Behold, the Power of Sausage

I went to my mom's for Christmas, and because we are Polish, there is never a question that we will have kielbasa for dinner at some point during the stretch of luxuriant meals. We spend several weeks discussing what to eat when, what side dishes to make, where to pick up the best and freshest foodstuffs.

When it comes to kielbasa, there is only one place to go in Baltimore: Ostrowski's. And that is the first place we went after my mom picked me up from the airport. It's in a narrow-streeted section of the city called Fells Point, and when we pulled up, there were no parking spots to be found. My mom double-parked, and I sat in the car while she went in so I could move it if necessary.

At first, I was nervous. This was not my town; some of the people walking by and chatting on their stoops looked like stevedores who wouldn't think twice about roughing up outsiders. Then, one by one, other cars pulled up behind and in front of our car. Every driver did the same thing: double parked, put their flashers on and went into Ostrowski's. I relaxed and started rummaging for reading material and CDs.

Then my mom called from inside the shop to say it would be another 15 minutes or so because they were just loading up the sausage stuffing machine. Apparently the meat delivery had been late because of the storms, and the fresh kielbasa was going to be extra-fresh. By this time, the line of people was out the door and two houses long, and the line of double-parked cars covered most of the block.

My mom waited half an hour for the sausage we ate on Christmas Eve, and I'm here to tell you, it was worth every minute of that wait.

McDonald's in French is "McDo"

This morning a news item about the recession hitting McDonald's caught my eye. I'm sure the piece is meant for those who indulge in the daily ritual of sniffing after signs of economic recovery and/or further deterioration, but I am not one of those. My only thought on skimming the article was "Right about now, someone at Mickey D's HQ is saying, 'Thank God for the French.' "

After successfully battling beaucoup de resistance from labor interests, aesthetes and farmers, McDonald's ("McDo" en Francais) has 1,000 locations in France. If memory serves, France is roughly the size of Texas -- which, it seems, had 1,041 restaurants back in 2004. But those numbers only tell part of the story -- according to this article, the Louvre location is the most profitable in the world. Also, the French spend more per visit than Americans and linger over their meals, just as they would in a bistro.

But how did this seemingly incongruous thing come to pass? The short answer appears to be marketing. Le Big Mac knew that in order to win the hearts and minds of the French, they would have to placate the country's protest-loving farmers, lest they use mountains of potatoes to block the entrances of touts les McDo's. This article details the story of McDonald's in France nicely, and the most telling details, I think, are that 1) the man largely responsible for the success of McDo in France is in fact French, and 2) since 2001, McDonald's has had a large display at the weeklong Salon d'Agriculture, an event meant to showcase the people and products of French farms. McDonald's mission there was not to pass out samples of frites, but to tell people that 75% of the produce used in French McDonald's restaurants comes from France.

Marketing-wise, this was brilliant not only because of its visceral appeal to the pride of the general populace, but because it was a pointed message to French farmers, who at the time rabidly, publicly supported a protester who'd vandalized a McDo in 1999. They'd been enjoying the economic benefits of selling their crops to McDo's while criticizing them. And now everyone who happened by the McDo booth at the Salon d'Agriculture would know the farmers been biting the hand that bought their food.

Zut alors! Or as we say here in the U.S., D'oh!

Apples, almonds and philosophy

It has been raining here, on and off, mostly a slow, soaking rain that makes most people crabby, and makes me think of Michigan, where I was born and where I went to college.

On Monday, claustrophobic from the rain and antsy from a grinding morning at my desk, I decided to run errands at lunch, rain be damned. My lunch that day was a salad -- delicious, but not road-friendly -- so I grabbed my coat, keys and an apple, and headed out.

In the car, the apple proved delicious, but not enough to keep my stomach happy, so I rummaged in the door pocket, where I found a baggie of almonds and raisins. As I started in on these, it occured to me that this was exactly the kind of lunch Henryk Skolimowski would have served me.

Henryk was the paramour of my work-study job boss, Joan, a kind, funny, soulful woman who paid me the maximum allowed by the university for my clerical position. Her professor beau could not type all that well, and she told me that if I wanted to, I could work for him on the weekends, essentially taking dictation into a computer. She also mentioned that he would feed me, and this being college, that appealed to me immensely.

On my first day, once we had worked for a few hours, me typing furiously and occasionally supplying the right word for something, Henryk announced that we would stop for some food and tea. We trundled downstairs and he brought out apples, cheese, bread, nuts and dried fruit.

I'd look forward to this kind of simple meal for as along as I worked for him, but it wasn't just the food I liked. We'd sit at a small table near a window in the snug kitchen, munching and sipping and talking, sometimes about his wartime childhood in Warwaw, sometimes about current events, sometimes about not much at all.

Looking back, and looking at the man's Wikipedia entry, I'm surprised that I wasn't intimidated by this man's intellect; he was a profssor of philosophy, in his late 50s and writing about really weighty stuff involving UNESCO. As far as I can figure out, I felt comfortable with him because he was Polish, as I am, and even though I had never been to Poland at that point, we had enough common cultural ground that he seemed more like an uncle than an employer.

The last I knew, Henryk and Joan were married and splitting their time between Poland and the U.S. I hope to see them again someday, and in the meantime, I'll think of them whenever I have a simple lunch on a rainy day.

Photopost: Hare Krishna Lunch

A while back I wrote about the mysterious van that shows up during lunchtime, always at a particular spot outside a certain office building downtown. It's from Govinda's, a vegetarian Indian buffet place run by the Hare Krishnas, and while I find the atmosphere at the restaurant a little culty, I do occasionally order a delicious, filling lunch from the van (via e-mail, of course).

So below we have the full lunch, which is $8 (it's $6 without the yogurt and dessert). Clockwise from the bottom: rice with an icky pickle on it, two curries, a flatbread (kulcha, I think), dal, halava for dessert, and yogurt.

Photopost: South City Grocery Store

I used to live in the area of South St. Louis commonly known as "Little Bosnia," in a house that was built in the early '20s. When I moved in, in 1999, the neighborhood was a mix of families that had been there forever, entry-level homeowners like me, and lots and lots of Bosnian, African and South American immigrants.

One of the wonderful consequences of that population mix was a plethora of international food items in the most affordable grocery store. It started out as a single shelf of unroasted coffee and tea cakes, way back in the dairy section. Soon there was a stand of freshly baked Bosnian bread nearby. These days, it's a huge section of its own, with juices, preserved vegetables, dessert mixes and prayer candles.

I was there the other day, doing research for a blog post for work, and couldn't resist the opportunity to take photos of all that awesome stuff. I'm pretty sure several old ladies thought I was nuts, which made me laugh, and I'm sure my giggling cemented their impression of my mental imbalance.

Enjoy.

Polish Pride: Mustard Edition

Yesterday, having done battle at Soulard Farmers Market, I stopped by a grocery store because I had forgotten to buy apples, and I was not up for a second round of battle with that unending knot of slow-moving people. There were also a few items I needed that cannot be found at the farmer's market: dryer sheets, Nutella, and mustard.

At the store, I was pleasantly surprised to spot a mustard with a Polish name on it: Kosciusko. I had no idea who this guy was, but I recognized the name as Polish, and that was good enough for me. My train of thought ran this way: "Wow, mustard made by a Polish guy. I'm Polish, and I like Polish things. I bet this Polish mustard is fabulously delicious."



This morning, when I turned the little plastic barrel around, expecting to find that it had been made in Detroit's Polishtown (Hamtramck) or perhaps imported directly from Poland, I learned that it had been made by Plochman's, a company founded by a German emigre and originally based in Chicago. As best I can figure out from their website, they started making it in the mid-1990s.

So now I'm questioning my purchase logic. Was it really Polish pride that made me buy that mustard? The lure of the familiar? The more I think about it, the more ridiculous it becomes: I am not a fresh-from-Poland emigre desperate for the flavors of home. I am the great-granddaughter of an immigrant who has been to Poland exactly once -- and spoke the language so badly that I ordered, with great confidence, a mountain of pierogi.

That Kosciusko guy, by the way? Not a mustard-maker, not involved in any sort of food-related industry. He was an 18th-century military commander in his native Poland and the fledgling United States. Fortified Philadelphia in 1776, built a bunch of forts along the Canadian border, went home to defend Poland from the Russians in 1789. Didn't know a damn thing about mustard.

Those Germans, though, they know from mustard. I bet this German mustard is going to be fabulously delicious on my turkey sandwich.

Photopost: Parisian Chocolate Wrapper

In May, a friend went to Paris and kindly brought me back two kinds of chocolate. The dark niblets went straight into my snack drawer and were gone within the space of a week. The milk medallion with the Eiffel Tower on one side and the Arc de Triomphe on the other went into the enormous bag I carry back and forth to work and was promptly forgotten until Bastille Day rolled around this week.

Good thing, too, because had I eaten it right away, I might have been so eager to get at the chocolate that I wouldn't have noticed how amazing the foil packaging is. Enjoy, mes amis!

A Love Story, Starring Goat Cheese

"If you'd feel comfortable, you could just send us a check."

That might be all that's needed to convey the adoration I feel for the extraordinarily nice lady who sold me the one of the best chunks of cheese I've had in the U.S. But there is a bit more to the story.

Friday was a day off for me, thanks to the 4th of July holiday weekend, and I took the opportunity to reestablish the farmers market habit I'd let slide yet again. The parking gods bestowed a meter-free spot upon me, and I made my way to the stalls, armed with a 20 dollar bill.

Taters, maters, cukes and zukes, check. Peaches look nice, great, I'll take two. Sure, may as well pick up a pint of blueberries for a buck. Might as well wander the other leg, see what's going on there, see how many people I can spot drinking beer at 10 in the morning (three, maybe four).

Halfway down the northeast leg of the "H" that forms the market, there stood a lady dressed in a long-sleeved, flower print dress and apron, a bit of black lace covering her bun. But it was the incongruity of the latex foodservice gloves that stopped me in my tracks.

She smiled brightly and said, "Would you care for a sample?"

I set down my bags. "Yes, absolutely."

She took me through the options, and I decided on the Fleur de la Vallee (literally, "flower of the valley," a hard aged cheese). It was magnificent. Nutty, salty, amazing texture, and I immediately knew I had to have some to take home. When I reached for my cash, though, I realized I didn't have enough left; this is not cheap supermarket-brand cheese.

"We take credit cards and checks, too."

"Ah great, here's a card."

That's when she discovered the wireless card machine wasn't working. It just kept saying it was dialing. She went out from under the iron awning, saying it sometimes interfered with the transmission.

She kept trying, apologizing intermittently as she excused herself to offer samples and answer questions. I was perfectly happy to watch the river of passersby as I waited -- it's half the reason I go to that particular market. We chatted a bit about the cheese, and I realized as I was standing there that this was the Amish goat cheese I'd read about recently and had been wanting to try.

Finally, she fixed her kind eyes on mine, uttered the words at the beginning of this post, gave me a business card, and sent me on my way. I thanked her for trusting me as I put the hunk of cheese in my bag.

And now I feel compelled to urge you, dear readers: If you live in the St. Louis area, do yourself a favor and seek out Baetje Farms goat cheese. They're at Soulard Farmers Market every weekend, as well as other markets, wineries and at least one restaurant. Their motto is "Committed to quality from start to finish," and if you consider customer care as said finish, I can tell you that they are deeply true to their motto.

And now if you'll excuse me, I have a check and a thank-you card to write.

Double Turkish Delight

Earlier this week the candy stars aligned and we received two kinds of Turkish delight from two friends who had each recently been to Turkey. One is originally from there, and one went as a tourist.

It had been a while since I'd had the kind on the left. It has the consistency of gummy bears, and the flavors are only half what you'd expect: the green is mint, the red tastes of roses. The lemon is perfectly balanced between tart and sweet. The orange is like Brach's orange slices that have been working out and taking steroids.

The kind on the right was a such a revelation that I'm not sure Turkish delight is the right name for it. The texture was more like very chewy fudge, the dark one seemed to be made from dates, I could taste spices along the lines of cardamom, and they all had macadamia nuts. And because I am a coconut freak, the coconut coating made me very happy indeed.

In Turkey, the confection is called lokum, a word that may come from lokma in Turkish or luqūm, the Arabic plural of luqma, meaning "morsel" or "mouthful." It also may have been derived from the Ottoman rahat hulkum or Arabic raḥat al-ḥulqum , meaning "contentment of the throat."

That last theory makes the most sense to me -- my throat is definitely content after Turkish delight.

International Food Field Trip

As we headed out of the building, one of my fellow travelers said, “I can’t believe we’re really going!” I couldn’t, either – we’d been plotting a lunchtime field trip to Jay International Foods for at least a month. Besides me, there were three young coworkers, all guys, all creative and funny and adverturesome in their eating and cooking.

When you enter the store, you get a small idea of what it smells like to travel the world. Myriad unidentifiable scents form a semi-sour wall built on fresh-fish base notes; I’m always relieved when it fades, as stinkiness is not my favorite part of traveling.

There are at least a hundred kinds of jam: rosehip, plum, apricot. I picked up a jar of ginger preserve. They sstock more kinds of fish sauce than seem logical, tubs of spices for less than half the cost of a single small grocery-store bottle, enormous bags of rice and tins of oil that will last for years. In the frozen section, you can find squid, whole jack mackerel in two sizes, very cute flat fish of some sort, and the infamously stinky durian.

Part of the fun of going to any international food store is gawking at the packaging. We found a bottle of “Chee-zee” spread with a cheesy-looking kid on it, an ingredient list that included “lovely,” and many products that were clearly named but still unfathomable, such as “Beef Iron Wine.”

The dry goods are arranged by country, and because I lived in Japan for a few years, I tend to get nostalgic in that section. This time it was the mayonnaise that made me think of the adventures I had figuring out what to buy in Tokyo’s grocery stores. It was Kewpie brand, with its nonsequitur image of the ‘40s-era doll, in a bottle made of thin plastic that ensures you’ll get every drop out. I’m good on mayo, though, so I picked up a box of Vermont curry mix – this is Japanese-style curry, a block of trans fat and spices that you add to your meat and veg to make a viscous, sweet gravy. One of the guys picked up nori and wasabi, and ingredients for spring rolls.

Another guy needed tamarind paste, but the closest thing we could find was tamarind chutney. I asked a nearby Indian man whether it could be substituted for the paste. At first, he thought I just wanted him to get out of the way so I could get to the shelf beyond him, but when he realized I was asking him a question, he smiled broadly and attempted to answer it. Then he asked me to wait a moment, and called his wife over. She had been in the other aisle, and by the time she got to us, she seemed a little annoyed, said something vague, and gave me a head wag that I had trouble interpreting. My husband has told me many times that Indians hate to say no, and this particular wag seemed too vague for a “yes.”

Later on, still bothered by the Indian woman’s watery answer and the thought of a friend making Pad Thai with the wrong form of tamarind, I asked a store employee about the tamarind paste. “Aisle 17. Chinese and Thai.” Sure enough, there it was, blocks of it stacked up right across from the Indian section, where I had righteously expected it to be.

One of the guys, who had a Vietnamese friend growing up, bought a packet of sweets that were green, chewy, tasted like popcorn, and were filled with a sweet white bean paste. He handed us each one in the car on the way back, which prompted all kinds of commentary and discussion, capped off by a “Thanks, I think.”

We must have stayed for more than half an hour, but it felt too fast. Next time, I want to start earlier and have a meal while we’re out.

Riffing on International Food

Breakfast during a ski trip in Japan. Yes, that's a hot dog, but isn't it pretty?

This morning, as I was thinking of a topic to post about, I realized this is the last day I'll see a good friend before she goes to Paris for a week. So naturally, my thoughts turned to food; specifically, the glories of international foods eaten in their home environment. Because seriously, my friends, you have not had a croissant until you've had one in Paris. I know that sounds like food snobbery, and maybe it is, but I'm sorry, it's true.

I've had pierogi in Krakow, dosas in India, and yes, croissants in Paris. But the foods I keep coming back to and getting nostalgic for are Japanese.

Every convenience store in Tokyo, where I lived for a year and a half, had onigiri -- triangular wads of rice stuffed with salmon, or beans, or tuna. They were delicious, simple, filling and blessedly cheap. In summer, they had pre-packaged cold soba -- buckwheat noodles with a sweet, salty soy-based sauce, and a tiny compartment of paper-thin green onions.

Naturally, there is a class of bar food. Yakitori -- literally, grilled chicken, a/k/a chicken on a stick -- was a favorite, as was its cousin, octopus on a stick. Seriously, folks, when you're 22 and you've had a few giant beers after teaching English for nine hours and you've missed the last train, nothing hits the spot quite like grilled octopus smothered in teriyaki sauce.

Finally, the ubiquious sushi; it's in convenience stores, in "kaiten" joints where it goes by on conveyor belts and they tot up your bill based on the plates stacked in front of you,
and at proper sushi restaurants. Someone in the gaijin house where I lived had identified a half-off night at a sushi restaurant we could walk to, and I had some of the best raw fish of my life there. I can't recall what I had -- probably lots of tuna -- but I remember how much I loved eating what the locals were eating, where they were eating it. This was also my first exposure to banana leaves as plates, and using my hands to eat in public.

And now I'm so hungry for sushi that I'm plotting a new career as an international food writer.

Lunch, Pakistani-Afghani Style

Yesterday I learned that the spices you eat can darken or lighten your skin.

Allow me to explain. I went to lunch with an adventurous friend who was up for trying an Afghani place I hadn’t been to for at least a year. The owner, an exceedingly tall guy whose parentage is half-Pakistani, half-Afghani, was an intermittent presence at our table. He helpfully suggested various dishes (take his advice as I did and get the lamb biryani, it’s fabulous) and playfully cajoled us into trying their special yogurt sauce. It’s ordinarily just for the staff, but after tasting it, I did my best to playfully cajole him into adding it to the menu.

I asked about the spice mix on the kebobs, and he started telling me about the two options (one just tasty, one fiery and tasty) but then took a sharp left turn into the topic of skin-darkening spices. He listed off countries with spicy food (Pakistan, India) that have darker-skinned people and countries with less spicy food (Afghanistan, most notably) that have lighter-skinned people. He said a lot of people don’t realize the connection, but it’s true.

Then we moved on to the topic of the cheesecake that he’d put together that we had to try. When I asked if he could take our order, he put in a final plug for the cheesecake and said he’d send the waitress over.

This morning when I Googled “skin-darkening spices” I only found links about how to lighten dark skin. When I Googled “light skin spices” I found the same kinds of links. This is not shocking, given the cultural value placed on light skin in many cultures, but it’s still sad. It also reminds me of when I asked someone, during our trip to India last year, whether the skin-lightening creams I saw everywhere actually work.

Her face definitely darkened when she said she’d tried them, but they don’t do anything.

Waiting for Dosa

About a month ago, in the basement of the Hindu temple, a man struck up a small conversation with me. This is unusual, but it’s also true that I don’t often initiate conversations, as A) I’m not terribly good at that anyway, and B) everyone’s usually eating, or waiting for food. Specifically, we’re waiting for dosas.

Dosas are enormous, thin, crispy, savory crepes, made from a batter of rice and very small beans called urad dal. The basic idea is this: you wash and soak the beans and rice for a few hours, grind them together with some water, and then let the mixture ferment for roughly 20 hours. This fermentation process is the key to producing the aforementioned crispiness.

Back to the gentleman who was talking to me: I had just gone through the shared-table ritual of asking, “Do you mind if I sit here?” and he had nodded his assent with a tilt of his head and a smile.

Him: I hope you will enjoy the food.

Me: I always do. It’s the best in town.

Him: Can you make Indian food?

Me: Some of it; simple things like dal, and dry curries.

This conversation got me thinking, not only about why he would ask me that particular question, but why I didn’t cook more Indian food. The dishes I had tried weren’t horrendously difficult, turned out well, and had built my confidence. Why was I resting on my Indian cooking laurels? What made me think something like, say, dosa would be beyond me?

I started searching for recipes, both at home and online. The ones at home all called for rice, which we happen to be very low on right now. But online, I found one calling for rice flour, which I have, so I decided to start with that, on Wednesday night. Thus last night was the night of dosa truth, and let me tell you, it was a bit harsh.

First of all, I don’t have the right pan – dosa pans are huge circular things, flat like crepe pans and curled up at the edges (I assume that’s to help with flipping). Second of all, I had no idea what heat level and amount of oil was best. Even though I was working with non-stick pans, parts of them were definitely not non-stick, and besides, as Mowgli helpfully informed me, oil is essential when cooking dosas.

My batter was also pudding-thick, and seemed too grainy; the recipe I used was not specific about how much water to add. I had used a food processor instead of the rice grinder that would be used in an Indian household, and suspected I hadn’t ground the batter long enough. I hauled the food processor back out, combined some of the batter and some water, let it whiz around for a few minutes, heated up the pan, and ladled a bit of batter in, spreading it around with the back of the ladle.

The question of when and how to flip the thing was vexing, so I abandoned all hope of getting it right the first time and used my memories of pancake-making as a guide. The top got dry and a bit bubbly, and there was some steam coming from underneath, which I had no idea how to interpret. Using a silicone spatula, I worked around the edges and flipped it, let the second side cook for a minute or so, and slid it onto a plate.

I took a small bite. It was undercooked, which I attributed to the batter still being too thick and not able to spread properly. I added more water. And still more. Sadly, a few dosas had to be abandoned. They crumpled when I tried to flip them and their gooey insides stuck together, making them into useless lumps and prompting Mowgli to offer the Indian cooking proverb “the first dosa always sticks.” This would have been reassuring, but I was well beyond the first dosa.



Turning up the heat and adding more oil seemed like good variables to play with, and indeed, that’s when the batter started cooperating. I achieved my goal of making enough dosas for dinner, roughly an hour and a half after I had started. They were only crispy on the edges, and they were not the delightfully thin variety that’s so fun to eat, but as Mowgli had reassured me, there is such a thing as thick dosa, so I’m not worried about that.

There’s some batter left from this batch, so I’m going to try more with it to see if it’s better the next day, like so many things are. I’ll keep you all posted on that, as well as future attempts.

Greek Yogurt Love

That's not a store shelf; that's my fridge.

I am not a paid endorser of the product above. That would be lovely, but for now, I am merely a freshly minted Greek yogurt addict. I'm not joking. On Wednesday night I bought 8 or 10 tubs of the stuff. A sliced banana in the honey-flavored variety pretty much sends me into raptures. I really can't risk running out, because not only is it amazingly delicious, it's way better for me than those Thin Mints in the freezer.

When we were in New York last month, my cousin introduced me to it, and soon thereafter, my yogurt life changed forever. Even the nonfat version is silky and creamy and rich-tasting, and because it's very high in protein (the cup above has 14 grams), it sticks with you for a good long while. It's also great in recipes; the tandoori chicken I made with it was fantastic, and I understand that it doesn't curdle during cooking like other yogurts do.

Fage (FA-yeh) has the widest distribution in the U.S., and is in fact opening a plant in Johnstown, NY, because their two-million-tubs-a-week plant in Greece can't keep up with demand. Stonyfield Farm has an organic brand called Oikos, and Chobani is another Greek product available in the U.S. If you're lucky enough to live near a Trader Joe's, they have a house brand of both conventional and organic varieties.

If you can't find any in the store, though, I have good news for you. The only equipment you need to make your own is some muslin or cheesecloth or a dish towel, and a seive, because the thing that makes Greek yogurt Greek is a distinct lack of liquid. That's it. No special culture, as I thought. No fancy milk (though some is traditionally made from sheep's milk).

So you can either strain some conventional yogurt, or you can make your own, which is a simple process. You heat some milk, cool it slightly, add a bit of yogurt, put in a warmish place, let it set, and then strain it. Here's the long version of the recipe. Bon appetit! (I'd say it in Greek, but I studied French...)

Lunchtime Walkabout

On Friday I made good on my promise to myself to stop paying ridiculous prices for mediocre produce, and went to Soulard Farmers Market on my lunch hour. It’s in one of the oldest sections of the city, a French-steeped enclave of three-story, Mansard-roofed, all-brick wonderment. For $10, I bought 10 pounds of potatoes, three pounds of Fuji apples, two pounds of sweet potatoes, two zucchini, seven bananas, a dozen brown eggs from chickens that don’t live in cages, and a beef stick.

Back in the car, enjoying my salty, meaty snack, I realized I’d only been away from the office for half an hour, and wasn’t ready to go back. There’s been some stress there lately, and I need my midday break more than ever. Also, Terry Gross was interviewing Leonard Cohen on the radio, and there was no way I wanted to miss that.

And that’s how I decided to go lunchtime walkabout. Be a tourist in my own town.

I pointed my car north on Broadway and started driving. Office buildings and freeway entrances quickly gave way to 18th-century warehouses with antiquated loading docks facing the street and company names painted on their brick flanks in massive block letters. There were a few “gentlemen’s clubs,” a motorcycle chop shop called “Biker’s Paradise,” a tattoo parlor, and many more warehouses. Then the brick buildings gave way to more modern structures, and I got bored and decided to turn west.

I spotted a beige-colored church and made my way toward it, doglegging to find a way over the highway between me and it. Holy Trinity, a German Catholic establishment dating to 1898, and still in great shape. I thought about going in, but felt more inclined to keep driving.

I spotted another church, and as I got nearer, I could see windows broken, including some in the huge rose window that is now only partially stained glass. The shutters of the belfry in disrepair, even some of the stone newel posts out front worn down to nubs from their original cone-shaped prettiness. But even with all that, church buses, a healthy building next door, signs of a community.

Another church, another meandering drive toward it. Plywood sheets over most of the places where stained glass used to be. The lettering on the sign out front indicating a soup kitchen, maybe. No buses, no real signs of life, German etched in stone and the year 1896.

And that’s when I started to cry. Not bawling, mind you, just weepy sadness, thinking about the people who built these places, the hope they must have had, the slow slide into decrepitude that must have led to the plywood, the death of countless communities all over this area of the city.

I was married in a church not far from these – St. Stanislaus Kostka, completed in 1880, built by Polish immigrants, and saved during the 1970s by a community of stubborn Polacks who poured their hearts into renovating the church and building a community center – with little help from the Archdiocese. They all live miles and miles away, and they come into the city every Sunday, and many other days, to celebrate Mass, hold Easter egg hunts and meetings, and plan for the future.

Why? How? So many churches in the area are dead – what made this one, and the first one I saw, different? Was it the collective temperament of the community? One charismatic leader? General histories are available online, but timelines and blurbs can’t possibly capture the alchemy that must have been necessary.

I knew I was near St. Stanislaus, but I wasn’t sure which direction to turn, and at any rate, my time was up. It was enough to know it was there, and feel grateful that it lived. I found myself going south on Jefferson, still a bit sad, but refreshed.

Big Apple Masala

Mowgli and I were recently in New York, visiting family and friends and wandering around the city. We started with half a day at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, where even the museum shop cashiers have accents, and overhearing a conversation in English was a rarity. Mowgli’s cousin, who had angelically picked us up from the airport the night before, was with us, as was my mom, who had angelically taken the train up from Baltimore the day after returning from a week in Los Angeles.

At the Empire State Building the next day, all the line attendants and salespeople asked us where we were from as we made our way past posters hawking a virtual helicopter IMAX tour of the city. I realize it’s a sales ploy, but we did have a fun chat with a guy from the Dominican Republic. I asked if he’d read “The Brief Wondrous Life of Oscar Wao” (he hadn’t) because I’d just finished it, and it was written by a Dominicano. I missed my book club meeting about it because of the trip, and was aching to discuss it, but alas, all I could do was recommend it.

Later that day, we met up with the cousin who accompanied us to the museum and took the commuter train home with him to Jersey City. After seeing his (very nice) home, we went over to another of Mowgli’s cousin’s to meet his new baby, who had had a big day. In the morning, his family (mom, dad, both sets of grandparents, and one great-grandmother) had performed his naming ceremony. His name was said (softly, I assume) into his ears, and then written in a dish of uncooked rice, and he was given something sweet for the first time. We admired the baby, enjoyed visiting with the family, and had some excellent food that had been prepared and brought in for the occasion.

We were fortunate to be staying with my cousin and her girlfriend in Murray Hill, which most locals refer to as Curry Hill, as there are at least three Indian restaurants per block, many of them Southern Indian. This cuisine is hard to come by where we live (most Indian restaurants in the U.S. serve Northern food), so the first decision of the day was where to walk for amazing Tamilian food – a far cry from committing to 20 minutes in the car for so-so idli.

One night after drinks with our best man and his wife, we ended up around the corner from the apartment at a greasy, brightly lit place full of cab drivers eating parathas with their hands. Mowgli ordered in Hindi, a language he doesn’t really speak, and was moderately successful – he was asked to repeat part of his order. But soon, we were tearing into parathas with our hands, too.

The next day, we journeyed back to Jersey to visit another cousin and her husband, parents and children. On the R train, an older Indian gentleman asked us for help finding the Rector Street stop, which is where we happened to be getting off. On the PATH train on the way back, an older lady from a South American country flashed three fingers at me twice. I thought she was signing “OK” so I signed “OK” back and gave her a thumbs-up for good measure. Mowgli was laughing the whole time – she wanted help finding the 33rd Street stop, so I went over to her with my map and helped her out.

Our last meal in the city was not Indian, but Ukranian (which is pretty much Polish). We took my cousin and her girlfriend out to thank them for their hospitality, and they returned the favor by taking us around the corner to an amazing Italian pastry shop where Frank Sinatra once dug into cannoli, and many of the customers were Asian. Welcome to New York.

Worth 7,000 Words

Right Back to Food

A variety of utensils surround an idli mold, which I do not yet know how to use. The spatula on the left, however, is great for sticky brownies, and the one on the right is fantastic for rice. I think the things on top and bottom are for gripping hot things such as idli molds.

Apologies in advance for making you hungry, dear readers. But just as a party always ends up in the kitchen, this blog, it seems, always comes back to food.

About six months ago, a coworker of mine alerted me to the daily presence of a white van outside an office building two blocks away from our building. It seemed to attract numerous South Asians, and so one day I stopped by to ask what was going on.

It turns out that a local vegetarian Indian restaurant sends its daily lunch menu via e-mail, takes orders via e-mail, and distributes the tasty bundles to diners from the aforementioned white van. It’s strictly cash-and-carry.

I might order their food once a month; it’s a bit spicy, but the Southern Indian menus are always a treat, as it’s hard to get good Tamilian food here. Receiving their e-mail menus, though, is a daily bright spot, and today I had a fun e-mail exchange with them.

Their consistently alliterative and enthusiastic menu alone is worth posting:

1. Lucious Lemon Rice
2. Curry 1: Marvelous Mutur Paneer!!!!!!!!
3. Curry 2: Awesome Alu (Dry)
4. Mahaparathas MMmmmmmmm
5. Tasty Toor Dhal
6. Dessert: Great Gulabjamans YYYYYYYYeah!
7. Yogurt for Yogis
8. Complimentary Pickle

But today, my friends, comes welcome news during these troubled times: they have lowered their prices due to cheaper gas and a better supplier. Eight bucks gets you every item listed above; you just subtract a dollar each if you don’t want yogurt or dessert.

I e-mailed them to ask how the system got started and they replied with this:
“Necessity is the Mother of invention. We needed to get this wonderful food to you- how else in this age? Try it today is GREAT! :-)”

So I wrote back:
“I promise to order next time you offer Tamilian food – it’s hard to get decent idli in this town, and yours are great. I’m still curious -- did a patron who works at XYZ Co. suggest the system?”

And they replied:
“Ok. No.”

I like to think the brevity of that last reply is due to the speed with which today’s orders were pouring in.

Amazing Food Masala

At the risk of appearing to be obsessed with food, I have another food post, inspired by something I saw at lunch today.

The weather’s been unseasonably warm, so I walked around for a bit and then, needing a dollar in order to participate in my office's lottery ticket pool, went into the snack shop at a downtown bank to break a twenty. Because truly, I'd feel silly if I missed out on being in the group that bought a winning $173 million dollar ticket.

So I bought myself a moderately healthy snack and a soda, and on my way out, I saw this:

One of the most American of foods: deep-fried pork skin. One of the most British of flavorings: salt & vinegar. A most unexpected and arresting masala. I stopped. I stared. No, I did not buy them. I’m not at all averse to the delights of pig fat, but eating fried skin is just not my thing.

Incidentally, the process by which packaged fried foods are flavored was developed by an Irish potato chip (crisp) company, Tayto, which does not credit itself with the innovation at their site.

But maybe they have no need to toot their own horn: Tayto is the generic term for crisps in Ireland, and their mascot, Mr. Tayto, has a Facebook page with 7,530 fans.

More fun with Pączki

Yesterday's post hopefully gave you an insight into the affection and passion Poles have for pączki. But since I probably did not adequately convey the contempt with which my people hold ersatz Polish food, I submit the following two items:

From an aunt, who stood in the rain for half an hour last year while waiting for fresh pączki in Hamtramck:
"Lots of fun conversation with strangers, and the custard filled are still the very, very best. Prune come in a close second for me followed by strawberry. You can only get the real thing in Hamtramck. The large grocery stores just make regular jelly rolls and try to fob them off as pączki. They chintz on the fat."

From a cousin, in an e-mail entitled "Stupid poser pączki":
"And of course our work cafeteria has pathetic powdered sugar covered oversized jelly donuts today that they're trying to pass off as pączkis. Lame."

I am now seriously considering road tripping to Hamtramck for next year's Countdown to Pączki Day. Maybe I'll bring back some good kielbasa, too. I'm certainly not going to bother with the mass-produced stuff; I don't even think they use real garlic.