[Pigging by Wilfrid: July 30, 2012]
Threading my way through the slashing rain, brutal sun, and occasional hail-stones of mid-summer New York, I've continued to graze here and there. It's an opportunity to apply vaguely sizzled critical faculties to some of the city's casual options.
And an occasion to confirm that I still don't really get pizza. Or in this case, fried pizza.
Yes, the fried pizza, one of a number of novelty pizzas currently setting hearts a-flutter. Now, this is nothing so vulgar as the deep fried pizza found in Scotland (sometimes in fried in batter). No, no: this is a light and graceful Neapolitan street snack. Also hot; very hot indeed.
Brought to New York by the restaurant Forcella (branches on the Lower East Side and in Brooklyn), the fried "La Montanara" pizza is the main focus of an eponymous hole-in-the-wall opened by Forcella on Ludlow Street. La Montanara occupies the former T'Poutine space -- utterly unchanged, as far as I can see, except that it now tempts with fried dough rather than french fries in gravy.
Apparently aimed -- not unreasonably -- at a post-bar crowd, La Montanara does not bewilder with choice. You can get your "La Montanara" (tomato sauce, mozzarella) or you can get a pie with pepperoni or mushrooms added, or cheese taken off. No long list of toppings. There's pizza sandwich too, and a couple of pizza dessert which, since they feature Nutella, I can hardly begin to contemplate.
So you can watch the guy do it. He takes your round of dough, deep fries it, then tops it and plunges it into the oven. Not for long. Then he cuts it and passes it to you on a paper plate. The result is a pie way to hot to hold, let alone bite into. You bide your time. Eventually, you can discover that the only noticeable effect the frying has, apart from raising the temperature, is to make the outer rim kind of crisp -- like fried bread.
Among the toppings, the tomatoes -- aromatic and sweet -- and fresh basil sang. The mozzarella was its usual bland self. To my astonishment, despite the pre-frying, the dough was fairly undercooked; pasty in the center. And, of course, the center of the pie was a squishy, watery mess, just like Neapolitan pies should be. Or so we're told. It's a way of filling your stomach for $7.
Pok Pok Wing
Every time I read about the insane waits for tables at Pok Pok proper, on the Brooklyn water front, I am reminded that its sibling, Pok Pok Wing, usually stands empty on Rivington Street. At least, it does when I'm walking by. I acted on this thought recently, and dropped by to try "Ike's Wings."
Down a few steps, in a sort of basement where Baohaus started out, Pok Pok Wings is a very plain eatery indeed. Rather than display any menu, it conceals them in a folder attached to the wall, where customers can't find them until directed by the staff. A menu? Yes: because in addition to wings, there are a couple of papaya salads with a bunch of garnishes, coconut or sticky rice, and house-roast peanuts.
So you get the menu, and then you get the wings, spicy or not-spicy (I opted for not).
Skeptical about the price-tag ($12.49 for six wings, $7.25 for three), I'd been encouraged by reports that the wings were large. And indeed they are. I hardly know how a chicken staggers around under their weight. Especially fat and meaty are the top joints, almost the size of small drumsticks. (Still, you can get ordinary sized wings, in a Buffalo style, for 25 and even 10 cents in the neighborhood).
The big deal, of course, is the marinade -- fish sauce, sugar (lotsa sugar), crushed garlic. The glazed limbs are served with a good, fresh Thai salad. This is worthy, if messy eating, except that to my taste the wings were a little sweet. Okay, very sweet. You need to like your wings...sweet. But not bad, and with the ton of salad, seven dollars didn't seem ridiculous.
I complain about sweetness, of course, while washing it down ice Thai tea, made with lashings of evaporated milk. I have a weakness for this stuff, as my grandmother used to serve tea with evaporated milk (although she served it hot, in a cup).
Güeros
A sunny lunch-time took me to a sleepy stretch of Franklin Avenue in Crown Heights, and the tidy little taqueria, Güeros. "Güero" means something like "whitey," and whitey was certainly standing in line to order up big trays of tacos and chips with frozen margeritas, to be eaten at the tight counter, at the few tables inside, or the benches out front.
This is a menu to prompt gluttony. Why not get a brisket taco? Why not the al pastor, when you see the pork sizzling on the griddle with a pile of pineapple chunks? And then there's the fried chicken taco; that would be crunchy. And the catfish. Heck, they're only three or four dollars each.
Guided by the time of day, I restricted myself to a breakfast taco (your choice of filling to go with eggs: I got cheddar and chorizo), and a migas taco (eggs, corn strips, tomato, jalapeño). The tacos looked somewhat the same, but there was a striking contrast. The breakfast taco was filling, but a little dull. This was a vehemently non-spicy chorizo; more like breakfast sausage. The migas, on the other hand, kicked like a mule.
Finicky as I am, I thought the corn strips, which are supposed to add crunch, had got a little too soft from being wrapped, albeit briefly, in the tortilla. The tortillas, by the way, are thick, and crisped nicely on the grill.
Next time it will be the brisket, the fried chicken, and maybe the piccadillo. There will be a next time: especially at these prices.
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