Feast of (Regularly) Kings

So I decided I'd like to get back into writing a little bit more, and what better way to do it than to write about food? I said to C.-- yesterday that I'd call this section of the blog Feast of Kings because the eats would come from Brooklyn, but of course the inaugural post isn't going to come from Brooklyn at all, so I present to you:

Feast of (Regularly) Kings or FoRK.

Last week on Serious Eats, where I no doubt will get many of my future inspirations, I read about the breakfast sandwich from Cheeky's on the Lower East Side. I'd first been to this Louisiana-style sandwich place with M.--, who told me about it last year. We met for lunch and I had a tasty fried chicken biscuit. But it's a little bit of a trek for lunchtime so I was glad to realize there was a breakfast option as well. If I actually got out of bed when I tend to wake up in the morning (about 45 minutes before my alarm goes off), then there'd be plenty of time to pick up a sandwich before work. Which is exactly what I did this fine morning, walking at the blue beginning of an early summer day from the B train to Orchard Street to friendly blue and white Cheeky's. While waiting for my sandwich, I read (appropriately enough) Claire DeWitt and the City of the Dead, a detective novel I'm enjoying set in, yep, New Orleans. Though I've never visited that city (I would like to), I felt I could almost imagine myself there, amidst Claire's talk with wheelers and dealers and the warm smell of freshly cooked bacon.

At my desk I unwrapped the sandwich. It's on a nice dense biscuit, and the bacon, as Serious Eats reported, is of a good consistency. There is a bit higher of an eggs-to-rest-of-sandwich ratio than I'd like, but then, I haven't been a huge fan of scrambled egg sandwiches ever since I ate one while I was sick a couple years ago. (Not that it made me sick, mind, but the association is still there somehow.) The layer of muenster cheese at the bottom of the sandwich goes a ways toward making up for the eggs--glorious flashbacks to the muenster bagel lunch days of high school past. Overall, the sandwich is salty and peppery and would probably be washed down better with the chicoried very creamy coffee that Cheeky's sells than the diet orange soda I've got in the fridge here...but I've given up coffee because of the headaches. But that's a story for another feast...

Sunrise Park

On 37th Street there’s no sidewalk next to the cemetery, so you walk alongside the railyard. The windowless train car—“not in service” where a letter bubble ought to be—approaches, dragging its chain of flatbeds, and a man steps out like it’s the front door of his house. He climbs down, picks up something from the tracks I can’t quite see, and gets back on board, easing up to the end of the line. More “not in service” cars proliferate, then the yellow-and-black striped work cars, some red-and-white ones. Notices on the sides warn that no crew member is to get on a crane car while in motion. A crane car! The cranes are slumbering, though, in the early morning heat, alongside the warren of trailer cars and mysterious little boxy buildings. A D train emerges out of the greenery on the other side of the yard, heading for the elevated tracks of New Utrecht Road. Not so delightful as my favorite Old New Utrecht Road, but not half bad.

Heading downslope, the railyard expands until you reach the open gates. An orange security guard sits idle near the entrance. So many people are out sitting on stoops and ledges this morning, and it’s not even 8. What do they do all day? The headstones sit, too, awash in foliage, neat wrought-iron signs denoting idyllic lanes. Not to be outdone, the railyard has a sign too: Burma Road, it announces, black letters on white.

Last week, filming for Men in Black III rendered downtown Brooklyn years younger, proliferating vintage subway signs and the borough’s old blue-and-white street markers. Stepping off the bus and noticing the first green subway entrance, still dazed with sleep, I did a double-take, half-believing I’d entered another world. The railyard too is another world, less artificial but just as unusual. Coming out onto Fourth Avenue—oh, okay—I reenter reality: crush of the N train, tunnel, Brooklyn Bridge. The day’s already heating up but somewhere work trains still rest within the shade.

Go cars go

I generally feel that it is a positive life choice that I've been spending less time writing here and more time reading up on relevant issues, but sometimes the reading makes me want to bang my head against a wall.

My feelings about cars are surely nothing new, but my knowledge of laws about them has increased. Ah well, I don't know about you guys and your gas holidays, but I hope to take my bike out for a spin this Memorial Day weekend (in which Governor's Island, site of my rediscovered love for cycling, reopens).

Like, totally epic, dude

Greetings, gentle blogging public!

Spring is here, and you know what that means. Epic bike rides of danger! Now that the weather is nice, as is wont to occur for about two weeks before you hit the DOOM period of summer, I am excited to see how I can travel my adopted lands of Brooklyn faster and more wide-rangingly than ever before. (No voyages to my more-fraught ancestral Manhattan yet--I'm working on it.) It's fun to go all the way around Prospect Park in a tiny fraction of the time it'd take to walk. It's less fun to p-u-s-h the wheeled contraption, pedaling pathetically, up the steep stretch to Grand Army Plaza...but then how glorious to sail clear down all of Prospect Park Southwest. The newfound weather means I have to adjust to many other (much more talented) bikers competing for space with me--believe me, this didn't happen on Christmas morning. They can imbue the whole enterprise with a whole new set of hazards. On the plus side, I don't clutch the brakes as much on the downstretch anymore, noticing that even when I push poor Bikesilver down the hill as fast as its little wheels can toddle, the Real Cyclists effortlessly pass us by.

And then there are the adventures of leaving the park. On Friday, in search of a mint julep cupcake (I know, I know), I took my old tutoring route down to 9th Street, pausing to rage at a school bus parked in the bike lane. I did not find the grail at creperia Crespella so I decided to go to Tazza in Brooklyn Heights. Next time I tell you, "Oh, hey, I think I'll ride down 5th Avenue because there's a bike lane!" kindly kidnap my bike and refuse to return it until I rethink my folly. Cutting across Park Slope and Cobble Hill in Friday rush traffic is no joke. Luckily, I arrived in Brooklyn Heights not too much the worse for wear (other than having to get out and walk the bike because of a traffic jam, nearly causing my own bike jam with a sudden stop, and almost running over two snarky girls who refused to move out of my lane). I ate my prize cupcake--delicious candied mint leaf!--and steeled myself for the uphill battle of return.

Luckily, the way back was less fraught with danger (except for the car that wanted to pass me on Henry Street and couldn't). I even made it up most of the Park Slope slope without stopping. Back home I picked up an enormous tube of goat cheese and some fresh blueberries, matched them with my leftover spinach, and ate a dinner of champions.

Over the weekend, taking a rest from bikes, I hit up the New York Botanical Garden in all its azalea glory, saw a couple of shows with my parents (a Shostakovich/Stoppard bill at Carnegie Hall and the hilarious David-Ives-adaptation-of-The-Misanthrope School for Lies). The rest of that goat cheese wound up in what I've taken to calling my Passover cheesecake because it failed to rise as anticipated.

Yesterday, more or less recovered from Friday's travels, I took a half-hour spin around the neighborhood. I hope to attempt another epic ride soon.

Waffling back and forth

Isn’t there something delicious about the idea of chicken and waffles? Redolent of delicious baked goods, pure maple syrup, perfectly spiced and crisped and tender chicken…but that’s just the idea. In practice, chicken and waffles are a much drier affair. From Harlem to the stands of the Pennsylvania Dutch, I’ve always been disappointed with the results. Doughy waffles, overfried chicken with the bones left in, and the most dreadful woe of woes, fake maple syrup. But I keep wishing and hoping, finding myself lured into ordering this most promisingly decadent of dishes from brunch menus.

So thank goodness I’ve found Astoria’s Queens Comfort. I hope you will not think less of me if I tell you I first heard of the restaurant because they serve Robicellis’ delicious cupcakes. I took the Queens-resident R.—’s there a couple weeks ago for dinner and really enjoyed the crispy pork with my namesake grits, as well as the couple of blueberry sourcream biscuits we all split and the bubbly soda Iron Brew (not to be confused with Irn-Bru). So imagine my joy to find that brunch tasted even better. Raving to C.—, my gracious companion in the multiborough trek, I declared that it was the best brunch I’ve ever tasted. Half a week out, I still believe it. In any event, it embodied all of my chickeny, wafflish dreams.

In an unexpectedly successful move, QC sandwiches the chicken in Eggo waffles. Rather than detracting from my expectation of homemade goodness, I found that the lighter, crispier nature of Eggos enhanced the experience, thin enough to actually eat with a bite of chicken, but still able to soak up the melting maple butter (maple butter!!) without collapsing into a soggy mess. A large piece of fried chicken comprises the sandwich meat (though good luck eating this maple-dripping concoction with your hands), gently crispy, not overdone, full of fresh white meat. And underneath the chicken was the true genius of the thing.

You might call me a heretic for asking, but aren’t some brunch foods just too sweet? French toast buried in syrup, compote, and powdered sugar. Pancakes drowning in chocolate chips, waffles awash in fresh fruit. In dazzling contrast, enter the light note of—that’s right—Tabasco sauce undercutting the sweetness of the waffles, mixing with the maple butter for a whole new sensation. It made me want to run to the kitchen and start feverishly experimenting with sweet and spicy concoctions of my own.

I’ll say that the dish wasn’t as much of a gut bomb as I expected, but I have to admit I didn’t eat the whole thing, delicious as it was. There was plenty to share with C.—, even for a greedy foodie such as me. I had been afraid that the $8 price meant it would be a tiny delicate sandwich, but I was gloriously proven wrong. My only disappointment with QC is that it's located so far away from my cozy Brooklyn home. Then again, the weather is ripe for exploring and I think it's time to learn more about Queens, don't you?

Om nom nom

O dear reading public, would you be interested in restaurant reviews/recommendations if I posted them here? It has come to my attention that this may be interesting to some. Please let me know if you would read such an endeavor and I will get on it!

Patchwork homecoming in early spring

I. F train climbing the viaduct:

(from Maggie Nelson's "Subway in March, 5:45 PM)

I take the long way home, knowing

I am free to choose happiness

or wander off into the tunnel...

... all I want is to stay focused on everyday life

What other kind of life is there?

All the world knows it, it's a miracle

The blue womb of evening

The nimble sparrow, the smug duck in the pond

The eruption of flowering quince

O shackle us to the rock of it

we will try to love each other

though there's wind on our heads

and we cannot read minds

The train jumps above ground

and stripes the car in gold light

It's the light of early spring

II.

Walking home from the park at sunset