It is a truth universally acknowledged, that all New York Food Bloggers must eventually write about Sripraphai.

In the wisdom of age I have come to appreciate the BYOB restaurant. Gone are the days when I would complain about the inconvenience of places without liquor licenses. Now, I embrace the freedom they bring. The option of buying my own cheap, rotgut wine by the bottle is infinitely better than paying $7 for a class of Concha y Toro. Of course, this is usually only available on East 6th street or in the outer boroughs. But oh, how I love the outer boroughs. I spent seven delicious years in Queens, and I miss it still. By and large the food is fresh, authentic, and fairly-priced. And since I am fully prepared to sacrifice ambience for these aforementioned qualities, the outer boroughs really are my culinary shangri la. Let's take a walk down memory lane, shall we?

After I graduated from college I lived in a ramshackle apartment in Queens with wall-to-wall pink carpeting, gleaming white walls, windows that didn't fully shut, and a boiler that ran industrial strength even in August. This apartment was also located in the Bermuda Triangle of Queens : within shouting distance of the elevated 7 train, the LIRR, Queens Boulevard, and the flight path of LaGuardia airport. Every day at 6am it sounded like a plane was landing in my bedroom. It was difficult to watch TV or talk on the phone because the boiler kept the apartment at a steady 110 degrees, and this made it necessary to keep a window open at all times. This, of course, allowed us to hear the 7 train in all its clanky, non-oiled glory every five minutes. And this is to say nothing of the overbearing landlord with his religious icons, and the crazy drunk irishman that lived downstairs. It was a unique time, and while I mainly gritted my teeth and focused on the cheap rent, my eccentric boss continually insisted that I would look back on these as the best years of my life. She was certainly right in one respect – I had some damn good meals.

It has been commonly accepted for some time that Sripraphai serves perhaps the best Thai food in all of New York City. I'm not sure that my friends and I knew that when we started frequenting this small restaurant in Woodside. Back in the day it looked like a down and out diner. The food was dirt cheap, and you pretty much ordered by picture. I'm fairly certain it was BYOB, but we were obsessed with the Thai Iced Tea, so that hardly mattered. I do remember that the green curry was almost lethal, and that the joint wasn't open on Wednesdays. I now live very, very far away from Queens. Yes, I'm technically still in the same city, but if you calculate the time it takes me get to Sripraphai I might as well live in Jersey (not that there's anything wrong with that). A trip to Sripraphai is now a major event. I was lucky enough to experience such a momentous occasion recently with my friend Laura.

Although we became friends through work, I think that Laura and I truly bonded over our mutual respect and appreciation for food. We've gone into raptures over sticky rice and mango. We have unabashedly scandalized fellow patrons with our moans at a Malaysian restaurant (the chicken curry roti made us do it). Sripraphai might as well be our culinary temple. It had been a long time since I'd eaten here, and I was pleasantly surprised to see that it had expanded threefold. Gone are the florescent glares and formica countertops. Now its all bamboo and mood-lighting. The food, however, is still painfully good. Emphasis on the painful. We started with fried watercress salad. Moved on to fried pickled pork. Followed all of that with fried pork belly and “southern style curry” - with fried tofu. I'm not sure we completely knew what we were getting ourselves into. We were, however warned about the curry. “Too spicy,” the waiter said. “Not for Americans.” Clearly I took this as a sign that we absolutely must, no matter what, have this curry. I probably even asked for it extra hot. And it was spicy. It was the kind of spicy that makes you want to strip down naked and run down the street screaming “sweet baby jesus!” while dousing your flaming head with water. And yet it was soooooooo right. Especially with the pork belly. The fat of the pork was such a nice compliment to the heat. Next time I might go for meat in the curry (I don't know that tofu was really up to the challenge), but I would definitely order it again.

We accompanied this spread with mounds of coconut rice. And yet, we still managed to rally for a dessert of sticky rice and mango. In the interest of full disclosure – this sticky rice and mango was not as good as the dish we had in Elmhurst this past summer. I mean, it was good, but none of the staff looked ready to throw us out of the restaurant on the grounds of indecency. The overall meal, however, was superlative. And by the time we left, the crowd waiting to be seated overflowed onto the sidewalk (note to self, always arrive at Sripraphai by 6pm on a Saturday).

All in all it was a highly successful night. We had a great meal, and I was able to pick up some curry sauce at the specialty Thai Food shop across the street. And the bonus? An adorable shop cat that offered up kissed to the customers. You see, this is why I miss Queens. Oh Inwood, why?! Why can't you fulfill my culinary dreams? Why must I go to the outer boroughs for true satisfaction? (Inwood just leaned in and whispered, “What about my multiple subway lines, extensive parkland, and discount wine shop?” Well played, Inwood. Well played.)

Leave Your Labels at the Door

Apparently, the word “foodie” has become a bit controversial. I've heard people complain that it glorifies rank amateurs. But controversial? I truly had no idea. I assumed it simply implied a whimsical love of food. Yes, it has a saccharine ring to it, and is a bit unimaginative, but so what? Humans love to categorize, and they love to eat, so something along these lines was bound to emerge eventually. This week, however, I have been schooled. According to urbandictionary.com (an unimpeachable source), “Foodie” is “a dumbed-down term used by corporate marketing forces to infantilize and increase consumerism in an increasingly simple-minded American magazine reading audience.” The definition goes on to state: “The addition of the long "e" sound on the end of a common word is used to create the sensation of being part of a group in isolationist urban society, while also feminizing the term to subconsciously foster submission to ever-present market sources.” So, um, “foodie” is a tool of the patriarchy?

In other corners, “foodies” are declared to be harbingers of doom. Their obsession with odd meats, their idolatry of chefs, and their willingness to travel great distances for unusual fare are deemed equivalent to late Roman excess. That’s right folks – while Rome is burning, these heathens will be eating. And speaking of religion (or lack thereof), need I even mention the infamous list of transgressions which places Gluttony almost at the top?

Now that my eyes have been opened to the depravity that is “foodie-ism”, I will certainly never insult a dear friend by applying such a slur to his good name. So let’s just say that I have recently enjoyed some good meals with friends who, while not professional members of the food industry, embrace its offerings with an appropriate level of enthusiasm, and in a manner which pisses nobody off. Let’s start with the intercontinental brunch.

Some of you may be familiar with my good friend Daniel. He played a starring role in my Berlin dispatches this past fall. This kind soul is both an amazing cook and an amazing diner. While Ryan and I were in Berlin we were privileged to attend a dinner party he held featuring pumpkin potage, lamb, and lemon arugula risotto (this is serious stuff here, people. Dinner-party risotto is not for the faint of heart). Daniel also introduced us to some wonderful restaurants (Themroc, Kimchee Princess, Terrorist Döner Kebab....Oh the deliciousness!) Basically, Daniel facilitated some of our best culinary experiences in Germany. So when he wrote to tell us that he was coming to NYC, and particularly wanted to share a meal with us so that he could make an appearance on this blog, I was both excited and a little intimidated (did I mention that he’s a professional, published writer as well? Yeah, there’s no pressure here).

The parameters were as follows: a midday Sunday meal on the Upper East Side, as he would be coming from the Guggenheim. This naturally suggests brunch, right? But herein lies the dilemma – Brunch in Berlin is epic. There would be absolutely no way to compare to it, let alone top it. And to make matters worse, our chosen location, while definitely not a culinary wasteland, is not exactly known for its adventurous dining. I decided the only answer was to stick to a well-worn playbook: Sarabeth’s East.

Sarabeth’s not only has a reputation for outstanding brunch, it also has just enough variety to satisfy any particular culinary quirk. Yes, there would be a wait, but a wait for Sunday brunch is ubiquitous in NYC. And I'd like to think it was worth it. First of all, how can you argue with a place that serves homemade jam? And your choice of muffin, croissant, biscuit or bread with every egg dish? Of course, what really sold me was their Sweet Breakfast. Surprised? Don't be. Its a total misnomer. The Sweet Breakfast menu delivered the one of the best savory brunches I've ever had. I submit for your approval: The Crisp Potato Waffle with Chicken Apple Breakfast Sausage, Chunky Apple Sauce and Sour Cream. This also comes with warm organic maple syrup from Doefler's Farm. I don't know who Doefler is, and I only had a bit of his syrup, but it was damn good. But oh, the waffles. They mix the potato in with the batter, and it comes out light, fluffy, and – what can I say? - crisp. The sausage was just hearty enough for a sophisticated Sunday meal, as opposed to the greasy excess of a hangover brunch. The whole place had the vibe of a New England cafe. Oh, and lest I forget – the home fries! Daniel ordered a round for the table, and I heartily embraced his decision. You know how some home fries are just nasty, caky globs of useless carbs? These were the kind of home fries that all potatoes hope to grow up to be. Each morsel was perfectly browned, with a creamy interior. Add to that the sauteed onions and red and green peppers, and you've come pretty close to ultimate brunch satisfaction.

Ryan, Daniel and I followed up our multiple potato portions with a lovely jaunt through Central Park. There was just a bit of a chill in the air, making it perfect for a brisk walk. The park was austere, yet beautiful, and the company was superior. I can't deny it – I fell in love with Berlin. But a wonderful Sunday like this makes me realize that settling for New York City wouldn't be too bad.

The Fayetteville Holiday Meal Delivery Service

Like most couples, Ryan and I try to split our holidays – if we spend Thanksgiving with his people, we then spend Christmas with my people. But this year things were a little bit different. We had spent much of the fall on our grand European adventure, and Thanksgiving had been spent with other homeless American Opera singers who understood the crucial need for mass quantities of turkey the fourth Thursday of November. When we came back to NYC in early December it seemed a bit impractical to turn around and travel again for Christmas. So the result is, we had not seen Ryan's parents for quite a while. Over the winter we tried to plan a trip upstate, but, as usual, my chaotic work schedule prohibited it. However, Ryan's parents are intrepid travelers, so they decided that if we couldn't come to them, they would come to us; plans were made for an overnight visit on President's Day weekend.

Cue Andi's culinary delusions of grandeur: of course I would make a spectacular dinner on Saturday, filled with food that is both wholesome and just adventurous enough. Sunday would feature freshly made biscuits and assorted breakfast meats. Perhaps homemade jam and a decorative fruit tray? I was in complete denial of the fact that with my extreme work schedule (which included a full day of teaching on Saturday) all of this cooking would have to take place from 3pm to 4pm Wednesday afternoon in between jobs. So I was slightly relieved when Ryan told me that his parents were planning to bring food to us – namely a roast turkey with all the trimmings.

At first I was also confused- why would they bring a roast turkey on a 5 hour drive? Did they think our apartment was an episode of Man vs. Wild, and that they would have to forage for food and shelter for 48 hours? True, we use toilet paper as tissues and rarely have non-alcoholic beverages beyond water and milk, but hey – we could be a lot worse. But as the plan continued to take shape I realized their true intention - they wanted to have a holiday meal with us. And if President's Day was to be our holiday, then so be it. They wanted to spoil us – and Ryan and I were ready to be spoiled.

The discussion of dinner must begin with the Fayetteville turkey. It is beyond good. They wrap the bird in butter-coated tin foil at the start of the day, and then hours later this yields up incredibly tender, juicy, flavorful meat. And the skin! Oh the skin. Decadent. Perfectly crisp. The Fayetteville turkey was accompanied by homemade, toothsome bread stuffing, roasted carrots, and green beans. Ryan made his signature sinful mashed potatoes (secret ingredient? Crack). Cranberry sauce was in effect. And, of course, gravy.

A note on gravy - I fear making it. As a child, my family's holiday meals never included gravy because no one felt confident enough to attempt it. There was a conviction in the household that good gravy was a result of careful alchemy – and we had not been made privy to this ancient knowledge. I worry that I inherited this genetic predisposition for inadequate gravy-making. I am in awe of anyone who has mastered the skill. Ryan's mother makes an amazingly velvety, perfect gravy. Of course, the succulent turkey easily stands on its own. But that gravy – it just takes the whole meal to a new dimension.

The gorging commenced. Perhaps my fourth serving was a bit excessive, but, after all, President's Day only comes around once a year. And there is a magic to the holiday meal. So much heart and spirit is put into the preparation, its as if you can taste the love expressed with each bite. The meal was rounded out with two types of homemade cookies (including my favorite, chocolate chip walnut). And that wasn't the end – there were two loaves of freshly made banana bread for the next morning. This may just be my new favorite holiday tradition.