Category: Why Astoria Is the Greatest Place on Earth

“Is Astoria a cool place to live?”

According to StatCounter, someone used this pertinent search string to find their way to this very blog. Golly, I hope after reading, the guy was convinced!

Mostly I roll my eyes at people who suss out neighborhoods based solely on “cool” rather than ready availability of grocery stores, laundries, subway stops and friendly people. (I guess “cool” is shorthand for “readily available hot chicks.” Ho hum.) But last weekend I couldn’t help thinking the Ditmars area has gotten pretty cool…no thanks to me.

I stopped in at the new Oleput Lollipop cafe, brought to us by the geniuses who own the Sparrow. It’s not like you’d know the name, though–there’s no actual sign on the brown awning at the corner of Ditmars and super-sneaky 32nd Street. They’ve managed to make the space–which used to be a gift shop that sold stuff like Hello Kitty backpacks and those fake “flame” lamps–look actually retro, and not just “retro” in a TGIFriday’s kind of way. I know for a fact these guys are savvy scavengers–the light fixtures at the Sparrow were fished out of the Dumpster in front of the Crystal Palace on Broadway. All their work shows, in stuff like the great wood-inlay counter and their nice old soda fridge. My limeade was super-delicious, I picked up a bottle of blood-orange bitters, and they’re serving Mary’s Dairy ice cream. And there are actually stylish people sitting around in there! Where did they come form?

And then I went to both the adorable Mimi’s Closet, just up the way on Ditmars, where she’s just started having a sale. And after buying an adorable dress that the adorable Mimi had made herself, I went down to Kristee’s, on 23rd Ave, where I was astounded to see designer denim and drapey knit jersey in abundance. There is some heavy-duty cognitive dissonance when you look down the block and see the Greek guys hanging at 26 Corner. Kristee pointed out the wall of clippings for fall clothes she’s ordering, and said I should put in requests for my size if I was interested–she doesn’t order a lot of sizes, she says, because Astoria is small, and she doesn’t want us to all wind up wearing the same stuff. Is this delusion or complete megalomania on her part?

I don’t know, but I bit. I always suspected this was how people in Boutique HQs like Nolita and Carroll Gardens lived, but I have never wallowed in this sort of treatment myself. I felt the same way I felt when I was in Fez and met the French travel writer who offered to call ahead and arrange a place for me to stay in Marrakech–“Do you want a pool?” the guy asked as he was making phone calls. It had really never even occurred to me to choose lodging based on amenities, rather than price. But it felt dangerously good, and I could also see how you can get very into shopping if you’ve got someone looking out for your personal interests in such a way. So on Kristee’s recommendation, I bought my first pair of shorts in years–and that’s counting those ones I got at Old Navy for $5, and never wear outside the house.

Kristee asked me where I lived, and I told her my prime 30th Ave location–incidentally, very close to groceries and the subway. “Oh, down there,” she said. Then she laughed, sort of apologetically, and said she lived down there too, but all her friends and the shop were “up here,” at Ditmars, which really does seem to be the place to be.

And all this started happening immediately after I, the anti-cool killjoy, moved away about two years ago.

Coincidence? Probably not.

Astorians, don’t fuck this up!

So I got a terrible phone call last night. The voice on the other end of the line told me that people had been spotted taking stuff out of Le Petit Prince Patisserie on Broadway. Like, ovens and stuff. The kind of stuff essential to running a patisserie.

The clear implication was that Le Petit Prince was closing. I wept. I gnashed my teeth.

I biked by this morning and saw a little tiny sign taped to the grate saying the place is closed “temporarily.”

I pray to whatever god smiles down on our blessed neighborhood that this is true, and not just one of those signs people put up optimistically, while they’re trying to figure out how to get out of their lease.

Because if it turns out that Astorians did not support our one source of fucking awesome French bread and croissants enough to keep this place in business, I will wreak some terrible vengeance upon you, my neighbors. My “that’s a little expensive” neighbors. My neighbors who think butter isn’t good for them. My neighbors who can’t walk a few blocks out of their way for bread that kicks the ass of all that Greek and Italian fluff.

I turned my back for two months while I was traveling, and I expected some other people to pick up the slack on the pastry- and bread-buying. Did you? Did you? I can’t do it alone, people. Le Petit Prince deserves our love, even if it might make us a little fatter.

My friend’s 3-year-old daughter has a little song she likes to sing. It goes, “Pain au chocolat, pain au chocolat, pain au chocolat, pain au chocolat, pain au chocolat [BIG GASP FOR AIR], pain au chocolat, pain au chocolat, pain au chocolat, pain au chocolat….”

It’s easy, it’s catchy. I’m going to stand in front of Le Petit Prince and sing it until the place reopens. You’d better be with me.

Ali in the NYT: “rustic bombast”

That Peter Meehan has a knack: very precise and good review of Kabab Cafe in the NY Times today.

Another good turn of phrase: “authoritative inconsistency,” in reference to Ali’s knife skills. Although I do object a little–Ali has pro-chef knife skills, not Grandma-style skills as Meehan says. He can chop an onion into tiny bits in 3 seconds while ogling the ladies, and if that’s not professional I don’t know what is.

Anyway, it’s great to see Ali get some well-deserved press. Bet you’re wishing you’d gotten around to going there before it got too popular, huh?

And it’s also great to see a place I know so well described in a way that is both true and positive. Unlike, say, so many puff-piece travel stories, where you’re left saying, really?

Kabab Cafe Reopening!

Hooray! Ali is getting back in action as of tomorrow, Saturday, 7/7/07. Unfortunately I, like probably everyone else in the US, have to go to a wedding, so I won’t be there to check it out myself.

Thanks to meddlesome fire inspectors, Ali has had to totally revamp his kitchen. I’m very curious what the new menu will involve… Please, someone go and report back! I won’t be able to go until at least Tuesday.

The Debut of the One-Ass Kitchen!

OMG! Tamara has been sitting on a blog domain for years, and now there’s something on it: Check out the One-Ass Kitchen!

It’s nice that she has done this, because I’ve pretty much stopped covering our Sunday Night Dinners, since they all go so swimmingly and don’t really yield the sort of dramatic stories that our early cooking ventures did. But trust me, they’re still a good time.

Also, I highly recommend watching this–it’s the demo we did for our so-far-undiscovered-genius TV show last fall. Good music!

Ciao Bella Gelato at New Town Coffee House

newtownThis new takeout joint on 31st St. just north of 30th Ave. would be pretty unremarkable, except for the fact that they sell Ciao Bella gelato–about eight flavors, by the scoop, for $1.50 a pop. Although it’s not quite as fresh as it ought to be (I wonder if I’m the only person who buys it), it’s still a vast improvement over B-R around the corner.

Also, they have a sign I really like, for its retro flair. But I suspect the owners of the place don’t consider it retro.

And on the ice-cream tip, rumor has it that a new sweets place will be opening on Ditmars, from the guys who brought us Tupelo and the lovely Sparrow bar. A very delicious NYC-made ice cream will likely be available there.

Ali’s Kabab Cafe: closing only temporarily

Tomorrow Ali’s running off to Egypt (where I’ll get to see him!) for a month, then doing some major renovations on the restaurant when he gets back, so he’ll probably be closed till mid-June or so.

I am so relieved I know about this in advance. Last time he shut down for a long stretch, it was extremely traumatic.

In the meantime, it’s a good excuse to go down the street (25-22 Steinway) and eat at Mombar, his brother Mustafa’s place. But don’t go getting used to the elbow room!

What’s the Arabic for “way-back machine”?

Saturday night I went to Ali’s Kabab Cafe for dinner, by myself. It feels like it’s been a while since I’ve been there. There was something about being alone, and for once not seeing anyone else I knew, that reminded me of when I first moved to New York, and Astoria. I just sat there and read a little, and occasionally stared mistily into space, thinking of…geez, nearly a decade ago.

Back in 1998–or maybe it was 1999 by the time I got to Kabab Cafe for the first time–Ali’s felt like a little airlock between New York and Egypt. Not that I missed Egypt exactly (here’s one reason why), but I still felt a little out of step with glossy, consumer-y NYC, and I needed a little more dim lighting, hot tea and weepy Umm Kulthum music in my life. In those early days, going to Kabab Cafe felt like I was visiting a foreign country again, one whose GDP was based on nostalgia, atmosphere and clouds of sheesha smoke.

Now I know half the other regulars, Ali and I are friends, and he doesn’t smoke the water pipe in his place anymore. Almost nine years have slipped by since I was in Cairo–and now I’m set to go back again, in less than a month.

Last time, I was there for a year doing the Center for Arabic Study Abroad (CASA). Not only was Arabic irrelevant to Americans back then, pre-9/11, but the social shenanigans of twenty wacky students in the pressure-cooker of Cairo were utterly wasted, because reality TV hadn’t been invented. This would’ve been ratings gold: mix medievalists up with political wonks, throw in a few Mormons, shack us up in grand, decrepit apartments with dusty chandeliers, and make us all sit in class together for eight hours a day. Weirdly, I am still friends with a good portion of these people.

This time, I’m going to update a guidebook to Egypt—a job I’m now feeling like the 25-year-old me should have done. In my preparation for the research trip, I’m finding it very difficult to brush away all the emotional associations and remember the details that might be relevant to a traveler who’s not sucked into a yearlong process of ego destruction via high-school-style social snubs, recurring illness and failure to grasp the infinite subtleties of Arabic grammar and vocabulary.

Such as: Men will harass you like crazy on the street. (Mental note: Buy more sports bras. Breasts must be locked down.)

And the gauntlet of cab drivers at the airport—it’s like the paparazzi, but not. Know where you’re going, and how much you’ll pay.

And it’ll probably already be crazy hot. And pack Kleenex—the smog makes your snot run black at the end of the day. And be careful crossing the street (especially careful this time, with my now-blind eye).

As you can see, I’ve been slowly building up to a full panic. It’s a very specific version of a broader pre-trip anxiety that always seizes me, no matter where I’m going (this Thursday: New Orleans, where I will certainly miss Jim and Daphne’s wedding because I will have been mugged and shot and left in the middle of a potholed street).

I’m trying hard to think positive. Normally I would do that by thinking about food.

But Cairo is a difficult place, food-wise. Not only is it not exactly bursting with deliciousness, but my gut flora were so traumatized by my decade-ago visit that my stomach still lurches a little when I think of, say, tabbouleh on a hot summer night. (Why did I eat that? No sane Cairene eats parsley salad in the summer.)

So I think it was my solo visit to Ali’s that warmed my heart a little, and created room for the barest flutterings of excitement as I was flipping through guidebooks today: al-Tabei, that place with the super-garlicky marinated tomatoes; Fatatri al-Tahrir, where you can get a flaky “pizza” topped with jam and coconut and nuts; kushari, the lentils-n-rice topped with a zingy vinegar-tomato sauce; even those 20-cent mashed-potato sandwiches with the crunchy bits of cilantro; and the chicken livers and French fries at the Odeon bar.

After that, I run a little dry in the restaurant department, but now, in my reverie, I’m on to bars and clubs (Atlas in 1992, my first trip, now that was a scene, and that upstairs joint where the Sudanese prostitutes hung out) and then, most important, my salvation in Cairo: grocery shopping.

The shiny-clean milk store. The corner shop where I realized, after months, that I could buy eggs in any number I wanted, rather than base 12. The master orange-juicer down the street. The neighbor greengroceress who heckled me for not being a regular customer. The creak of donkey carts laden with cactus fruit and mangos rolling past my window.

There’s plenty more. But no one wants to read Zora’s Proustian Guide to Cairo. I’m glad I’ve arranged a long visit—the whole first week will likely be spent getting all those Masri madeleines out of my system.

And then the next week, I’ll be back to beating off the street lechers with a stick, fighting with cab drivers, stomping up stairwells to fleabag hotel after fleabag hotel and cringing in horror every time I blow my nose.

Yallah—off we go.

Why Queens will never be cool

It has always honestly mystified me why Queens has such a bad rap among hardcore New Yorkers. Yes, it lacks some of the aesthetic qualities of Brooklyn. Yes, it’s more closely connected to Midtown than cool Downtown. But why is it so much worse than the Bronx and even Staten Island? I mean, Manhattanites don’t have nightmares about losing their fortunes and having to move to Staten Island specifically.

At this juncture, let me explain that I did not have a TV as a child. I wasn’t a total loser: I caught Dukes of Hazzard and Miami Vice at friends’ houses, but I missed most everything else.

So I just watched a clip of Archie Bunker for the very first time in my life. Now I see: One long-running, spinoff-producing sitcom about a racist drunk can really set a borough back for decades.

“The saving grace is the food.”

Peter found this review of Aces yesterday. Utterly slams the place, and then says:

The saving grace is the food.

Uh. Thank goodness, considering it’s a restaurant. For all the space aliens reading, that’s a place where you go to eat food.

This does point to a fundamental schism in the world of restaurant customers. On the one hand, you have people who look at a restaurant as a whole event, with items like maitre d’s attitude, choice of flatware and music all weighted evenly with what is on the plate and in what form. These people tend to write most of the world’s restaurant reviews, and also include my former roommate Aaron, who’s willing to blackball a place for good if the servers seem uppity.

On the other hand, you have people for whom the food takes up 90 percent of the scorecard, if not 99 percent. Again, for the benefit of the space aliens, these people tend to call themselves “chowhounds.”

Incredibly, this isn’t all working toward how this latter category is vastly superior, because of course I’m in this category.

For one thing, the chowhounds tend to develop this dangerously martyrlike and even competitive tendency to avoid atmosphere in favor of flavor: The place that sells 89 cent noodles in a literal hole-in-the-wall just behind where the Chinatown bus backs in and lets its engine idle–now that’s the ultimate restaurant! You might die of carbon monoxide poisoning, but, dude, those noodles are just like they make ’em in Peking–and I do mean Peking, because that’s how old-school I am!

Whatever.

I learned my lesson about atmosphere vs. food several years ago, when a passing Spanish acquaintance was in town. We decided he should come to Astoria for dinner, just to get another perspective on the city. His other New York friend wanted to take him to Uncle George’s, the 24-hour greasy-spoon par excellence that hasn’t been good since the eponymous uncle died, probably four decades ago now. I argued strenuously against, and instead dragged them to S’agapo, because it had “interesting things you don’t see on a lot of Greek menus.”

BFD, I realized, as we ate some cheese pies dipped in honey…in total silence. There was no one else in the restaurant, and all the tastiness in the world, and the general niceness of the staff, didn’t make up for the fact that this place was not exuding the energy that I love about Astoria.

Later, I walked past Uncle George’s–it was packed with people, barely visible through the steamed-up windows, but I could tell they were good, New York-y looking people, talking loud and generally creating a vibe that would’ve made a Spaniard really see what Astoria was all about. He wouldn’t have noticed the oven potatoes were mealy, or that the gigantes probably came from a can.

I’ve been in this exact same position when I’m on vacation. Sure, I try to find the hardcore chow, practically peering under the wheels of the second-class bus to see if some overlooked street vendor is workin’ his magic down there. But some of my most memorable meals haven’t been about the food at all, but about the energy and vibrancy and the people all around me, where I felt at once in the middle of everything and outside, witnessing a foreign culture at work. (Perversely, bad food can even enhance this thrilling feeling of foreignness…except maybe in Cuba, where it’s just depressing.)

And of course I think of this every time I write a travel guide. When I get too chow-y, I have to actively remind myself that many tourists will not be pleased if they walk 20 blocks to reach the Casa de Unrecognized Taco Genius, where an arrogant bastard dishes out superlative tongue tacos–honest, try ’em, you’ll love ’em!

In fact, the Uncle George’s Dilemma came up again just last year, when I was finishing the Rough Guide to New York City. I’d done all the outer-borough restaurant reviews, a great opportunity to boost all my beloved haunts, and carefully put “author’s pick” stars next to my very, very favorites. Turns out there’d been some miscommunication, and some other author also updated the outer-borough restaurants–he barely touched the existing listings, but he did star his own favorites.

When I got the chapter back to proof, Uncle George’s was all aglow with a big fat “author’s pick.”

I immediately wrote a huffy email about what dreck the place churned out, and how I couldn’t bear to see the Queens dining list–and by extension my very own reputation as a food critic!–cheapened and dragged through the gutter in this way.

And then 20 minutes later, after recalling the Night of the Visiting Spaniard, I wrote an apology.

The saving grace of Uncle George’s is the atmosphere–and that’s a valid line in a restaurant review.