The Post in which I declare my passionate love for Indian Road Cafe

Once, I lived in dark times.  I lived in a land with no fancy cheeses, no exceptionally tasty and cheap restaurants.  Yes, this was Inwood of the mid-aughts.  Don’t get me wrong!  There were plenty of things to love about the neighborhood!  Beautiful parkland, lovely neighbors, and an apartment big enough to house a petting zoo.  But I was coming from 7 train Queens, home to myriad culinary delights.   On an average night the question was, “Japanese, Turkish, Romanian, Mexican, Indian, Thai, or Tibetan?”  In my new neighborhood there was pub…or pub (or Mofongo, which I am still incredibly remiss for not trying).  Also, the food was kind of expensive (hence my sad neglect of Mofongo).  I wanted my food cheap, like my apartment.  And for the love of god, a girl can only eat so many burgers. 

Then it arrived – Indian Road Café.  There are so many things to love about this place, but let’s start with its creation.  During the planning phase the owner actually posted on the community website to find out what the residents wanted in a restaurant!  What did we need?  What were we missing?  Really, who does that?  Who creates a restaurant with the community in mind these days?  Apparently the community needed a place with a great wine and beer selection.  And great food.  And a wonderful staff.  And FREE WIFI!  That’s right, I’m talking to you, Lower East Side.  What the hell is up with this, “charging-for-wifi-even-though-you’ve-already-paid-for-your-meal” crap?  Or limiting wifi to one hour on the weekends?  Lower East Side, I thought you specifically catered to the kind of scruffy 30-somethings that need free internet access and alcohol.  But oooooooohhhhhh noooooooooo, you’re too cool to give us free internet access now.  But, um, thanks for still giving us alcohol.  We’ll take what we can get.

So, you know how Inwood apartments are so big that you can fit multiple families and ponies in each one?  Yeah, IRC is cut from that same mold.  Let’s take a tour, shall we?  Upon entering we see the coffee bar with freshly ground, French pressed caffeinated beverages.  The pastries are from places like Balthazar and Arthur Avenue, because if you’re going to get heart disease at breakfast you’d best do it right.  To the left of the coffee bar are the tables and the grown-up bar.  The seating is casual, comfortable, and apparently from the set of The Sopranos.  Local artwork adorns the walls, because the people at IRC care about the locals and their low-paying aspirations.  And the grown-up bar – oh, that has become a thing of beauty.  The beer and wine selection has always been top-notch, but now they have expanded to obscure whiskeys and inventive cocktails.  The bartenders are awesome, knowledgeable, and have noble French bulldogs.  And they make cocktails with bacon.  BACON, people!!!  Thank you, IRC.  Thank you for making your drinks with bacon.  And smelling like bacon.  And serving me bacon.  And…bacon.

Just past the grown-up bar we have the coffee corner.  This is a wide area for people like me who can’t be trusted to work diligently in our own palatial abodes.  We need to go to other vast real estate expanses, where we will be served liquor, bacon, and inspiration.  Naturally one cannot sit in the coffee corner enveloped by the smell of bacon without ordering some food.  Here are some meals from IRC that have made my toes curl:

-          Duck lasagna with in-house ricotta and Arthur Avenue pasta: The noodles said no.  The ricotta said yes.  The duck got up on the table and mounted me.

-          Bourbon-Blood Orange Braised Pork Belly:  Yes!  Pork Belly!  Caramelized, melting, seductive.  Pickled piquillo peppers.  Spicy, sweet, and dangerous (like me).

-          Wild Mushroom & Butternut Squash Wellington: To be enjoyed when you’re only feeling a little bit sinful, and want to express that sinfulness with goat cheese and fresh herbs.  There’s something about the dish that always makes me feel both virtuous and satisfied, which I would dare say is a rare thing. 

-          Pan Roasted Hudson Valley Duck Breast: There will be a bit of dissent on this one (yeah, Emily B., I’m talking to you).  Yes, there is some toughness.  But dammit, I got a steak knife and everything was okay.  The crisp skin was perfect, with just the right layer of subcutaneous fat.  And the cranberry-orange reduction delicately sliced through the richness of the meat.

-          Stuffed Black Angus Filet Mignon: Jesus Christ, I don’t even know what to say at this point.  The rare meat melted in my mouth.  The potato gratin was slap-your-grandma-good (compliments to Jeff T. for that line).  The roasted red peppers and fontina could have overpowering or gloppy, but they weren’t because this is Indian Road Café.  They were textured and balanced, in a way that I wish my life may someday be. 

-          The random pork chop special with: A name I can’t remember, a tart sauce of shallots and mustard, and mashed sweet potatoes.  Once again, I point to the caramelization.  I truly feel that caramelization will make or break your pork, and oh baby do they ever make it.

Do you understand what I’m saying here people?  The food is spectacular.  And let’s say you don’t want a fancy night out, but just a simple sandwich?  IRC will provide, with Vegan Bahn Mi, or Cuban Paninos, or the only Club Sandwich I’ll ever truly love….

Look, I know that those of you living in Brooklyn had this in the early 80’s.  But I missed that train.  I’ve got Inwood, and I love it.  And this is merely the tip of the gluttonous iceberg.  But if I were to, say, write a WB show about women in their 30’s with little money and even fewer prospects, I would set much of it at IRC.  And some of us wouldn’t be wearing underwear.  You know who you are. 

Of course, the WB would really only pick this up if were 17, supernatural, and not wearing underwear.  But I still think we could work in IRC.  Now get your ass up to Inwood and order.   

Shabu Shabu Ding Dong

Clearly I enjoy cooking. I make my own bread.  I’ve spent a week making cassoulet, complete with duck confit and existential yearning.  I never really question why I love cooking so much until I’m faced with a person who doesn’t like to cook.  These are people I will never quite understand.  For me, cooking is creativity.  And, frankly, it’s cheap creativity.  Hell, I could make Lobster Thermidor for a crowd with a caviar appetizer and it will still cost less than new headshots.  (Fucking headshots.  Why must you always cost at least $500?) Also, no auditions are involved.  In fact, perhaps cooking is really my way of making art in a chaotic, absurd world.  I decide what to make, and invite people to eat it.  Maybe it’s all about control.  Maybe I’m horribly type A and finally fulfilling the requirements of my Western Astrological sign (the ever boring and practical Capricorn).  I’d prefer to think that I’m a fiery ball of untamed sensuality that must create and indulge in her creations whenever possible, therefore fulfilling the requirements of my Chinese Zodiac sign (the ever-seductive Fire Snake).  But really, as long as no mistakes my passion for cooking as some sort of shout out to domesticity I’m okay. 

Apparently, I like to cook even when I’m going out to eat – hence, my glorious night of shabu shabu.  I wish I could take credit for this.  I wish I could say that I did an epic NYC hotpot survey and emerged with the ultimate spot for steaming vats of Chinese goodness.  But I can’t.  Instead, I relied on the wise counsel of my test prep colleague Kristyn.  This was a good decision. Because without her I may never have experienced Minni’s Shabu Shabu in Flushing, with her and our co-worker Ed.   First of all, the concept of shabu shabu is wonderful.  You get a pot of flavorful broth (at Minni’s it’s one pot per person!  Oh the joy!  I made mine kimchee) , and a plate of vegetables and assorted savory delights. Then you order a plate of the meat of your choice – in my case shrimp and beef (go big or go home, right?)  Then you proceed to make your customized dish by dipping delicate pieces of vegetable and protein into this steaming cauldron.  You eat the tasty morsels one by one, and then, at the end of the meal you’ve created a rich, complex soup to enjoy.  During the meal the staff comes around with huge kettles of piping hot broth for those who need a refill. 

But perhaps the true star of the meal is the sauce bar: Soy sauce, sesame oil, leek oil, minced garlic, barbeque sauce, hot sauce, sweet and hot sauce, peanut sauce, scallions, Chinese parsley, and…and…please excuse me, I just passed out on the floor from sheer remembered delight.  Okay.  Feeling a bit better now.  That’s what wine and Monty Python tunes will do for you.  So, this is how it works: go up to the bar, grab multiple cups, and make amazing sauce combinations.  For example, the Andi: soy sauce, sesame oil, garlic, scallions, and parsley.  Yes.  I know that this is essentially dumpling sauce. But I made it, dammit!  By myself!  At a sauce bar!  My creative spirit will not be denied!  Also, it tasted really good.  Also, I’ve made cassoulet.  So I am officially exempt from all accusations of laziness.  Yeah, I’m gonna milk that meal for all it’s worth.

So dinner was wonderful, spicy, interactive, everything I look for in a night out with friends.  How do you follow this up?  Dive bar.  After we had recovered from our hotpot commas, Kristin, Ed and I repaired to the Upper West Side and the Ding Dong Lounge.  Let’s discuss the Ding Dong Lounge.  It is, most definitely a dive bar, at least in aspiration.  I do wonder, however, if it is a dive bar in actuality.   True, the bar is dark and cave-like with a pool table.  And yes, it was filled with tattooed women in pleather leggings.  But the whisky.  It was $8.  That’s just not a dive bar price.  I want my whisky cheap, like my women.   Or something like that.  My verdict is still out on the Ding Dong Lounge.  I think that I really can’t judge it until I’ve lost at least an afternoon, if not a full day in its subterranean-esque depths.  My current favorite dive bar?  Irish Eyes.  Yes, it has a pool table, and it also has bags of empty Bud Light cans, a kitschy white stucco bar, $4.50 whiskeys, and a dog.   And a bartender with huge hair and a leopard print shirt who understands buy-backs.  Look, I’m not saying I didn’t like the Ding Dong Lounge. I’m just saying that dive bars should be a lot more cheap and depressing than we’ve come to expect.  Except in a good way. 

Oh what the hell, let’s just have Chinese soup. 

White Nights, Vodka-Filled Days

As some of may have noticed, there’s a new addition here at Hungry Like the Wolf – I’ve finally posted the Berlin Archives.  For those of you not in the know, these are email updates that I sent during my German “audition tour” a year  ago.  I put that in quotes because what it really (d)evolved into was a manic gorging of epic, Teutonic proportions.  What with being based in Berlin, and being excessively irresponsible, I found myself on a mission to absorb all the city had to offer, every day,  as long as it happened after 11am.  My captive email audience was so supportive that I decided to create this really exciting blog which has little purpose and no pictures (and to the 25 of you who somehow continue to enjoy this site, thank you!  I promise you more of the same, and even lamer graphics.)

I fell deeply in love with Berlin.  The rain-soaked streets.   The lack of heating.  Sunrise at 10:00am, sunset at 4:15pm.  Terrorist döner kebab.  I saw some incredibly exciting theater, and ate SUCH.  GOOD.  FOOD.  But my first love is New York.  I still remember the childhood thrill I experienced when traveling in by train to visit my Dad, and I stepped out of Penn Station and saw the coarse, grey concrete and steel rising all around me.  For some reason that’s right for me.  But then again, I’m the kind of woman who joins the smokers outside of bars not for the nicotine contact high, but because I can’t sit in one place for too long.  My internal rhythm is synced with the Big Apple.  Its pitch resonates in my breast.  So isn’t it about time that I gave as much of myself to NYC as I did to Berlin?

Strangely enough, my recent outings have been largely Russian.  I didn’t plan it that way, it just happened.  You see, the problem with New Yorkers is that we live amidst an embarrassment of riches.  There are so many diverse activities taking place everywhere, at all times, that it can be hard to actually focus on one thing.  Also, that one thing is usually taking place very, very far away from me because I live in Upstate Manhattan.  So yes, I know that Brooklyn is amazing and hip and much cooler than I am, and that if I work hard maybe I’ll someday get my learners’ permit for Brooklyn bona fides, but until then I have to endure a 12 hour subway ride, crawl through the mud, and ride a donkey in order to get there.  But when I read about a celebration of Russian nights at the Brooklyn Botanic Garden complete with Russian culinary delights, poetry readings, live accordion, period garb, and vodka I immediately saddled up Bessie and made my down there.

Three days later I finally arrived at the event.  It was…strange.  Kind of what I imagine a Russian wedding combined with a Russian high school prom might look like.  The greenhouse in which the event was held was beautiful – the blue-grey early dusk sky really highlighted my Slavic sadness, and the twinkle-lights did of course make me see both the beauty and pointlessness of life.* There was the promised accordion player, who I kind of pissed off by implying that her music was actually Polish, ‘cause you know, I’m an expert.   The poetry “reading” - which consisted of one poem – was a bit of a letdown.  But dammit, I enjoyed the food.  There was a huge table of assorted pickled vegetables, as well as tuxedo-ed waiters passing the following savory items:  baked potato bites with caviar and crème fraiche; borscht topped with a dill cream sauce; and sirloin meatballs that my friends and I stalked for the entire night.  Seriously.  A member of our group was actually sent on reconnaissance missions to hunt down the meatball man and drag him over to our little cocktail table where the rest of us were downing the drink of the evening – vodka with a ginger simple syrup and black pepper!  I loved the black pepper/vodka combination.  It was a drink that both punched you in the face and grabbed your tongue with burning pincers.   But then again, I also have some very questionable culinary proclivities (I really thought peanut butter and bacon sandwiches would have caught on by now).    While the artistic offerings might not have met my expectations, the costumes most certainly did.  Russian military men hob-nobbed with kerchiefed peasants while Anna Karenina did her best to avoid all on-coming vehicles.  I regretted my lack of muff, but hoped that my timeless faux- buttoned boots acted as some kind of redemption.

This was not the end of my Russian adventures.  I also spent some time recently with Russian Satanists.  Or, rather, with a former Satanist/member of the Kennedy clan who used to have a slightly evil Russian guru.  This is what I’m talking about!  This is New York!  We have, far and away, the best conspiracy theorists.  And Satanists.  We clearly have the best Satanists.  Mind you, I did not actually know that I was going to an event featuring Russian Satanists, but I most definitely knew that I was going to an event focusing on Russian spiritualists.  I have now attended not one, but two lectures on the intersection of Russians and Tibetan philosophy.  The first one was kind of a lark.  Ryan and I were looking for an evening activity, and the Rubin Museum had a very affordable lecture about a Russian Spiritualist we shall henceforth call Madame B.  This was preceded by a tour of the Rubin’s new Tibetan comic book exhibit.  Really people.  For $12 tell me how you could possibly pass this up (incidentally, who the hell is funding this place? Richard Gere?).  I will say that we got so much more than we paid for.  People are, um, shall we say, passionate about Madame B, and they voiced this passion quite loudly.  She is apparently either the world’s savior or the Antichrist.  And she had a pet baboon.  Or something like that.  Look, the woman travelled the world, started a philosophical foundation, and met Gandhi.  Along the way she may have (accidentally) predicted the assassinations of two Kennedys and MLK.  Or maybe it was all lost in translation.  The important thing is, the woman went far beyond the constraints of her place in society and I have to respect that, even if it involved virgin sacrifice. 

I don’t know that I can tell full story of the Kennedy Satanist, because I’m afraid of dead chickens showing up in front of my apartment.  Let’s move on.  The following week I gleefully attended a lecture at the Rubin discussing the Russian spiritualist Nicholas Roerich who received information from his wife’s astral guru (yeah, she channeled this particular spiritual leader) informing him that the unity of Communism and Tibetan Buddhism would somehow bring about the promised land.  Supposedly Roerich was also involved in a plot with Stravinsky, Nijinsky, and Diaghilev to incite spiritual chaos via the premiere of Le sacre du printemps (their intention was to hopefully bring about WWI, which would then lead to this promised land.  Kind of.  I’m still a bit murky on the details).  But what I want to really talk about is funding.  At both of these lectures a wise person thought to ask, “How the hell did these people afford their spiritual pilgrimages and subsequent printed Philosophical dailies?  The answer?  Patronage.  Fuck!  Why does it always come down to patronage?  Do you know what I would do with some robust patronage?   I would mount an incredible production of “The Seven Deadly Sins” (in the original fucking key).  I would create a graduate program that mandated interdisciplinary work instead of this outdated concept of classical specialization.  And, yes I would also travel to India, where I would sweat, vomit, and found a religion based on Food, Art, and Sex.  No, it would not be called the 1960’s.  It would be called sSelasophy, and it would rule.  And I would rule.  Until I was imprisoned for fraud.  But at least there would be no cool-aid as far as the eye could see.  Seriously.  Anyone who would like to be considered for patronage may contact me at moneyfornothingandyourchicksforfree_at_ emailscams.com.  The first ten people to donate get absolutely nothing.  Further donors get the satisfaction of knowing that they are now on a bandwagon. 

*During my 20’s I briefly dated a Russian man.  We called him “The Hot Russian”.  One day he told me that he had started smoking again because he realized that life had no meaning.  He announced this with a fairly cheerful air, with no further explanation.  But at least he took me to a strange disco/restaurant in Brighton Beach.  Further note to readers: ordering a White Russian on your first date with a white Russian can have unintended effects.  Oh youth.