Category: Why Astoria Is the Greatest Place on Earth

Adorable Astoria; plus, my birthday

I’m usually pretty impervious to cute. Puppies–enh. Babies–hate ’em. But I stopped by Mimi’s Closet, a new boutique up by Ditmars and I was totally bowled over by its adorableness. I know these kinds of places, where the plucky owner sits in an easy chair sewing the very things that are for sale on the racks, are a dime a dozen in Nolita and Brooklyn. But they’re novel here in Astoria, where acid-wash denim is still in style.

Anyway, said plucky owner is a lovely Japanese woman, and her clothes are cute and functional, and she says she can also take your measurements and tailor her designs to fit. And she’s got a nice selection of locally made jewelry as well. Prices are not outrageous.

Despite my regular freelance employment at In Style, I am so not a fashion plate, so I can understand if you don’t trust my judgment on this recommendation. But with Mimi in the neighborhood, I might just be a clotheshound yet…

Foolishly, though, I forgot to wear my fetching new lace-trimmed, gathered-bodice tank top to Sunday Night Dinner (Now on Saturday!) last night, which was not officially my birthday dinner, but turned out to be quite a nice celebration nonetheless. So I’m wearing the shirt now (cool–the straps are elastic, so they don’t fall down!) while reminiscing about the army of beer-can chickens that crowded the grill, the slurpy-spicy boiled peanuts and the buttery braised vidalias, as well as the super-garlicky caesar salad, which was even better when pared down to just croutons and dressing. But man, that chicken was good. I ate about four wings, and then a big morsel of breast meat–Dapper was lookin’ out for me.

And even though I get lazier with every dinner, and barely move from the first seat I happen to plop down in, my heart is still so full when I look down the long line of haphazard tables and chairs. Everyone’s chatting and eating and drinking and smoking, all under the golden glow of the anti-bug lights, and it looks like some Italian film. (Here’s a photo, from the ribs event, two weeks ago.) I wish I had a time-lapse video of the seats filling up and then emptying over the course of the night.

I stayed till the wee hours, which is why I can’t write so well today. Words escape me. But trust me, it was a very tasty time.

My favorite kind of cooking

As I just mentioned, Peter and I are moving. To 30th Avenue, the beating heart of Greek Astoria, just a couple of blocks from the 24-hour produce store that made me swoon on my very first visit to the neighborhood. A sort of homecoming, if you will, or my finally achieving my dream of living by the largest pile of eggplants in all of New York City.

And when you’re getting ready for moving, you’re looking around and paring down your belongings, trying to minimize additional purchases (or you do if you’re not a complete packrat, like some people I could name). That attitude has crept into my food consumption as well, which is a little flawed, because we don’t move till Thursday, and I haven’t bought any groceries in many, many days.

But when you set strange limits, you have to get creative, and you surprise yourself. Like the other night, when it seemed the cupboard was utterly bare. And I actually did something I have never, ever done in New York: I ordered takeout.

I know, for most people, especially here in NYC, “my favorite kind of cooking”=”I ordered takeout.”

But it has been a point of pride for me never to cave to that urge to just give up and have some guy bring food to your door. So you know I must’ve been desperate when I called up Mundo.

Well, actually, I was really hankering for some manti, but I didn’t feel like I had time or energy to go out to the lovely and charming restaurant of Mundo itself–which, come to think of it, I suppose is the main reason why people order takeout. (Also because they are too disorganized or don’t know how to cook, but that’s a different problem–one you can solve.)

So I was talking to the guy on the phone, and I ordered the celery root veggie dish, and he said they were out. “How about the artichokes?” he asked. Normally I’d yell YES!, but actually that reminded me that Peter had bought some artichokes a couple of weeks ago, and they were probably still in the fridge. So I capped my order, and went into the kitchen to investigate.

(From here on in, I have to warn you, this becomes like those blogs I hate, the ones that go, “I made this lovely thing, and ate it, and mused on the loveliness of life.” But at least there are no photos.)

Indeed, there in the fridge were the artichokes. And a bowl full of lettuce that Tamara had washed the weekend previous. So I set the ‘chokes on to boil, and I made a salad dressing for the lettuce. Because it didn’t look like there was anything else in the way of veg, I thought I’d make the dressing extra lively, and stirred in a big glob of yogurt, which had also been languishing a while. And grated in some really hard Dutch cheese someone had brought us as a present a couple of months back. And did manage to find a cucumber. And lo, it was a magnificent salad, wrought from nothing. I melted some butter for the ‘chokes just as the doorbell rang.

Mundo treats: manti (Turkish dumplings), beef empanadas (all silky, sweet-and-savory ground meet), and red-lentil-and-bulgur patties. The humongous cheesy-yogurty green salad. The artichokes with butter. A half-drunk bottle of rose from the fridge (when has there ever been a half-drunk bottle of wine in our fridge?!). We had so much food that we didn’t know what to do with ourselves. Loaves and fishes, fishes and loaves.

The added salad made me feel like not such a chump for ordering takeout (and if I hadn’t ordered, the artichokes probably would’ve continued to be forgotten). And the whole positive experience has made me quite cocky about grocery shopping in the next few days. All condiments, all the time!

Awesome Astoria!

Thank god–someone else is doing the job I am far too daunted by:

“2 german girls review Greek cafes in Astoria Queens”

I’ve just started to skim. Reference to Lindsay Lohan-style lace leggings? Always gets me. Snark about glowing walls? Uh-huh. Willingness to bend the bounds of mission (with review of not-exactly-Greek Wassi, which I was curious about)? We got it.

What’s really astounding to see, though, is their master to-do list of cafes–which is far longer than I ever could’ve imagined. Yipes. That’s a lot of frappes.

I wonder, though, have they discovered the perverse genius of the iced-tea frappe?

I think I’ll go make myself one now. My goal before I move on Thursday is to eat everything in our pantry that is less than a third full (bonus points for spices), and the Lipton iced tea mix is just barely in that category.

Gorge!

Initially, I’d meant “gorge” to be short for “gorgeous,” in reference to this photo of a sandwich from Sal, Kris & Charlie Deli in lovely Ditmars-area Astoria. But, ha, now I see the more obvious meaning, when considering the sheer girth of “The Bomb” and other legendary heroes from this great little Italian sandwich joint.

But they do make a beautiful sandwich–and they know it. Every time I’ve been in there, the deal wraps up, just in front of the cash register, with this lovely little ritual: the guy (Sal? Kris? Charlie?) puts the sandwich on the big sheet of deli paper, slices it in half, and then ever so briefly tips the sliced sides up and toward you, to show off the sandwich’s perfect striation, like a little cutaway from the Grand Canyon of Lunch. Then the guy proceeds with wrapping the sandwich, which takes .02 seconds.

And then you pay, and push out between all the assembled cops and various other regulars, and, perhaps you end up sitting on the Ditmars train platform, waiting for a train and unable to wait to eat this most beautifully striped sandwich.

And then the train comes in, and the conductor gets off and walks right past you, and then does a full slapstick double-take. “LADY,” he gasps, “where did you get that BEAUTIFUL sandwich?!”

So I told him: 33-12 23rd Ave., right under the Amtrak tracks. Very convenient for MTA employees, and anyone else in search of lunchtime perfection.

Trade Scare in the Times

Following a great story on souvlaki stands a week ago, Astoria gets more props as the 30th Ave Trade Fair is written up in the Sunday Times today, in a story about its rapidly growing selection of Brazilian groceries. I knew the Trade Scare was awesome, but this story quantifies it: the place stocks food from more than 50 countries. Interesting to see, too, that Brazilian food is now the third most popular type sold–what ranks No. 1 and No. 2? Judging from the awesome selection of split peas, I’d have to guess Indian, but what’s the other? Guesses?

I’m also a little suspicious that the owner of the Trade Fair is “Venezuelan.” Not with a last name like Jaber, he’s not.

Anyway, the story is sort of the standard immigrants-finding-their-way piece you see in the City section, but set in the grocery store, so that

[i]n these aisles, taste and memory intertwine. Those who can’t afford to visit their homeland, and those who are in the United States illegally and fear they would never be able to visit home and return, can at least savor a flavor of the land of their birth.

A little smarmy, but I can’t criticize. The Trade Scare is a genuinely heartwarming place…as long as you don’t gouge your own eyes out in frustration in the “express” lane first.

BREAKING: Bread Boom on Bastard Block!

Thirty-sixth Avenue has always been the red-headed stepchild of Astoria. Actually, the only people who ever say it’s Astoria are the realtors trying to sell property here. Then those same realtors turn up their noses when they’re trying to sell you property up at Ditmars, which is “so much nicer” (read: hardly any brown people). Most folks say it’s really just Long Island City. The BID banners, the ugliest ones I’ve ever seen, call it Dutch Kills, which I’ve never heard anyone say out loud. But there are Greeks down here, and cute little brick houses, so that makes it Astoria, dammit. Even if the kafeneio is now a Dunkin’ Donuts.

I lived at 36th Ave in 1998, when I first moved to New York. It did seem a little bleak, and the trash situation was pretty nasty by about February. I then moved up in the world, to Ditmars, for a long stretch, and just relocated back down here when I moved in with Peter. Our landlord is Greek, for the record. His name is Hercules.

Anyway, in the intervening years, 36th Ave got a little bit nicer. There’s some woman who obsessively sweeps the sidewalk. Mexicans own some of the delis and make yummy tacos. The depressing bar got annexed by the grocery store, which improved substantially. The liquor store occasionally carries something drinkable.

But yesterday I discovered something that now might put 36th Avenue ahead of Broadway and 30th Ave: bread.

On 36th Ave between 31st and 30th, where there had once been a ho-hum Korean produce place, then nothing for a long while, there is now a new produce place called The Prickly Pear. I threw a cruise yesterday and discovered:

FIVE kinds of eggplants (regular, Sicilian, white, long-and-skinny, and little round ones)
SCADS of fresh herbs
A BIG STACK of baby papayas — genius, because I can never eat a whole one

and

BREAD. Crusty bread. “Artisanal” bread. The kind of bread yuppies like, and that you can never get in Astoria. Big round loaves. Long baguettes. The closest thing I’ve ever been able to get — until now — was those little 3/$1.29 portuguese sour loaves at Trade Scare.

The bread at Prickly Pear is just sitting there under the cash register, with no attention being paid. In fact, I bought my three Ataulfo mangoes for $2 and was about to walk out, when some poppy-seed ring-thingy caught my eye, and then I saw all those crusty loaves.

I asked for the biggest one, which was a mere $2.99, and the woman pulled it out and said, “I’m just telling you, it’s supposed to be crunchy.” I guess there had been some cranky old Italian ladies complaining that the bread actually had a crust on it.

I hope those ladies don’t complain to the authorities. Because then Astoria norms might have to be enforced, as Peter imagines: the Parisi Bros would crash into the Prickly Pear at closing time and say to the owner: “Ma-why you no carry our bread? Don’t you know how things work in Astoria?” And then to work with the baseball bats. And then with the disappearance of the good bread. And it wouldn’t matter at all that 36th Avenue is technically not really part of Astoria.

Maybe now that we’ve got the bread we should formally secede?

Viva Dutch Kills!

Astoria Real Estate Reality Check

Perusing the Craigslist residential listings, and I found this deeply flawed ad:

Large 1 Family House Located In The Heart Of Astoria Queens 14-14 30th Road [if by “heart” you mean “near the projects and away from the train”]. **House was recently used by Warner Brothers to film “The Bedford Diaries” – a brand new TV series.** [Like I care.]… Only 10mins to Manhattan. [By boat?] Various schools, library, shopping at Steinway Street, large Astoria park/pool & “strip” all within walking distance.[Steinway is walking distance only for the very fit with lots of time on their hands.] 6-Bedrooms, 2-1/2 Bathrooms, Large Dining Room & Living Room With FirePlace, 9 Foot Ceilings, Pocket Doors, Parkay Floors…

PARKAY floors! I’m dying. Peter wants me to call and ask what the air-conditioning bill is in the summer. I’m thinking I’ll invest in some dedicated around-the-house socks. The more I think about it, the more it seems like a genius art installation.

Brazilianaki?!

OK, I know there are lots of Brazilians in Astoria. And I know there are lots of Greeks. And I know that ‘-aki’ is the diminutive in Greek. But I still don’t know why some crappy-ass jewelry store on Ditmars would name themselves “Brazilianaki.” The suspicious thing is that the shop doesn’t look substantially different from when it was clearly a Korean-run joint with a name like “Hello Gift Center” or something.

That’s just one thing I saw when I went up to my old stomping grounds last night. (Uh, people, if there’s still 20-78 by my name in your address book, it’s wrong and has been for more almost nine months. Luckily, Aaron still acts as a package holding service, but he takes a cut of the cookies you mail.) Another thing in Ditmars-land: a hipster Thai place, called Wave Thai. Which would be exciting, except it’s where the Hungarian deli used to be–the Hungarian deli that stocked duck fat and had the most enthusiastic woman owner ever, the Hungarian deli where I discovered I just am not so into head cheese. But since I’m probably part of the reason she didn’t stay in business (I OD’d on duck fat and couldn’t go back in), Wave Thai is probably a good trade up for the people who still live up there.

Farther up that block of 31st St., the photo studio is out of business, which is tragic because those portraits of people with their pets always made my walk home so much better.

And back close to the train, there’s a new Cold Stone Creamery. Man, those things are popping up everywhere. They’re like the Commerce Bank of ice cream, but fortunately smaller. Because damn, that Commerce Bank at Ditmars is ugly. Very shiny, but ugly. It’s getting very chain-store up there. Makes me almost glad I’m down at super-scruffy 36th Avenue, with all the Brazilians. The little Brazilians.

Astoria: Land of Opportunity

Forget what I said a couple of posts ago. I’m very happy to be back in Astoria, mostly because I’ve gotten back to my usual activities: eating and walking and poking around in grocery stores. Last night Peter and I went to dinner at a place called Mundo (31-18E Broadway, but really, on 32nd St. just south of Broadway). This is old news to cool Astorians, as it’s been open since last summer, and I don’t know why I haven’t gotten it together to go before.

I guess it’s because I didn’t know they had manti (really, there shouldn’t be a dot on that ‘i’, and it’s pronounced “man-tuh”). Those are the dainty little Turkish meat dumplings that are drowned in garlicky yogurt. Their daintiness is testament to the legions of limber-fingered kitchen slaves, I mean loving Turkish wives and grandmothers, who are dedicated to churning them out by the thousands. They’re so tiny it’s almost like eating breakfast cereal when you scoop them up with a spoon.

So the dumplings were divine; we also had very tender and tasty baby okra, a delectable Argentine-style empanada with that nice sweet/meaty filling, tasty cold lentil patties wrapped up in lettuce, and artichoke hearts served with fava bean paste molded into pretty shapes. That latter thing even somehow made Egyptian-style fava bean paste (bisara) a bit more appealing.

And we had some nice warming gluhwein to start, and a really yummy, fluffy almond cake for dessert. And it was reasonably priced.

And I haven’t even gotten to the vibe and general decor, which is really a treat. Astoria generally suffers from the faux-bistro phenomenon. These are the restaurants that cater to diners looking for a “non-ethnic” experience, but they’re only eerie not-quite-right imitations of places that are a dime a dozen in Manhattan. Crappy fonts on the menus, overly decorative plates, gum-chewing waitstaf and a clientele made up largely of real-estate agents and their girlfriends–these are the giveaways of the faux-bistro. But I can’t complain too much because I’m generally happy that Astoria isn’t overrun with yuppies and hipsters.

Which is what makes Mundo so nice–it’s a hipster place without the hipsters, and it doesn’t seem to be trying too hard. Someone’s photos are hung on the wall from coathangers. Tiny disco balls and miniature shoes dangle from the ceiling. The music is global electronica. And the owners are a young Turk and an Argentine, both of which delight me because (1) fanatical Greek Astoria needs more Turks, who, frankly, cook better food, and (2) Argentines are the newest arrivals in the neighborhood, and they seem like the youngest and coolest, but I haven’t really known where they hung out except for that bar Ize on 36th Ave.

So we went home full and happy. And then this afternoon we had lunch at the Ecuadorian joint on 36th Ave., the place where the windows are always steamed up, where $12 bought us two bowls of fish soup, two platters of meat and rice and beans, all-we-could-eat hot salsa, and two sodas. Not to mention kind service and the Discovery Channel dubbed into Spanish.

Then we popped over to the Fisher Landau Center for Art, which I’d read some passing reference to last year and was surprised to see that it’s just a few blocks away from where I live. Usually all that cool art stuff is down in LIC proper. It’s three floors in a big warehouse, with Rosenquist and Rauschenberg and all that jazz, but I liked all the Shirin Neshat photos and a little mechanical sculpture using bird feathers, by Rebecca Horn. The whole first floor was all animal-y. Imagine my chagrin then, when I asked how long the place had been open.

“Oh, since 1991.”

“Whaaa?” (I reel in shock.)

“Well, it was just appointment only until 1993.” (Helpfully, kindly.)

“Huh.” (Still dumbfounded.)

“And we didn’t put up the banner until a few years ago.”

Oh. That explains why I’d never even heard of the place?

And it’s free. It kills me to think how much free art I’ve missed in the eight years I’ve lived here.

So then Peter and I had to kill a little time before meeting a realtor, so we stopped in the Bangladeshi store, where they had whole mace, date syrup, mango leather and lots of frozen fish. The guy at the counter asked, “Was everything all right?” as if we were in a restaurant, and when I was eyeing the mango leather, his cohort handed me a free sample. And then I asked what those round things were behind the counter, and the next thing we knew, we were getting the full betel-nut demo and taste test.

We were discreetly spitting and I was kind of dizzy by the time we met the realtor. The house sucked and cost a whopping $700K, but we quickly put that out of our heads with more shopping, at the kindly Guyanese guy’s store, on 36th Ave. The guy stocks fish sauce, which Peter has been complaining about not being able to get here for years. If Fisher Landau is my missed opportunity, H&V Grocery is his.

Sweet Astoria–so bursting with opportunities for fun and tastiness that it really doesn’t matter if you miss a few.

Best of RG IV, in which I give props to Queens

Joanie and Chachi seem to have stepped out for a moment. Or I’m not hearing their dopey dialogue in my head right now, which I guess is a sign my health is improving? Gosh, those antibiotics were pretty intense.

Anyway, this blog is ostensibly about how much I love Astoria, but the poor nabe hasn’t gotten too much specific attention of its own.

This essay in praise of the local supermarket won’t make you yuk it up the way talk of aggressive thong underwear does, but, people, we should learn to be serious sometimes, yes? Especially about something as essential as groceries.

A moment of somber silence, as the screen goes wiggly and we’re transported back to the cramped aisles of Trade Fair…

January 27, 2004
Astoropolis

Why do I love my neighborhood so? It’s all about the groceries. (Has “It’s all about…” ever had those words tacked on the end?)

When I first got off the train in Astoria, when I’d first arrived in New York and was looking for an apartment, one of the first things I saw was a huge mass of glossy black eggplants, all beautifully stacked in a pile that went well above my head. I love stacks of vegetables. There’s nothing more gorgeous to me than a produce stand in the wee hours of the night (and in Astoria, the stores are open in the wee hours), when all the bruised things have been chucked and all the fresh stuff is neatly arranged. So, considering that most other neighborhoods I’d visited could offer nothing more than a few over-waxed oranges and a limp bunch of scallions, I was totally sold.

In the last five years, you’d think I would’ve discovered all the food there is to buy in my neighborhood, but I keep finding new things. Or learning more about different cuisines and finally realizing what that whole dusty shelf of dried potatoes was for, for instance (next research stop: Peru). And every year a new group of people move in, bringing all their food with them: Brazilians, Yugoslavians, Mexicans (in that order, I think). Could they be showing up just to keep me entertained? Sometimes it feels that way: “Tired of gyros? Try my adorable cevapcici!” “Perk up–taste these cheese-and-shrimp-filled pies!”

Over the years, I get more things pinned down (usually with help from Peter, who has even more free time than me): best source of tamarind concentrate and verdolaga (Hidalgo), only source of reasonably crusty well-leavened bread (small Portuguese loaves at Trade Fair), good mint at the Lebanese grocery (look for sign in Arabic saying “we have Moroccan mint”), fish sauce at the produce place under the tracks, stupendous bacon from the Romanian orange-window place, duck fat from the Hungarian deli. But even as I’m poking around, finding New Zealand honey and green coffee beans and forty kinds of beer, this little know-all-eat-all frenzy is building in me… The more I discover, the more I know I haven’t found. And don’t even mention Flushing or Elmhurst.

So this all culminated recently when I visited the Trade Fair Near Tamara (as opposed to the Trade Fair Near Me). Now the TFNM is stupendous enough, with a great array of treats, including loofahs for scrubbing yourself in the proper Middle Eastern way and numerous brands of dulce de leche, as well as that Portuguese bread, but it is nothing compared to the one at 30th Ave. and 31st St. I’d gone to the TFNT once a few years ago, but it didn’t seem worth a special trip. And I’d been a little deterred from going in because Tamara calls it the Trade Scare, and says she’s had to abandon her basket and run screaming out the door because of the crowds.

But I had a small inkling of its treasures when I was trying to rustle up some goat for Karine (for her own carnivorous New Year’s project), and the guy on the phone at the TFNT spoke to me in Spanish for some reason and told me they had it in the regular meat case. At the smaller TFNM, you could only order from the butcher, and they were out of it anyway. Karine picked up her goat (right inside the front door–which seems like a sketchy, un-temperature-controlled place to put your meat case, but soooo instantly gratifying) and came to my house raving about the place. Apparently they’d expanded.

The first time I visited post-expansion was on a quick errand for Tamara. I was gone for what must’ve been hours. I roamed aimlessly, running my hands over stacks of legumes in every color, every imaginable spice in bulk, Lebanese olive oil for $4 a bottle, up and down every aisle. I doubt they had anything that couldn’t be found elsewhere in Astoria, but here they had it all in one place: Pillsbury Ready-Puff Pappadums next to mulukhiya next to banana leaves in the freezer case, above which hung about thirty kinds of dried Mexican chiles. Whole lamb carcasses next to D’Artagnan duck breasts. Organic Valley European-style butter next to those big green tins of Egyptian ghee. Baltika Porter for 99 cents. Banana-flavored tobacco for the sheesha pipe. One aisle still bears the standard-issue “Spanish products” that Trade Fair must send from HQ in the suburban Midwest, to label the Goya stuff. But at the TFNT, “Spanish products” also includes Peruvian huancaina and chile pastes.

There are some serious logistical flaws–“Trade Scare” is no joke. The aisles are just wide enough for one cart, the lines are often eight people deep, the produce section (more of a produce prison) can be reached only by one tiny passageway, and some children always seem to be screaming on aisle 6. I know there are bigger, more amazing international groceries out there, but I don’t live an eight-minute bike ride from them. I live next door to the people who shop here: The Egyptian families buying mulukhiya and Cheez-Its, the men on their cell phones asking which kind of chana dal they should be getting, old ladies shaking the coconuts in the produce section (oh wait, that was me). I feel very lucky, if a little overwhelmed, to live in the Independent Republic of Trade Fair.