02.23.07
Posted in All-U-Can-Eat, Japanese, Manhattan, Sushi, West Village at 9:46 am by Administrator
“A way back east there was a fella. Fella I want to tell you about. Fella by the name of Gary Vashinsky. At least, that’s the handle his lovin’ parents gave him, but he never had much use for it himself. This Vashinsky, he called himself “Nigiri.” Now, Nigiri, that’s a name no one would self-apply where I come from. But then, there was a lot about Nigiri that didn’t make a whole lot of sense to me. And a lot about where he lived likewise. But then again, maybe that’s why I found the place s’durned innarestin’.”
“They call New York the Big Apple. I didn’t find it to be that exactly, but I’ll allow as there are some big meals there. ‘Course, I can’t say I seen London, and I never been to France, and I ain’t never seen no queen in her damn undies as the fella says. But I’ll tell you what- after seeing New York and thisahere story I’m about to unfold–well, I guess I seen somethin’ ever’ bit as stupefyin’ as ya’d see in any a those other places, and in English too. So I can die with a smile on my face without feelin’ like the good Lord gypped me.”
“Now this story I’m about to unfold took place back in early February– just about the time of our conflict with Muqtada Al Sadr and the Eye-rackies. I only mention it ’cause sometimes there’s a man- I won’t say a hero, ’cause what’s a hero?- but sometime’s there’s a man.”
“And I’m talkin’ about Nigiri here. Sometimes there’s a man who, well, he’s the man for his time n’ place. He fits right in there- and that’s Nigiri, in New York City.”
“And even if he’s a lazy man, and Nigiri was certainly that- quite possibly the laziest in Kings County- which would place him high in the runnin’ for laziest worldwide. But sometimes there’s a man. . . Sometimes there’s a man.”
“Well, I lost m’train of thought here. But – aw hell, I done innerduced him enough.”
Yes, this Big Vashinsky is the very same man I profiled a few months back during my all-you-can-eat sushi in Bensonhurst, Brooklyn expose. So it is not surprising, with all of those untold hours of training under his belt, that he felt it possible to take down a sushi-eating record here in Manhattan. It’s called the Yummy Village Sushi Challenge. Eat one more piece than anyone ever has within 20 minutes, and the meal, now valued at somewhere around $150 depending on what’s ordered, is free.
Last week, during Nigiri’s birthday celebration, well after 3 in the morning, the Big Vashinsky decided to go for the gold. The previous record: FIFTY TWO PIECES. But for a guy whose nickname (rarely employed, I admit) IS Nigiri, for a guy who comes from a neighborhood in which all-you-can-eat sushi has gone from craze to way of life, for a guy who never says never, FIFTY THREE nigiri in 20 minutes seemed, somehow, within reach.
And so, with his friends Jack, Melissa, and me to support him along with the waitress and George the sushi chef, he went for it. The support team was ideal. Jack, who recorded the Famous Fat Dave theme song while stuffing himself with sushi from this very Yummy Village, knows what makes The Big Vashinsky tick, and thus knows how to talk to the man even during the most trying of times. Melissa, who lives and dies for sushi and has eaten at Yummy Village late at night many times and so knew what best to order (7 eel, 20 yellow tail, and 26 of some of the tastiest salmon in town), has a calming effect on Nigiri like music on a savage beast. And I have a digital camera and a blog.
When the clocks started, Nigiri started off so furiously, within the first few minutes he put himself IN the game through sheer will power. Fifty three pieces in 20 minutes would not be easy. And most of the winners on the Wall Of Fame noted on their polaroids that they’d broken the record in far less than the alotted time. If The Big Vashinsky didn’t start off strong, there’d be no hope. And he was doing EXACTLY what he needed to do:
VIDEO OF THE FURIOUS PACE
The pace at which Nigiri began consuming nigiri was staggering. The concentration on his face was intense. The determination in his eyes was inspiring:
While Jack did most of the coaching, Melissa ate her own meal alongside Nigiri’s so as to make him feel like less of a spectacle:
But his concentration was so strong, I have the feeling that it wouldn’t have broken had he been under a spotlight in front of a stadium full of angry, drunken Sed Sux fans. He was a man on a mission.
Even George the sushi chef, who stood to lose quite a bit of money late on a random Tuesday night, was altruistically encouraging. Probably assuming that Nigiri would be no match for his Sushi Challenge, George was all smiles as he posed for a picture while the challenger pressed on behind him:
And when it came time (later) for Nigiri’s stomach to revolt against the unwelcome intrusion of raw fish and expanding white rice after much beer and whiskey during a part of the night when he is normally fast asleep, George told The Big Vashinsky he could stand up from the table (something George’s own printed rules forbade). George even encouraged him to do like Takeru “The Tsunami” Kobayashi, the six time Coney Island Hot Dog Eating Champion who has never been beaten in competition with a human (a Kodiak bear once defeated him), and shimmy his belly loose:
VIDEO OF THE TAKERU SHIMMY
No folks, I’m not going to sugar coat this. The event was not a pretty sight. There was a moment somewhere around piece 29 when Nigiri nearly lost it. His cheeked puffed out. His eyes shut tight. His belly let out a great roar and a whine as if an ocean liner was capsizing on the high seas. He put his fist to his pursed lips. We all held our breath in fear and wonder. And then . . . with his fist still pressed to his lips . . . he gave a slow, authoritative wag of his index finger as if to say, “Fish, I love you and respect you very much. But I will kill you dead before this day ends.” We were witnessing the event turn from something out of The Big Lebowski to something out of The Old Man And The Sea. It was now man versus nature.
Nigiri shot an angry glare at the sushi before him. With a flash of his eyes, I understood him to communicate with his adversary, “Fish, you are going to have to die anyway. Do you have to kill me too?” And with a determined grunt, Nigiri picked up another piece of sushi and downed it in seconds.
Had he been looking at a copy of The Old Man And The Sea (like I am clearly doing now), I’m sure he would have said, “I think the great DiMaggio would be proud of me today.” Of course the great DiMaggio couldn’t be there that night, but Jack, his eating coach, was most certainly proud:
Now, George and the waitress began to watch in awe as Nigiri forged ahead. At this point, I think, they were starting to believe, as we all had from the start, that he might actually do this. Nigiri was, again, making rapid progress. And they were starting to sweat:
But then, suddenly and for no apparent reason aside from the obvious one, Nigiri couldn’t eat another bite. It was like watching a thoroughbred pull up lame. He’d reach for a piece, and then stop just short of picking it off his plate. Then he’d shake his head as if he didn’t understand what was wrong. I was reminded of the moment Bo Jackson crumbled to the turf upon trying to stand after sustaining the hip injury that ended his career.
VIDEO OF THE INTERNAL STRUGGLE
He’d been my friend for many years already. But the performance I witnessed in just those first 10 or 11 minutes made him my hero. I know I asked, “what’s a hero?” at the start of this piece. But this Big Vashinsky had become my personal hero regardless of whether he would go to finish his 53 pieces or not.
Like the kid who asked Shoeless Joe to “Say it ain’t so,” I asked Nigiri if could eat any more. He shook his head no. I shook my head no in response. I hung my head. My heart sank. I asked if he would mug for a photo while his body refused to cooperate with his heart. The pained image that my camera captured says it all:
But there was still time on the clock. . .
COME BACK NEXT WEEK TO FIND OUT IF NIGIRI CAN FINISH THOSE LAST FEW NIGIRI IN TIME
AND IN AN EFFORT TO ENSURE GARY VASHINSKY BECOMES THE FOLK HERO HE DESERVES TO BE, THIS STORY WILL BE POSTED SIMULTANEOUSLY ON AN AMAZING SITE KNOWN AS WWW.SUPERSIZEDMEALS.COM
THE DIRECT LINK TO PART I ON SUPERSIZEDMEALS.COM IS HERE
YUMMY VILLAGE SUSHI IS ON MACDOUGAL STREET BETWEEN BLEECKER AND WEST 3RD, WEST VILLAGE
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02.16.07
Posted in East Village, Manhattan, South Asian at 7:23 pm by Administrator
Yeah, I got a Milli Vanilli tape. What’s it to you? And when I get a cab with a working tape deck, I blast those jams. . . when I’m cruising around empty. I admit that when I stop for a fare while I’m listening to my “Girl You Know It’s True” cassette, I usually turn down the ruckus. After a few years of hacking, I found that most people aren’t ready to listen to Milli Vanilli immediately upon getting into a yellow cab.
But the other day I was in no mood to curb my enthusiasm. I was right in the middle of “Baby Don’t Forget My Number” when I got hailed in front of The Bitter End on Bleecker Street. By what I could see from the curbside, this was a jovial group of 30 something Indian guys in dress shirts and overcoats who had had more than enough to drink. I figured if they didn’t appreciate Milli Vanilli, they would at least tolerate it. In fact, they’d probably be oblivious to it.
Before they even all piled into the back seat, the one who got into the front seat was belting out, “BA BA BA BA BA BA BA BA BABY. DON’T FORGET MY NUMBA. LOVE WILL SEE YOU THROUGH.” Wide smiles were spread across all of our faces before I had a chance to hit the meter.
“68th . . . I’VE BEEN SEARCHING HIGH . . . and York . . . I’VE BEEN SEARCHING LOW,” the one in the front seat sang to me. “WANNA SPEND MY LIFE . . . WITH YOU.” They were howling with glee.
We fast forwarded through “More Than You’ll Ever Know” to get to “Blame It On The Rain.” Now the whole crew was singing at the top of their lungs. I joined in on the chorus, “GOTTA BLAME IT SOMETHING” the two of us in the front sang. “GOTTA BLAME IT ON SOMETHING,” the three in the back echoed. “BLAME IT ON THE RAIN THAT WAS FALLIN’ FALLIN’. BLAME IT ON THE STARS THAT SHINE AT NIGHT. WHATEVER YOU DO, DON’T PUT THE BLAME ON YOU. BLAME IT ON THE RAIN, YEAH YEAH,” we all crooned.
They were my new best friends. While the ones in the back sang along with “Take It As It Comes,” the guy in front chatted with me. He told me they were all born in India, but they became friends during medical school in Bahrain. And apparently, Milli Vanilli was what they used to dance to all night during their med school parties 15 years back. They couldn’t believe their luck finding a cabbie who was playing their old battle hymns.
As he spoke to me in his thick, upper class British accent, the three in the back kept singing. Without missing a note, they all sang, “TAKE IT AS IT COMES GIRL. Don’t let him bring you down, yeah. Keep your motor runnin’. You know you own this town, yeah” as we pushed the reds up 1st Avenue. Now, that one wasn’t even a hit. They were actually starting to weird me out a little.
When they demanded that I fast forward to the “NY Subway Extended Mix” of “Girl You Know It’s True,” I broached the topic. “You know Milli Vanilli didn’t actually sing these songs right?” I asked. No one was singing because we were on fast forward, so there was an awkward silence in the cab. I was a little worried that they might burst into tears. “Oooooh, yes, yes, I know, I know,” the one in the front seat said with genuine pain in his voice. “When I heard that, I was so upset I didn’t eat curry for 2 days.”
That statement gave me a profound insight not only into this man, but into the Indian character. I figured he would have been upset, but I’d never imagined that an expression of that would come in the form of refraining from curry. And that also shows how much he loved curry. He was so upset that he couldn’t eat it, yet it is so much a part of his life that he only went two days before he was off the wagon again. Fascinating.
They were all joining in a rousing rendition of “Girl You Know It’s True” when we arrived at 68th and York. I told the guy in the front seat as he paid me, “I usually stay away from curry because it’s addictive, and I’m already addicted to enough foods that upset my stomach, but where do you go for your curry when you are in New York? Do you think Jackson Diner really is the best in town?” I was expecting some great tip out in Jackson Heights, Queens where so many of my cabbie colleagues reside. But this guy said he never leaves Manhattan when he comes to New York. I should have guessed that because he hangs out at The Bitter End.
As his friends started to walk off singing, “I’M IN LOVE GIRL. . . I’M SO IN LOVE GIRL. . . I’M JUST IN LOVE GIRL . . . AND THIS IS TRUE. EW EW EEEEW I LOVE YOOOOU,” he quickly told me he goes to Banjara in the East Village with a big smile and a little Milli Vanilli shoulders up, fists by his side, swaying dance move before he ran off to catch up with his friends.
I’d been to Banjara before and enjoyed it immensely. At the edge of Little India, I found Banjara to be totally worth the extra few dollars that they charge over the other spots on 6th Street. The chicken tandoori is moist and smoky simultaneously, which isn’t an easy feat:
And their Palak Ghost, boneless pieces of lamb cooked in a puree of spinach, tomatoes, and ginger tempered with cumin seeds, was so tasty mixed with the generous pile of basmati rice they serve up. I probably could go more than two days with out eating Palak Ghost, but there’s no need to.
Banjara pretty much puts every other Indian restaurant in Little India to shame. And next time I go, I think I may throw caution to the wind and take the chance of getting hooked on curry. MMM MMM MMM MMMMM GIIIIIIIIRL.
Banjara, 97 1st Avenue at 6th Street, East Village, Manhattanc
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02.14.07
Posted in Famous Fat Dave's Five Borough Eating Tours at 10:19 am by Administrator
In case you bought the Post that day (or you live somewhere other than New York City), I’ve loaded a photo of the Daily News on my “Dave In The Press” page for your viewing pleasure.
You can go directly to “A Bite Of The Apple” by clicking here
_________________________________________
It was so easy living day by day
Out of touch with the rhythm and blues
But now I need a little give and take
The New York Times . . . . The Daily News
It comes down to reality and it’s fine with me cause I’ve let it slide
Don’t care if it’s Chinatown or on Riverside
I don’t have any reasons, I’ve left them all behind
I’m in a New York state of mind
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02.09.07
Posted in Brooklyn, Caribbean, Fruits and Veggies, Latino, Posts For Gothamist, There's A Beverage Here Man, Williamsburg at 5:46 am by Administrator
Mister Cutlets is somewhat of a role model for me . . . maybe even a father figure. We are both food writers. We are both lovers of meat puns (his book is called “Meat Me In Manhattan” and my last post was about a place with the motto “Let’s Meat At Sahara.“) We’ve both appointed ourselves absurd nicknames. And we both find it appropriate, even though neither one of us is a super hero as far as I can tell, to take on theme songs (”With the bacon and the lamb chops and the scrapple and the ham hocks, Mister Cutlets spend some time with me” written by Life In A Blender West versus “Pickles! Salami! Dumplings! Pastrami! Take a look, grab a bite, put it in your tummy!” written by Jack Dolgen of Sam Champion before, mind you, he ever heard that phenomenal Mister Cutlets theme song.)
So I take very seriously what Mister Cutlets writes. And a couple of weeks back, when blogging on Grub Street about the new Saveur 100, he declared that he was “shocked – shocked – to discover that just two entries cited the New York food scene.” These two entries, Mister Cutlets’ headline claimed, are “The 2% of the Saveur 100 That Matters.” One was about a Brookyn spot I’d never heard of. The other was about me.
Being 50% of the 2% of the Saveur 100 that mattered to Mister Cutlets was quite an honor for me. I was surprised to find that Mister Cutlets himself wrote one of the blurbs in the Saveur 100, and it was about a New Orleans oyster loaf, a good 1300 miles south and west of New York. Still, I felt like Michael Corleone must have when he shot McClusky and The Turk . . . kinda.
So I thought I’d better go taste the other half of the 2% that matters. Had I not, it would have been like never meeting my half brother. I was drawn to it by something greater than just my fat belly. I was following my heart across the East River.
Saveur describes it as a Dominican juice drink called Morir Sonando (To Die Dreaming) at Reben Lucheonette in Williamsburg. Fresh-squeezed orange juice, condensed milk, sugar, and vanilla syrup are all shaken with ice. The folks behind the counter seemed almost as proud as me when I showed them the magazine:
Even though I’d taken a thousand fares to Williamsburg and no one ever recommended Reben, I had a good feeling I was about to experience something great. I was right. The drink was absolutely delicious. And the guys behind the counter were as friendly as could be. I knew I’d found a new stop to take people on eating tours.
The Morir Sonando was refreshing and sweet. The flavor was so pleasing it made my shoulders slump and my eye lids droop shut when it hit my lips. I could clearly see why they call it To Die Dreaming.
The guys behind the counter didn’t speak much English, and my Spanish is spotty at best, but I did understand them saying “Top 100 in Brooklyn” as they looked at the magazine. I told them, “No, no solomente Brooklyn.” “Oh, todos de Nueva York?” one of them said excitedly. “Todo el mondo,” I corrected him.
Now they were thrilled. The counter man who seemed most interested in the whole thing informed me the drink was exactly as it had been for 45 years. Only the price had changed, and he showed me the original price hidden behind a construction paper cut out:
(I think that means it is actually less expensive now than it was 45 years ago if you adjust for inflation)
When I told them that I too was featured in the magazine, and that according to Mister Cutlets, we were the only ones that mattered, they got even more excited. And everyone crowded around to read my blurb with a genuine enthusiasm that struck me as almost childlike in its sincerity. I was touched.
I left Reben Luncheonette with a slight sense of euphoria as a result of the Morir Sonando. I also felt a sense of brotherhood with my new friends behind the counter. And hopefully, I made Mister Cutlets proud.
As published in Gothamist.com
Reben Luncheonette, Hevemeyer btwn Broadway and South 5th Street, Williamsburg, Brooklyn
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02.01.07
Posted in Brooklyn, Fruits and Veggies, Gravesend, Meats, Middle Eastern, Posts For Gothamist at 12:44 am by Administrator
You wouldn’t know it by looking at me, but I love salad. I enjoy it as an appetizer. I clean off my plate when it comes as a side. And, if it’s really tasty, I could be completely satisfied with salad as an entree.
However, meat, and plenty of it, is clearly what brings people to Coney Island Avenue and Avenue T. Sahara, which is open extremely late into the night, is packed every evening even though it is not cheap. Russians come up from Brighton Beach. Italians come over from Bensonhurst. Black cars parallel double park out front. The lot is usually full by dinner, and on the weekends Sahara is popular enough that they have to offer valet. Everybody in southern Brooklyn knows that Sahara is the place to go for a fix of tasty Turkish meat.
The mixed grill is nothing but winners. The plate is loaded down with shaved bits of meat off their lamb and beef “gyro,” crispy on one side, juicy on the other. The chicken kebab is grilled beautifully, leaving exactly the right parts charred and the right parts tender. And the lamb chop is delightfully greasy.
When I stop at Sahara on a tour, I usually show off Sahara’s shawarma (which they refer to as “gyro sandwich” even though they’re Turkish). Although the spacey grill man occasionally fills the pita with far too many vegetables on top so that the precious meat can’t be reached until after a few messy bites, I still consider it one of the best shawarmas in town.
So isn’t it ironic that Sahara serves my favorite salad on earth? It is called the Shepherd Salad, and it is genius in it’s simplicity. It consists of nothing more than cubed tomatoes and cucumbers along with some red onions and cilantro. The dressing, they tell me, is simply olive oil, salt, and vinegar. And it’s usually garnished with three or four black olives (unless you order it to go, in which case you get none, which is annoying). And every salad comes with soft, fluffy, chewy Turkish home bread that they bake there daily.
But I’m sure the main reason I’ve fallen so hard for Sahara’s Shepherd Salad is the cheese option. For an extra couple dollars, they’ll serve the salad with feta. This Turkish feta, however, is a creamier version than the crumbelievable Greek variety I’m used to. And, quite brilliantly, they SHAVE it rather than crumble it. The result is a salad with an even distribution of feta that makes every bite a sensation.
Yes, there is a giant, lit-up plastic gyro over the doorway. Yes, their slogan is “Let’s Meat At Sahara.” And, yes, I am, admittedly, an unreconstructed carnivore. But since I discovered Sahara’s Shepherd Salad, when I find myself on Coney Island Avenue, my mouth starts watering for salad.
As published in Gothamist.com
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