meal in itself.

The best bet if you want to try a little of everything is the Combination Delight; a little falafel, baba ghannouj, hummous, fava beans, stuffed grape leaves, and other delights. You won’t miss the traditional lamb in the potato and eggplant moussaka topped with homemade mozzarella and almonds. Spinach, fava beans, chickpeas, eggplant, cauliflower, okra, couscous, and brown rice all show up in a profusion of entrees. Pasta dishes are simple, from Fettucine Alfredo to Semoline Penne with pesto. And if you simply must have a meat, Boostan concedes with one dish, a choice of baked salmon or sole with garlic, lemon and almonds.

Desserts range from pudding and yogurt to traditional Middle Eastern specialties like baklava and halvah. In between are a selection of cakes and pies, from the ever present carrot to chocolate, amaretto cheese and tofu. Who can pass up baklava when it’s offered?

Boostan, 85 MacDougal Street (near Bleecker), 212-533-9561. No credit cards. Open 7 days a week for lunch and dinner. Takeout and delivery available. Lunch $5-10, Dinner $15-20.

Given that I, and several of my dining companions, are trained chefs, we have actually been known to cook meals at home. As in, not eating out, dirty pots, plates and cutlery notwithstanding. One of my favorite weekend tasks is heading off into the nether reaches in search of obscure ingredients, exotic produce, and essential cooking tips.

En route one recent weekend to a housewarming party, I found myself wending my way down Sullivan Street to that limbo region of the central Village. There, like a beacon on the rocky shores, was my culinary equivalent of the holy grail; Hot Stuff, the Spicy Food Store. Genuflecting quickly and thanking the chilies that be, I poked my head in and looked around. A small but well laid out emporium of piquancy greeted my eyes. The aromas wafting through the air said, in a word, “hot”.

Quietly careening from shelf to shelf, I quickly loaded the checkout counter with smoked chipotle peppers, chili peanut butter, hot sesame oil, lime pickles, and the hot sauces from all of Dante’s hells (my favorite, for those who must follow the leader, is El Yucateco Salsa Popular de Chile Habaneros; green).

For those who just can’t make it, Hot Stuff prints a mail order catalog. But it’s worth the trip. How can you miss with a place where the owner and top tamale says, “Life is just a bowl of chilies!”?

Hot Stuff, 227 Sullivan Street (near Bleecker), 212-254-6120. If you like spicy food, bring a well-packed wallet. Checks, money orders, Visa and Mastercard accepted.

CaB magazine was one of the first publications I ever wrote for. Published by my dear friend Andrew Martin, it covered the Cabaret, Theater, Music and Dining scene in New York City, long before slick publications like Time Out NY and Where NY became popular. We had great fun writing it, and some wonderful writers contributed to its pages. When the magazine folded in the mid-90s, Andrew disappeared from the scene, and rumors had it that he departed from this existence not long after. I was thrilled to find out in mid-October 2005, a decade later, that the rumors were just that. Andrew contacted me after finding my site via that omnipresent force, Google. He’s alive and well and a member of a comedy troupe called Meet the Mistake. Somehow quite fitting!

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No Dropped Forks

QW Magazine
September 1992

No Dropped Forks

I’ve been picked up in a lot of places by a lot of different people, in a lot of different ways. I never expected to be picked up at a bus stop, by Craig Claiborne, in a jeep. Then again, I never expected to be picked up by Craig Claiborne. Food editor at The New York Times for over three decades, he stirred the tastes of a public that hungered for food that hadn’t been scientifically prepared by home economists. Thousands of columns and a dozen books fed kitchen hints and food facts to millions. We talked in his East Hampton home, a Michael Feinstein album playing in the background. The interview was punctuated by lunch and a call from his lover of eleven years.

Dan Perlman: How did a boy from Sunflower, Mississippi come to open up the world food?

Craig Claiborne: It started the first time I ever had food outside the south. It was at the Chicago World’s Fair. I had a bowl of jellied consomme with lemon juice and tabasco. It was the best thing I’d ever ate in my life.

DP: But you didn’t start out to be a food writers?

CC: No. I was in the Navy. Casablanca, in World War II. I got an invitation from a handsome, young lieutenant to a Moroccan home. I realized there was more to life than eating soul food. When I left the Navy, I was taking the Ile de France back. I had Turbot a l’Infante. I took one bite and my god, I was transmogrified. I decided, I’ve got to learn how to cook French.

DP: How did you start?

CC: My mother arranged for me to go to hotel school in Switzerland. When I got back, I applied to get a job from Gourmet magazine. I ended up doing PR work for food accounts.

DP: How did you get to the Times?

CC: In those days there were no male food editors in the United States. My job was to escort all the lady food editors in New York around, play footsie with them, and sell them ideas. I had gotten to know Jane Nickerson at the Times. When I heard she was leaving, I went back to the office and, if you’ll pardon the expression, closeted myself, and wrote a note saying, do you think The New York Times would consider hiring a man as a food writer?

DP: What did she say?

CC: I didn’t hear from Jane. So I called herup. She said she didn’t want to get my hopes up, but they’d consider me. They called me on vacation on Fire Island and said I got the job. I went back out to the beach and started crying, saying, what will you ever write a column about? I saw this guy hauling in a bluefish and I said, by god, I’ll write an article about bluefish.

DP: Did you?

CC: I stayed at The New York Times thirty three years, and sometimes four and five columns a week, and I never wrote a column on bluefish. I don’t like bluefish.

DP: Any favorite foods?

CC: I have a passion for hot dogs. Once a month I sneak off and have a hot dog, with sauerkraut. And Vietnamese spring rolls, called “cha gio”. I went to Saigon, in the middle of the war, just to learn to make that one dish.

DP: What’s changed in the world of food writing?

CC: Word processors. I can’t stand them. I spent three solid days writing about this trip to China, and the third morning I pressed the wrong button. I erased the entire thing. Twenty seven pages. Gone with the wind.

DP: What stands out about the trip to China?

CC: The most notable meal I ate was in Chengdu. They brought us this little thing, about that long and that big. I pick it up with my chopsticks and I said, “what is this?” She says, “the bull’s penis.” I ate the goddamn thing, but it was so unappealing. Not because it was a penis, I’ve had enough of those in my mouth, but it was just so awful to eat.

DP: Was it hard being gay at the Times?

CC: Everybody I’ve worked with knows I’m gay. All the people at the New York Times knows. The funny thing is, when my memoirs were published, Arthur Geld, who was the number two man at the time, it was his attitude to go into more detail about what it was like to be gay. It was never a problem.

DP: Did you have any concerns about coming out publicly in your memoirs?

CC: I had a funny experience. The only thing I cared about was my family. I went down to Mississippi. I said, “The reason I came down is to tell you that I’m writing my autobiography, and I’m going to talk about my homosexuality in it.” Nobody stopped eating, no dropped forks. My niece turned to my sister and she said, “Did you hear what Craig said, that he’s going to tell people he’s gay?” And my sister said, “Look, my daddy always told him to tell the truth.”

DP: What’s next for Craig Claiborne?

CC: Death. That’s the only thing left for me. No, I don’t know. Well, having Jim as a friend. That’s what I live for. To be with him. We’re going to Scotland. And he’s planning a trip next year taking a European train, somewhere. But, that’s all I want. It’s an incredible experience.


QW was a short-lived magazine, the first “glossy” published in NYC that covered gay and lesbian culture and events in the city, and the precursor to what was resurrected as LGNY and later Gay City News. Back in the day, we put things on floppy discs and just knew that we’d have them and be able to access them forever. I know I wrote quite a few columns for them, particularly a humor column, but this seems to be the only piece I have a printout of.

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Greek Active

GENRE
September 1992

Parting Glances
Greek Active

The Alphabet, Not a Position

GenreLiberty, Equality, Fraternity! The cry of the French Revolution. Except, of course, it was Liberté, Égalité, Fraternité! The first two make perfect sense as things to have rebelled in favor of. But why the proletariat were championing group campus living when they were already stuck in squalid communal living situations is beyond me.

My knowledge of fraternities comes from such exemplary sources as Animal House and Revenge of the Nerds (parts I through III). When I first came onto campus, the vocabulary quickly became part of everday life. Rush was something that came in small brown bottles and made our hearts race. Pledge came in lemon scent and didn’t leave streaks. And haze was something that obscured the view early in the morning.

Evers since 1825 and the first Phi Beta Kappa fraternity, gay college men have been subjected to the most difficult decision of their educational pursuit; Do we opt for the daily drudgery of the dorm or do we butch it up and try for frat life? Bastions of macho posturing would seem to me to be no place for a boy in heels. (Much like the military.) It couldn’t take too long for a gay pledge to figure out that Greek referred to an alphabet and a tradition, not a position.

So, why not a gay fraternity? There is, of course, the housing issue. Fraternities tend to be cheap, if communal, living situations. And dorms are certainly no place for your average queen. The idea of a gay fraternity, where we could let our hair down, loll around the common room watching television, hanging out in our underwear, and partying ’til we drop, is not new. Of course, until now, we called it a summer share. But then, Fire Island and Key West just aren’t what they used to be. (If they ever were.)

Debauchery, decadence, and degeneracy. The watchwords of fraternity life. Party time! Now, never let it be said that I don’t like a good party. But I refuse to be seen wrapped in my bedsheets. Especially if I’m supposed to be pretending I’m wearing the latest in toga fashion. Just who among us has the funds, energy or creativity to come up with a different très fab costume every single night of the school year, and still maintain a grade point average above the IQ of our last boyfriend?

I find myself trying to imagine the selection process for new frat pledges at our local chapter of Delta whatever. I know they claim that everything is now handled professionally. Hazing is a thing of the past. PLedges perform community service rather than polish frat brothers’ cars, drink quarts of vodka, and screw dogs. And I’m Princess Grace of Monaco.

Of course, most of what the typical “straight” fraternities consider humiliating hazing activities occurs nightly at our favorite gay establishments. I suppose the equivalent would be forcing our new pledges to do things like play spin-the-bottle with the cheerleading squad. Or maybe make them go to class wearing those pullover shirts with the little penguin over the pocket. And last year’s shoes. Better yet, make them dance the Hustle.

The final and biggest mystery of fraternity life has nothing to do with the local house, the frat brothers themselves, or even whether frat boys get good seats at the football game. (Football? That’s a sport, right?) No, the biggest mystery is the selection of frat names. I mean, just how did the Psi Epsilon Chi Xi Nu Mus get their moniker? How did the nerds in Revenge I get Lambda, Lambda, Lambda, name clearly more suited for us? How did we end with Delta Lambda Phi, when the obvious acronym is Phi Alpha Gamma? I imagine it’s done by some secret Greek council playing a game much like rock, paper, scissors.

Strangely, when I was on campus, the idea of joining a fraternity never came up. Of course, we didn’t have a gay frat, and my pink triangle probably didn’t go well with the ideals of the Alpha Omega house, or whatever it was. Though it did look cute on my ROTC uniform…but that’s another story.


Genre is a gay “lifestyle” and travel magazine. It was launched in 1992 by three entrepreneurs, two of whom shortly thereafter left to found QSF magazine. I went with them…

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