Eat Cook Live

The BBQ

Fayaz is hit as he draws me into the action.

After arrival at LAX, I  headed directly to a park for the first event in the weekend of festivities: a BBQ and ceremony for the groom.  At the park, I chatted with Fayaz’s family and friends from Minnesota who I  hadn’t seen in ages.  After maybe an hour, there was a brief ceremony for Fayaz which drew on a number of traditions including negotiations for Fayaz’s purchase of fetched water, the eating of sweets, and waving coins over Fayaz as a blessing.

The next phase was described to me as “mess-up the groom.”  Fayaz said that, while this is usually limited to some shaving cream on the groom, his family takes to an all out round robin of shaving cream, cool whip, water balloons, and silly string.  At the end of the ceremony, the action began.  For about ten minutes, no one was safe.   Things finally calmed down when a brawl nearly broke-out as people were thrown in the lake.  May Fayaz’s Blackberry rest in peace.

A lunch of burgers and chicken tenders was served and, over a meal in the beautiful Cali weather, friends and family had a chance to catch-up.

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The Mehndi

After the BBQ, we all had enough time to check into the hotel and grab a drink or two at the bar before heading over to the Mehndi at the bride’s family’s home.  Well, at least the men had a moment of leisure.   The women headed to the bride’s home early for the  application of henna.

When we arrived at Nushin’s family home we headed to the back yard.  I was instantly stunned.  I felt as if I’d walked into a fairy tale or the set of a bollywood movie. Set-out in the warm California night were lounge areas.  Large white soft rectangles covered with brightly colored and shiny pillows basked in soft light.  The seating surrounded an open walled tent with a wooden floor.  The air was filled with the smells of meat cooking in one corner of the yard and fresh fruit in another.

It was on arrival that Fayaz’s male friends, most of us white, learned we would be dancing in a precision (in front of a few hundred people) to lead the groom to the tent.  After being shown a few dance moves the music started and we were off.  Fayaz, dressed in all red traditional Indian attire lead the way surrounded by his poorly dancing friends (also in traditional Indian attire).   The attire consisted of a long top and light pants held with a draw string.  Large pants, with a draw string that was very tricky for this white boy.  Half-way through the dance in I realized my pants were falling down.  Thankfully the top is long and I was saved from exposing myself to the crowd as I danced with my pants at my thighs.

After Fayaz took his thrown like seat under the tent,  Nushin was carried to the tent in an ornate box supported by a pole.  It is fortunate tradition, as Nushin had broken her leg only two weeks before.  Fayaz picked her up out of the box and set her on her own thrown–looking more like a princess than any bride I’ve seen.  Speeches and rituals followed.

Then, it was time to eat.  Nushin, understanding Fayaz’s intense love for shawarma arranged for several large spinning cones of meat served with a spread of other amazing Indian delights and guests ate until they could eat no more.  We lounged and ate as traditional Indian music from a live band wafted over the crowd.  Once satiated, many retired to smoke from the dozen or so hookah’s set-up in the yard.

The festivities ended around 1:30 a.m. and only then because the police showed-up (I’m sure half of LA had been serenaded up to that point).  In a near daze I retired to the hotel for a brief sleep before another day of Cali adventures and wedding ceremonies.

I’ve just returned home to Brooklyn from an amazing weekend in Los Angeles for Fayaz and Nushin’s wedding.  An epic Indian wedding with events stretching over three days.  While I can’t help but feel a profound sadness for the end of an era (Fayaz and I have been off and on roommates, friends, and co-culinary adventurers for a decade now), I’m also profoundly joyed to see Fayaz enter a new phase in his life with truly one of the most amazing and accomplished women I have ever met.  (She’s cooked for the Park Slope apartment, and its a travesty those amazing meals are not represented here!)

Over  the next few days, I hope to post descriptions of the weekend’s events.  At every turn, at every meal (there were many), all stops were pulled-out.  More than once, I felt as if I had walked onto the set of a movie.  And, in between the wedding festivities, I was able to grab some California eats worthy of text here.

The three days of  the wedding and a final day to fly out seem much longer in the best possible way.  Event after event and meal after meal in a city unlike any I’ve experienced before.  Between the new city, two five hour flights in which I surveyed most of America, the experience of a wedding from a fairy tale, and seeing the marriage of one of my dearest friend, I feel a deep stirring in me.  The kind that beings blurry, creates restlessness, and ends in reevaluated life perspectives and goals.  (I’m sure reading Hunter S. Thompson along the trip is a bit of a factor as well.)  I’ll try to keep talk of all that to a relative minimum here and focus on the epic experiences of food, culture, and city.

Though, I have to note my realization that I’ve become a New Yorker.  LA felt like more of a foreign city more than it would have at any previous time in my life.  Cars, highways, malls, sprawl, miles of new buildings, and suburban like environments have all shifted well outside of normalcy for me.  At the same time, flying cross country, looking over vast swaths of open country has given me the itch to take the road and again explore the “back waters” of America.

But good food related posts to follow, I promise.

I mention Union Market in a lot of my posts.  It’s the store that sources a good deal of my cooking and where I often find myself wandering the selves looking for inspiration.  But, I’ve gotta be honest, unless you live in Park Slope, this post might be a bit of a snore for you.  (And if you don’t live in Park Slope, my sincere regrets that you don’t live in the best neighborhood, of the best borough, of the best city in America.  Sorry Twin Cities, I still love you, but it’s true!)

Union Market opened the doors to its first store on Union Street in North Slope (then just Park Slope and probably still is to the folks up there) in 2005.  It has since opened a couple more stores here in the BK and, in a Brooklyn takes on the City move, has a store under construction on Houston Street.

If any Minnesotans are still reading, Union Market reminds of what you’d get if the Wedge Coop on Lyndale in Minneapolis and Whole Foods had a love child.  Larger than a bodega, but dwarfed by Whole Foods, Union Market might feel a bit cramped to those hailing from The Land of Ice and Snow (say shhhh).

Unlike Whole Foods, Union Market doesn’t guarantee a purely organic experience, though I would venture to guess that  nearly the full store is.    I’m perfectly comfortable with that arrangement.  I’m not an organic food nut (buying regularly from a large by NY standards supermarket, Key Food), quality local/seasonal isn’t always organic, and I’m confident the increased selection is selected with care.

I appreciate the smaller size and the lack of pretension that might be found in a Brooklyn coop.   I never have to wait in the seemingly endless lines that plagued me at Whole Foods in Union Square.  I never feel like I’m being pressed through an organic meat grinder just to pick-up dinner.

Today I picked up ingredients to make a salad.  At checkout, the cashier noticed that there was a questionable spot on my package of spinach and encouraged me, over my objections, to get a replacement.  I hadn’t noticed and honestly didn’t think it looked too bad, but I appreciated the attention to quality.

From the fresh baked breads, to the fresh produce, to the amazing selection of cheese that I’ve probably spent hours drooling over, to the fresh meat and seafood counters, to the beer selection, it appears thought and care has gone in the variety and quality of offerings.

The comfort, attention to detail, and quality seems to usually clock-in at less than a similar run to Whole Foods (at least in terms of produce).  The meat, seafood, and cheese can come at a price, but it’s a price paid for quality.  And a number house brand products help me find quality at a lower price.

Union Market helps fuel my culinary adventures and is one of the reasons Park Slope is the best neighborhood in New York.

The only thing better than the proverbial free lunch is a free dinner.  When a co-worker selected the Grand Central Oyster Bar for a dinner on a vendor’s dime (Lexis Nexus, here is the plug for Counsel Link) I was thrilled.  Eluded to in Mad Men (and actually directly referenced in tonight’s episode), the name conjured up images of gibson fueled decadence.

The first hint of trouble was on the bodies of our fellow dinners at tables near by.  Tennis shoes here, a hoodie clad bunch there, I think I may have even seen a fanny pack.   I just don’t understand the drive to fly to New York dressed ready to crawl into a warm blanketed couch for a post-break-up How I Met Your Mother marathon.  I mean I get comfort, but if you’re going out for what should be a nice meal, at least swing by the hotel for a quick change.  [Tourist rant over.]

The menu looked great.  The oysters were great.  But as our entrees reached the table, my heart sank at the sight of the sorry looking steamed veggies lining the sides of our plates.  The fish was lack luster.  Generally flavorless.  Possibly defrosted.  Not worth the price. Instead of Mad Men dreams I found a tourist trap.

The Bar sprawls under Grand Central.   On a trip to the restroom, I wandered through the dining room, past rows of counters, and found myself in a section called the Saloon.  This was more what I had in mind: New Yorkers grabbing after work drinks over oysters and small tempting looking plates.  The Saloon might be worth a return trip.

Did you buy Nutella between between January 1, 2008 and February 3, 2012?  If so, it’s time to get paid!  Apparently some folks got confused by adds like the above and thought the stuff was healthy.   I mean it makes sense to think that it’s healthy, until you think about the fact that you’re basically eating chocolate peanut butter or until you look at the nutritional information.

The great thing is, you don’t have to be one of the dumb-dumbs tricked by Nutella’s big tobacco style marketing.  You just need to have bought the stuff in the last five or so years.  I estimate that I’ve bought three jars myself.

How do you get paid?  Just file a claim at www.NutellaClassActionSettlement.com, the Nutella Consumer Class Action Settlements Website.  Don’t get too greedy though, you’re only able to file a claim for up to five jars.

We all know that America has been falling behind.  Economics, manufacturing, science and math education…  all categories in which other countries of the world have started to lap us.  But the title of biggest meat-eater is one to which I expected America to hold strong.  So I was shocked when I learned in the Economist that Luxembourg holds the number one meat spot.  I mean, sure the U.S. wins in absolute tons of meat consumed, but that small European country manages to beat us in consumption per person.  (I do take solace in the fact the if “world’s biggest meat-eaters” were measured in girth or weight of the consumer, the U.S. would again take the top spot.)

We all need to do our part to restore America’s greatness.  While I’m certain that this is to become a central issue of the 2012 presidential campaign, I’m asking my fellow Americans to not wait for a government solution to the problem.  When you’re staring down the choice between salad and sandwich choose sandwich, choose for freedom, and, for our children and our children’s children, chose meat.

If you asked to describe a quintessential dinner date ambiance, I might well lead you to Giuseppina in Sunset Park, Brooklyn.  Dark wood, exposed brick, and aesthetically placed wine bottles are perfectly basked in candle light and the fire from the pizza oven.  The tables are large and uncharacteristically well spaced for New York.   With attentive, but unobtrusive, servers its easy to slip into your own world.  Though if you, or your date, aren’t in the mood for pizza or calzones you’d better steer clear, as that’s the extent of the menu–no antipasti, no salad, no desert.

In  an effort to branch out from our usual Park Slope haunts, Iggy and I swung into Giuseppina’s almost at random.  While waiting briefly for a table, we learned from the articles posted near the door, that Giuseppina’s is sister restaurant to Lucali (a restaurant in Carroll Gardens of similar design and occasionally frequented by Jay Z).

While the menu choices may be spartan, the prices are not.  Pizzas and calzones start at $22 each.  Regular toppings are $3 and, on my trip, special grilled artichokes were available for $8 and a hot and sweet sausage  for $6.  Iggy and I opted for a pizza with shallots and the special sausage, also electing for the free garlic and basil additions.  The pizza, with a thin crust and an unsweetened sauce, was good, but not great.  Anything special about the $6 sausage, aside from the price, was lost on me.

A glass of wine, a beer, and a two topping pizza set us back $50, pre-tip.  The pizza was solid, but  given the extremely limited menu I expected more.  The cost-value equation just falls flat.

However, its not just Jay Z who appreciates this uniquely New York style of pizza.  Through our dinner, there was a constant wait for new seats and more than a couple takeout pizzas left the restaurant.  People seem to love Giuseppina’s for more than just the atmosphere.  Given Giuseppina’s proximity to Toby’s (who manages to present a full menu and provide more flavorful pizzas at a lower cost), I am happy in my belief that  everyone is entitled to their own incorrect opinion.   I’m happy for the denizens of Giuseppina’s to leave the amazing pizza and table space at Toby’s for me and my friends.

Giuseppina’s
691 6th Ave
(between 21st St & 20th St)
Brooklyn, NY 11215

(718) 499-5052

Last year, I discovered the wonder that is the Wafels & Dinges food truck.  Since my first visit, I’ve made several returns and sampled a range sweet delights.  However, I always kept my eye on the BBQ pork waffle.  Until last Friday, my timing never seemed to able to match-up with lunch.

With a pile of pork and a pile coleslaw sitting on the waffle, the move to a savory treat looked great.  But the flavor and texture fell short.  As I ate, I realized there was an underlying candy sugariness.  The sweetness emanated not just from the waffle but from the Kool aid pickles and the sauce on the pork.   The pork itself was lackluster and fairly flavorless.  My usually iron clad stomach was actually unsettled by the end of it all.

Though I may mark Wafels & Dinges’s attempt at savory down in the L column, I have no doubt I will be headed back again, and often, to try their amazing sweet offerings of wafels, dinges, and ice cream.

For Christmas, I decided to get my friends Stu and Fayaz the ultimate hot sauce experience.  After some fairly extensive internet searching, I came across the answer: Da Bomb Final Answer.  

At 1,500,000 scovilles, asking what Da’ Bomb tastes like is like asking what a kick to the head tastes like.  There is no flavor, just pure unadulterated burning.

Stu was the first to give the stuff a try.  (Stu is an Indian with a heat tolerance that puts most to shame.  Where others use drops, she treats hot sauce like ketchup.)  Her first attempt ruined her takeout noodle dish.  A couple of drops and her noodles were too hot for her to eat, even after rinsing them in the sink.  Her next attempt to use the stuff quite possibly landed her on the terrorist watch.  In trying to cook with it, she ended-up essentially pepper spraying her apartment, sending her and her roommate running for fresh air.

I took several beers over a poker night before I was dumb enough to touch this stuff.  The cap comes equipped with a dropper to facilitate proper serving sizes.  Iggy and Matt were the first to brave the heat on a brat.  Somehow, after watching their pain, Matt and I decided it would be a good idea to try a drop straight on a chip.  As I chewed and swallowed I felt my head start to swim and my capacity for rational thought diminish.  My whole head was engulfed.  I drank milk strait from the jug, despite realizing it had expired a week ago.  But the only thing that seemed to give any real relief, all be it very fleeting, was ice cream.

As Matt’s and my pain subsided, disaster struck Iggy.  In moving the bottle, she some how got the hellish mixture on her hands which turned bright red and burned for hours.  This stuff is no joke!  The only rational use seems to be as a food additive–perhaps my next batch of chili, if large enough, will be heated with this insanity.

“You cannot buy Japanese Kobe beef in this country. Not in stores, not by mail, and certainly not in restaurants. No matter how much you have spent, how fancy a steakhouse you went to, or which of the many celebrity chefs who regularly feature ‘Kobe beef’ on their menus you believed, you were duped…  It is now illegal to import (or even hand carry for personal consumption) any Japanese beef. ”

Read the full article on The Great Kobe Beef Lie from Forbes magazine.  And don’t think that American stuff is the same.

After reading the above, my conclusion is that you can get still get some amazing beef here in the States; but, the Kobe name is not a guarantee of quality.