Ethiopian Excess

For some of us, New Jersey is not a schlep. It is, in fact, "home." You would never know it from my eating patterns, though, or the crew that constitutes 75% of my social life (the other 25% largely consisting of spouse and 2.5 kids). I love to schlep. I don't consider NY a schlep.

Yet often when you ask people to do the reverse -- to leave the city and come to NJ -- I find an opposition which is thoroughly at odds with the whole worldliness of NYC generally.

That's why I was thrilled to get so many takers for the Fressenwagen's first out-of-state jaunt to the glorious Garden State. Thanks so much to Audrey and Jeremy and Zach/Robyn for getting cars and caravaning people over -- it was very much appreciated! But I'm convinced they didn't do it for Jersey and they didn't do it for me: they did it for the Ethiopian food.

Many people opted out of this Fressenwagen because they aren't fans of Ethiopian food. And truthfully, I'm not surprised -- because if Ethiopian food isn't done well, it shouldn't be done at all (true of all foods, for that matter, right?). But Ethiopian food done poorly is like, well, slop/goop thrown down on a bready surface for you to eat. Appealing? Not so much.

Mesob in Montclair is my go-to for Ethiopian food, and is the antithesis of anything sloppy from the moment go. It's a lovely, beautiful restaurant, decked out with authentic African art and staffed by kind, caring people. And, of course, the food is fantastic.

But the thing that gets me every time is the smell. From the second you open the door at Mesob, you are hit in the nostrils with a mighty slap of the exotic. And I write that without any sarcasm whatsoever (I realize I have to type that, because I seem to have a poor reputation in that regard): the smell is nothing short of beautiful. It's a rich blend of spices that would be a challenge to dissect even to a perfumer or a oenophile: there's cinnamon, turmeric, chili, cumin....many, many more I'm sure I haven't even heard of. The smell is not oppressive, though, but it's certainly atmospheric, just like the art on the walls. It is an unintentionally sensuous way of taking diners --and dinners-- to another place.

The intrepid band of twelve did not completely arrive until late, but hungry Fressenwageners know no such thing as "manners" like "waiting for other people to arrive." We ordered the starter sampler, which fortunately came quickly, and was an assortment of delicious tastes. The ayib bemitmita -- fresh farmer's cheese sprinkled with Ethiopian chili powder -- was simply amazing, and delicious on the spongy injera bread. The timatim fitfit is bits of chopped injera, mixed with chopped onions, garlic, tomatoes and jalapenos served cold with lemon juice and olive oil. The azifa, whole brown lentils, made an appearance again later in the dinner, as did the ingudai tibs, portobello mushrooms marinated and sauteed with onions, garlic and tomatoes. We made such short order of all this that we needed more, augmented by sambussas, which are basically what would happen if you mated a Turkish meat-filled cigar with an Indian samosa. Delicious.

Fortunately, our table was big. These plates and injera were no joke (see photo). We ordered the meat and vegetarian samplers for dinner, and, using our hands, feasted on beef, lamb, chicken and various sorts of vegetables, all brought to our mouths carried on chariots of bread.

The gorging was fantastic. Our stomachs distended, dessert seemed like not even an option -- but the coffee at Mesob is among the best coffee I've ever had, and members of the group bought into the recommendation. The beans are brought over, simmering in a pot, and shaken in front of you, adding to the sheer volume of smells in the place. Then the coffee is served in a beautiful little urn, tipped to its side in an Ethiopian basket. Oh -- and it's amazing.

A NYT review of Mesob said that the worst thing about this restaurant is leaving. But you don't really leave Mesob. The next day, you might smell something and realize that the spices have coated your jeans, your jacket, your scarf and/or your hair in a rich, textured layer of spicy aroma.

There are worse things.

Midtown Madness

Midtown March madness Fressenwagen, smack in the heart of Koreatown.

When you walk into a restaurant and are greeted by the site of a white grand piano mysteriously suspended from inside a huge rock waterfall -- and not only is the rock waterfall going full splash, but the piano is actually a player piano playing by itself -- you know you've stepped into another dimension. This is the kind of place that was probably considered as a venue by Albert Brooks when he filmed the movie Defending Your Life, about being stuck in purgatory.

But ascend a tremendous staircase and there you would have found our merry band, sequestered behind a wooden screen like the criminals we are, safe from the prying eyes of waiters who would otherwise doubtlessly be offering us drinks. More on the service element later.

The less-than-a-week lag time between plan announcement and event, plus the midtown midweek location, brought our group to over 20. I suspect some of you still think you'll get a glimpse of some A-list director if you show up -- I could tell by the way you were all dolled up. But sorry, it was just us Jews/people who are Jewish by virtue of living in New York. Really, it's not a bad thing, nominal non-Jews. Welcome to the tribe. Let all who are hungry come and eat!

We started with Kim Chi Pajun, a kimchi pancake which is allegedly spicy. Perhaps I inadvertently Botoxed my tongue at some point, rendering it senseless, but it didn't seem so spicy to me -- it was more like a pubescent cousin to a Chinese scallion pancake. I suppose that here is where I note that I did not blog about our last Fressenwagen, a trip to Szechuan Gourmet. And you know something? That's right, I didn't. And both the food and company were great. I don't know what to tell you. Sometimes, I just f*ck up. Yes, even me, Goddess of the Wagen.

We then moved on to the complicated task of arranging tabletop barbecue for disparate people with disparate tastes/theistically-enforced dietary restrictions. It all seemed to work out. I have to say that this trip reinforced just how much I like you people. Well, all of you but one. But more on that later. Seriously - what a great group! Even the randoms who showed up seem lovely. We are fortunate folk.

I didn't get involved in the barbecue scrum because of God, and because I love bi bim bap: rice, vegetables, a random fried egg, tofu, etc. all scrambled together and drenched in spicy sauce. Not spicy enough for me this go-round, though, I'm sad to say, and I was sucking down kim chee like there was no tomorrow. I guess the Botox really worked.

So since I go veg at these events (see http://www.kveller.com/traditions/modern_rituals/the-kosher-question.shtml, if you're actually interested in why), I ask the carnivores at the table for their opinions on various dishes. I only got one response from a lovely lady at the other end of the table, who said everything was "so good, and so garlicky! The clear rice noodles with shredded crab was a nice surprise." She also pointed out that it was the first time she'd had lotus root in heavy brown sauce and was happy about it.

And one disturbing thought from my other-end-of-the-table source: "Curious how much longer we'll be able to drink Saporro without glowing in the dark (unlike Kirin which I think is brewed in California, Saporro is actually imported from Japan)." Trouble. I personally believe that Korean food really should not be eaten without consuming a bit of beer, or preferably more than a bit. This is where the whole 'pregnant' thing is actually kind of annoying, as opposed to how much I relish forcing people out of their seats on the subway.

But it was not nearly as annoying as what transpired for one carnivore, who, when all the food was served, found out that some food hadn't been served...specifically, his. We called over the waitress, who outsourced and brought over other help. Carnivore explained the situation (which really didn't take so much explanation - it was more of a "I ordered the marinated steak. It didn't come. Nu?").

The waiters stared, slack-jawed. From the more authoritative waiter came this cryptic statement: "It's not coming?"

It was totally unclear as to whether this was a question, and if it was, if we were expected to know the answer. "It seems as though it's not coming," we replied on behalf of Carnivore.

The waiter looked genuinely distressed. "I'm really sorry." In the space after this sentence, where an offer to remedy the situation ought to have been put on the table, so to speak = nada but the sounds of silence.

Hmm. A particularly businesslike Fressenwagener then proposed the following situation: that all parties resume their normal waiter/customer roles, with the waiter going into the kitchen, procuring a dish of the missing food, and bringing it out to the customer who had ordered it. The waiter looked at the Fressenwagener as if to say, "My God, this man is a genius!"

That's weird, right? The waitstaff seemed genuinely disturbed and worried, as though they were thinking, "But where on earth will we find Korean food at this hour of the night?" But fortunately, we WERE in Koreatown. Somehow, somewhere, they found a dish of food and placed it in front of Carnivore.

Thanks to all for showing up...except for the one person who didn't pay. Yes, I noticed that the bill came up exactly one-person's-worth-short. Sooo, if you're reading this and you were the one person who didn't go into your wallet to take out money to give in exchange for your food (a common practice in a restaurant environment, fyi), don't worry about it. We'll find you, and will make you pay -- Shirley Jackson/"The Lottery" style.

One helpful person pointed out that perhaps I should have paid for two. Thank you, sweetie. In the meantime, a bit of self-mockery: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=tJRzBpFjJS8.

One more issue: The List. So some people have asked me questions, and I figured I'd answer them.

1. How does a person get on The List?
Well, really, what it boils down to is that I have to like you. If I was ever previously married to you, for example, your chances of list-getting-on are slim. If you want to be on the list, or know someone who does, have them email me.

People to whom Fressenwageners get engaged, folks with whom Fressenwageners become romantically involved, or children of Fressenwageners can be grandfathered in, so to speak. But please note the answer to Question 2.

2. How does a person get off The List?
So far, there have been a few ways.
a. If there's an ugly breakup, I simply choose which member of the relationship I liked better, and the other person is never heard from again. I mean, is off the list.
b. If I find out you skipped out without paying, well, honestly.
Some have argued that if people haven't shown up in a while, they don't deserve to get these emails. It's more likely, though, that if I continue to like you despite your piss-poor attendance record, you'll stay on the list until I'm explicitly instructed by you (or your next-of-kin) to do otherwise. Who makes the rules, people? Me. Let's all remember that, shall we?

Happy eating and be prepared to cross the Hudson for our next adventure!

She Rides Again

The Fressenwagen, that is. Kind of.

It's been a while, dearies. Life has intervened in the journeys of the Fressenwagen. It was bound to happen. Between coordinating a wedding, honeymoon, house purchase and kindergarten/first grade lunches...oh, and I have a job...it's been wonderful, but busy. Energies have been channeled in a non-Fressenwagen direction. Of course, to be technical, the actual Fressenwagen, the Honda Pilot, has long since given up the ghost of its lease (z"l), and has been replaced by something newer and flashier that I really should not be driving.

But what else has changed? Between last year's blockbuster celebrity Fressenwagen sporting over 30 people, and then the betrayal of having been stiffed on the bill for upwards of a few hundred bucks at my own birthday fete in June, I'd decided to hang up the keys to the Fressenwagen for a bit. My husband (!!), wanting my undivided attention, may have been somewhat relieved.

But the people clamored for more. And generally speaking, I do like to give the people what they want. Who am I to begrudge you folk your moments of joy? Let you eat cake, I say!

This is obnoxious. Sorry.

So last night's Fressenwagen was fantastic. Let's go over why, point by point.

1. Great restaurant pick: Gazala's, Upper West Side

Credit goes completely to Mike F. and Karen A. for this one, who'd been to Gazala Place in Hell's Kitchen before. Gazala's, opened a few months ago across from the Museum of Natural History, aka My Home Away From Home, and is a larger take on Gazala Place.

Gazala's is in a terrific, downtown-ish space with brick walls, high ceilings, nicely spaced tables, comfortable banquettes and pretty, non-fluorescent lighting (as you can see, I'm still recuperating from last year's Bukharan experience).

b) Atmosphere was perfect, but also, the Druze cuisine was unusual. It's a tweak on more conventional Middle Eastern fare, with a crepey-thin bread called sagg instead of pita used to scoop up the delicious hummus etc. I'll go into more food detail later, but the share-and-share-alike platters made our family-ish style dining experience incredibly easy, with people able to come and go according to their schedules.

c) The meal was also comparatively easy on the wallet. The BYOB factor ($5 corkage...which should really be $3 if it's a screwtop, but that's just my opinion) helped, as always, but for $35 each, no one walked away hungry. Oy, what a relief!

2. Great size of group/great group!

Wow...what a difference having only 13 people there makes! Don't get me wrong, the big Wagens can be fun, but this size was fantastic for conversation, getting to know people and keeping the Fressenwagen Driver sort of sane. I have a whole new attitude, people. I can't stress out anymore about whether you're coming, you're not coming, you're not sure if you feel up to it, you're not sure if you have a better plan, etc. etc. I just need a vague idea of how many are coming and we'll improvise from there. So I'm not sure if it was these particular people, or the fact that it was a Tuesday night or what, but that was a genuinely enjoyable experience, even for the Driver (fine, maybe that was also in part because I'm still in that dopey I-love-my-new-husband-so-much phase, which hopefully will last until there are no more humans. As I keep telling him, he's the best husband I've ever had - and I don't say that to everyone).

The food, the food. I'm getting there. (I mean, look how unfunny I am now that I'm happy. It's annoying, even to me.) "Gazala's Platters" to start. I thought the Labanee (labne) was especially good, with the perfect amount of tartness and spice. Also delicious = the harif-y red substance no one knew how to identify with a real kick to it.

Fatoush salad was somewhat disappointing if you've ever had the far-superior fatoush from Tanoreen (ah, Tanoreen!). I can't speak to the other chicken/meat dishes (I welcome comments) but I will say that the grilled fish we ordered was unbelievably delicious, sort of unexpectedly so. I never expect too much from the whole grilled fish, truthfully. But this one had the 'wow' factor of a mouth-puckering vinegar taste, buttressed by the sweetness of the fish and the sides. Absolutely terrific.

Desserts erred on the side of diabetic-death-inducing. The kenafi, shredded dough with homemade sweet cheese, pistachio and honey, takes an extra 20 min to make. Let it be known that said kenafi was sweet. Really sweet. Like, sweeter than panda bears kissing unicorns as they rode on rainbows through a shower of dew. Too much? Yeah, I thought so, but could see where, if you tempered it with semi-bitter coffee, it could go down okay.

Venue suggestions, comments on the experience, etc. more than welcome. See you all in 2011 -- may it be a kenafi-sweet, happy and healthy goyische new year for all of you!

Once upon a time (specifically in May of 2009), an intrepid group of eight brave souls boarded a soiled Honda Pilot and set out for Bay Ridge.

Ah, whatever. I don't have the patience to infuse this with drama or to attempt to craft some sort of macro-narrative. Last May was what would become the first Fressenwagen excursion, and said excursion was to a small storefront, family-owned BYOB for Palestinian/Middle Eastern food, otherwise known as Tanoreen. At the time, the restaurant was spartan, at best. Food was kept in overly-lit deli-esque shelves. The furniture made Ikea look fancy. The yellowy lighting was flattering to no carbon-based individual. I went there four times, and each time found that I was sitting at one of the few English-speaking tables in the place. And the food was transcendently delicious each time.

In so many ways, oh, what a difference a year makes. The Fressenwagen has taken on unwieldy, near-bulbous proportions -- we probably wouldn't even fit in one of those bachelorette-party-Humvees (with or without the drunk sorority chicks hanging out of the sunroof). We've picked venues that months later get accolades from mainstream media (see under: Motorino Williamsburg outing, July '09). And, I'm sad to say, my camp counselor organizational mojo is slowing down. This is not necessarily the death knell of the 'wagen...but perhaps the death rattle?

For the time being, let's avoid discussions like that. Much more importantly, over the past year, Tanoreen has hit the big time. With shout-outs from the New York Times, things have changed, exemplified by the "valet parking" sign outside the restaurant. They've switched to a bigger location with (gasp) a semblance of decor. They have a liquor license and a bar. They even have sassily-named beverages involving Nazareth and rosewater. I didn't try the bathroom, but I'm willing to bet that, unlike 100% of my past Tanoreen experiences, it is well-equipped with toilet paper and the toilets probably even flush.

But as with every cliche, one can find truth in its converse: that is, in many other ways, the more things change, the more they stay the same. I'm speaking of the most important way possible: The food retained its awesomeness in absolutely every way, from its reasonable prices to its sheer deliciousness. Another retained feature: what, for lack of a better word, I'll call haimischeness.

"I know you," Jumana, daughter of the owner, said to me as I checked in for our reservation.

"I don't think so," I replied. I mean, I'm used to the whole paparazzi thing, but come on.

"You've been here before," she said. "I remember you! You came here few late nights with big groups of people on the weekend, everybody always smiling and laughing and having a good time."

Um, yeah, that would be me. I'm not sure I'd be remembered if I started my semi-frequent diner status now, truthfully -- the crowd eating (as well as serving) is much more diverse than that of last year, and there's a much higher rate of turnover. I mean, I *am* unforgettable, but still.

Let's go into the food. Each time I'd eaten at Tanoreen, I'd always been amazed by how I'd remember that a particular dish was good -- the fatoush salad with feta, for example, or the vegetarian kibbe -- but not the exact flavors, or how nuanced each one was. The thing with Tanoreen is that each first bite of every dish is overwhelming, but wonderfully so. Each first bite (and every bite thereafter, for that matter) is a perfect combination of unexpected flavors -- whether sumac, molasses, pomegranates -- all come to life on the tongue. Everything served, even the simplest things, are nuanced and intense.

Each bite of almost everything we ate this trip -- the fatoush, the roasted vegetables, the branzino, and, according to others, the lamb -- was so vibrant that I, for one, sort of felt like the rest of my food-eating life has been ill-spent. Why have I spent my days until now eating on a sort of culinary cruise-control? Why would anyone do that when they can come here, where flavors jump out at you in an almost-Avatar-like blur of beauty and surprise?

Each time I eat at Tanoreen, it reminds me how food can be pageantry or food can be an exciting adventure. New York offers so many opportunities at both. The new Tanoreen makes deferential gestures to showmanship, but at the end of the day and at its heart, it's still a delicious adventure. Perhaps Fressenwagen is as well. Time will tell.

The Jackson Fifteen

I'm feeling a bit forlorn as I write this post. Why is that, you may ask? Well, dear reader, it's because of you. No, not you. Yeah...actually, yeah, I'm talking to YOU. But more on that later.

Getting to the Jackson Diner is easy as one, two, three, as the Jackson Five would have it: a hop, skip and a jump on the R train. I know you miss my (filthy) vehicle, but it was so happily (parallel!) parked that I couldn't bear to move it from its happy spot.

I realize we had no celebrity cameos this time around (not necessarily a bad thing, mind you), but our small-scale showing was semi-irritating to me and I want to address it. Not all of you may know about my feelings on football. Diplomatically and without profanity, I generally put football in the same category as 'gangrenous limb removal' - to be avoided if possible. And not only that, but I'm onto you people: I know the game was over by the time we had dinner.

The reason it bothers me is as follows. We couldn't go to another place we were going to go because 30 of you said you were coming, and the place I wanted to go said we couldn't have a reservation for more than 15 people. Fine, I said, we'll go to the 15 person place another time, and made the Jackson Diner reservation. But then, only 14 of you showed up...meaning we could have gone to the other place. Those who let me know earlier in the day that you weren't able to come, no worries. Those who didn't...well...

Let me put it this way. I don't want to nag you, honey. I love you! And I don't like the way I sound when I nag. I sound like my hair is in curlers, I'm in a pink bathrobe, I've got that eye cream you hate all over my face and I'm tapping my foot saying, "Where WERE you?" when you flick on the kitchen light just before midnight. My voice is edging upwards in the smallest bit of a whine, which you totally hear and you shudder with involuntary revulsion and that upsets me all the more. Then you say, "I had to work late, sweetie, I'm sorry." But I can totally smell the beer on your breath.

Baby, I don't want that to be us! We're better than that!

Oh my God, slap me across the face. Phew. Yeah, okay. I'm better now.

But you get the drift. Enough said. Perhaps (definitely) more than enough. Let's move on.

So anyway, don't worry about not showing up, because we ordered enough for all of you (how's THAT for guilt-inducing?). And now some members of our party have refrigerators fairly bursting with saag paneer and chicken tikka masala as a result of my largesse with their cash.

The food was abundantly delicious. We'd requested a medium level of spice (deeming 'mild' to be the Indian food equivalent of 'wuss,' and 'hot' to mean 'mistake'), and the food delivered quite nicely. At least two of us thought that the appetizers -- samosa chat and chat papri, in particular -- were on a level well above the main dishes, which were not quite as transcendent as that which had preceded them. Or it may have been, of course, that our senses were simply dulled by the ingestion of way too many Kingfishers (which would not have transpired on my part if I had been driving). I will say that the cheese in the saag paneer was unusually good. Mm. Chewy.

Looking at the menu now, despite having ordered ample amounts of food, we missed out on a lot. Then again, looking at the menu, I once again feel rather full. In the interest of culinary exploration, perhaps we should have ordered dessert. In the greater interest of being able to actually get home, we did not.

See you crazy kids soon.

Poetry: the stuff of which the dinner at Original Stamatis was made. If you missed this particular Fressenwagen, well, sucks for you. That would be a snooze/lose kind of situation right there.

I'm going to totally admit it: I'm basically phoning this blog entry in. I've had a hell of a week and am leaving for some fun in the sun relaxation in a few minutes, leaving you lovely people to find your way through the mushy gray snow by the side of the road. Not to rub it in. Back to the task at hand.

Reasons the dinner was great, no particular order:

1. I Didn't Drive.

Now look...you know how I love to drive. And I do. I like the sense of control (shocking!). And when I drive, that sense of control is so inextricably interwoven with the exciting element of danger (as anyone in the carpool for the Bukharan place can attest). But the Blizzard of '09 (you think there's going to be another one in the next week?...famous last words) made the prospect of trying to find on-street parking in Queens even less appealing than it had been beforehand. The subway ride was direct, quick and painless. Plus at least one (charming, and handsome, albeit new) person had told me that the F-wagen was in need of at least one intimate rendezvous with a Dustbuster before it would be passenger-ready (said person apparently has higher sanitary standards than the usual crew: who will bend first?). All these factors combined into the perfect storm: an event where I did not have to worry about picking people up who 'run late', and an event where I let control go to the winds. I also forfeited menu ordering and check-calculation responsibilities (and thank our local clergy for performing that service). I'm no lame duck here, by the way -- I'm still in charge, people (insert sound effect of cracking of whip). But I've got to say, it was kind of nice to kick back, relax, pour the wine and see where things went.

2. The Experience Rendered Everyone Incapable Of Substantive Commentary On The Food.

Which is weird, right? Since we're supposed to be GOING FOR THE FOOD, people. Remember?? Sigh. So I only got a few quotes on the food involved in the experience. I'm not freaking Rumpelstiltskin here: I can't knit gold out of straw or whatever the heck that guy did. I list the quotes below. - "That was the best octopus I've ever had in my life." - a non-kosher (albeit, apparently, circumsized) diner. - "Please pass the wine. Again." - Me. - "I always thought it was branzino and not branzini."- kosher poor speller. - "Excellent tzatziki and great bread." -that's what I thought she said but her mouth was full of tzatziki and bread at the time so it was kind of unintelligible. -"I'm still tasting the garlic," one eater said the day after. "Not necessarily in a good way. Is anyone else feeling sick?" I didn't bother to pass that last one on to all of you guys. I'll assume the answer was 'no.'

3. The Group Was...Unusual.

Why? What made the group unusual? Well, let's start by the fact that this was our biggest F-wagen event yet: over thirty people. Two tremendous tables. "It was little like a wedding," one regular said...and he didn't necessarily mean it in a good way (though I'm going to put it out there right now that if there is a Fressenwagen wedding and I'm not invited, there's going to be hell to pay). I do feel the more the merrier...hence why invitations were extended and accepted up to the very last moment.

I'd like some feedback on the size of the group. Many found it a lot of fun. Others found it utterly overwhelming. Suggestions for how to make this a better experience are actively solicited. One new member of the group says he may be able to facilitate packages for true outer borough dining experiences, to the tune of...other cities. Interesting. Again, comments sought. I feel we have miles to go before we sleep/cover all the great restaurant turf locally. Actively soliciting suggestions for January (which I can take or disregard as I see fit).

This truly was an exceptional Fressenwagen. I think we officially crossed a line with this one when I received an e-mail from a friend of a friend saying, "I hear you organize these amazing outer borough dinner parties at out of the way, good restaurants. How do I buy a ticket?" Wheels...turning...

Okay, I can't be nonchalant about it any longer. I mean, who am I kidding? I was totally, totally excited for this Fressenwagen of all Fressenwagens, because of our special guest! And I would be remiss if I didn't mention it.

So let's give it up for...the Fressenwagen Driver's Sister, people!!! (multiple exclamation points!!!!!) God, I LOVE that girl. She came, she ate, she interrogated, she laughed. I daresay the girl even enjoyed herself. Stars: they're just like us!!

Until, that is, she decided to head out on the early side to limit the extortion from the babysitter. I quote from the transcript of an interview with her: "We went to the subway platform and saw a man dressed as a female clown with hair sticking straight up, enormous high heels and gold facepaint in stripes." (Immediately, I wondered, was this someone I dated in 2007? No, he's far away by now...hmm.) She continued: "He was muttering to himself as he paid for his MetroCard."

"And THAT is why I never come to Queens," my outer-borough-phobic sister concluded. "Who knew 'Queens' was not only a name, but a literal thing?"

Happy end of 2009 to all of you, and happy 2010. May it be a year which brings you only happiness, health, joy and good food with old and new friends and loves.

Fluorescent Lighting, Hearts on a Plate, and Thou

Getting there was not half the fun. Nor, necessarily, was getting back, although the company in the disconcertingly-clean Fressenwagen was stellar. But our evening in Rego Park at Cheburechnaya was delicious, cheap and carnivorous.

Let's not go into why I showed up, with my carload of Fressers, twenty minutes late for my own proverbial party. "Don't focus on entertaining the passengers," one of my grateful-to-be-alive riders said as we entered the restaurant, dispensing a bit of unsolicited advice for my future driving. "Just focus on the road." But here's the thing -- I'm really much better at entertaining the passengers. I think we can all agree on that now.

Appropriately enough, this trip entailed the highest number of vehicles going to a Fressenwagen event so far: a culinary caravan, if you will, down the Silk Road of the -stans. Not sure what drew people to the place from the Fressenwagen point of view, though I was delighted to have a great group of 25. Bukharan food: it's interesting, sure, but not on many people's gotta-have lists. Kosher, yeah, for some of us it rocks, but for others, meh. But wait...fluorescent lighting that buzzes from overhead, and flat-screen televisions hanging from the ceiling showing a random computer desktop, with Britney Spears' song "Three" piped in from speakers surrounding a dormant disco ball? Oh, yeah: now I see the appeal.

You needed a minyan to eat at this place: virtually no tables had less than ten occupants in the restaurant. The other tables were mostly multi-generational. Hey, we have East Siders AND West Siders. Rock the casbah.

Those who rose to the challenge of group ordering of appetizers in my absence (namely one Fressenwagen virgin) did a stupendous job. Where there is no woman and a woman is needed, strive to be that woman. Or something like that. The cheburekis, like bourekas on some supersize-it program, were filled with either meat or pumpkin and were completely delicious. 250 calories for half (stupid NYC law). Good babaganoush. The bread was hot, clearly freshly baked and phenomenal, like big steroidal bialys. There were some salad things too, but let's be honest: no one goes to this place for the salad.

I'm going to just come right out and say it: I was jazzed up about the testicles. Yeah, go ahead, read into that one all you want. Look, it's rare for a kosher chica like me to have the opportunity to indulge in experimental eating. So when the opportunity arises, I like to take it (actually, on second thought, please do me a favor and don't read into any of this). So, in ordering, I was excited to say to the waitress, "...and one order of lamb testicles, please." I envisioned tiny little balls of meat (get it?), obviously in pairs, that would give me a most-likely-chewy, unique and culturally-adventurous dining experience.

"We're out of testicles," the waitress said, with what one might contend was a somewhat gruff -- perhaps overly testosterone-inflected? Just sayin'. -- voice.

"Seriously?"

She nodded.

There was no indication given (or requested, for that matter) as to whether the demand for testicles that evening had been so unpredictably high that the supply couldn't live up...or whether she thought our table of neophytes wasn't ballsy enough (okay, I'll stop) to handle it. The Fressenwagen was much more estrogen-heavy than usual this trip, for some reason, so perhaps she found the gender implications of our choice troubling.

After quick consultation, the people-inclined-to-try-something-new-and-somewhat-gross-sounding opted to go for lamb heart instead. Now, as many of you know, I have an internal karaoke machine. I couldn't stop singing to myself: "Piece Of My Heart," Janis Joplin ("TAKE IT!"); "You Give Love A Bad Name," Bon Jovi; "I Left My Heart In San Francisco," Tony Bennett (rather than Frank, oddly), and, of course, "These Dreams," by (who else?) Heart.

All this without Google. The mind reels, nu? I mean, look at all this space on my internal hard-drive being taken up by crap like this. It could be used for so many other, more worthwhile things, like remembering the names of my kids' interchangeable, ephemeral little friends. (I just call them all, male or female, "Morgan.")

Eventually, the plate of "heart" arrived. Disappointingly, it neither had an arrow through it nor was it pulsing with rapidly dissipating vigor like that one in Temple of Doom. It looked a lot like pieces of steak. And it tasted a lot like pieces of steak. The lesson: there's no point in putting your heart on a plate and serving it up to someone...because it just tastes like steak, it's totally gratuitous and it's kind of gross to think about. Maybe that's not the lesson. Anyway. Again, moving on.

Green rice pilaf: rice pilaf like the kind you get out of those Near East boxes, but inexplicably green and filled with tasty, insanely-salty meat, as though someone wondered, "What if we take rice, make it green...and then throw in some beef jerky?" I wasn't a fan of the dolmas, meat-filled grape leaves, but other people seemed to like 'em.

Shishkabob is apparently a specialty. Who doesn't like a meal where tons of stuff shows up on spikes? People thought the quail was better for novelty value than taste, which was described as "gamey." You know, like Battleship or Connect Four. The four quails on a spike did look like they were all coming out with their hands up...sort of sad and amusing at the same time ("You sunk my Battleship!"). A lot of people also enjoyed the "lulya kabab." Lulya, for those who don't know, is apparently what happens when beef and lamb fall into a blender.

The evening was marked by prices that bordered on ridiculous -- $3.50 for a platter of shishkabob? -- and was further cheap-ified by my erroneous impression that the place was BYOB. So there we were, living it up with our own alcohol in plain view. Classy. Yet no one spoke to us about it. I think we were so brazen about it that they must have thought we had links to criminals. $17 per person, apparently including a hefty 30% tip. I mean, that's serious not-knowing-the-value-of-a-dollar.

The drive back was pleasant for the most part, despite some mentions of don't-go-there topics like excessive exclamation points!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!, Jonathan Safran Foer (shudder) and my driving ability. It was pleasant until I dropped off the Fressenwagen's final passenger and said, hopefully not audibly, "Come on, old girl, let's go home," turned the key in the ignition, at which point -- nothing happened.

Thank the Lord for my final passenger, my knight-ess in shining armor, who rather than go to sleep, opted to chill out on the street with me as we waited for the AAA truck that never came and hailed cabs in the hope that one would give me a battery boost. At last, one cab stopped. No, he responded, he did not have jumper cables. He then instructed me that any cab driver (other than him, apparently) would most likely have them.

"Just don't ask some immigrant," he gave me the friendly racist heads-up. Thanks, Mr. Native American. Oh, I'm sorry... since you're clearly NOT actually Native American, I'm pretty damn sure your family's immigrants too, ace. Put that in your Thanksgiving pot pie.

"Why don't YOU have jumper cables?" Mr. Open-minded Taxi Driver asked me, continuing our friendly discourse. I smiled, resisting the urge to reply, "Not to feed into your bigoted worldview, but I'm a pretty privileged Jewish girl from suburban New Jersey. Until tonight, I'd have thought a jumper cable was some sort of oblique reference to an English brand of sweater." Conversation over, he sped off into the night.

Thankfully, My Heroine saved the day by finding a taxi driver (who for the record, clearly was, as we all are, an immigrant) who had jumper cables and, for the slight fee of $20, would be happy to help a damsel in distress. (After telling this story to one passenger of the Fressenwagen, he said that he only charges $15 when he extorts from stranded beautiful women. Very well, passenger: you'll be invited back. Flattery will get you everywhere.)

Morals of the evening's story:

Kindness is never free.

Don't put your heart on a plate. Or Lambchop's.

and, finally, the one we all knew but never put into words...

You just don't need testicles in order to have a good time.