The Eating Adventures of a Checker Cabbie
Before your 4th of July BBQ, you might want to read today Gothamist column for exotic ideas on what to grill:
www.gothamist.com/archives/2006/06/29/the_hungry_cabb_7.php
Visit www.famousfatdave.com for exotic eating tour ideas
David Wain and Ken Marino of The State went on a Famous Fat Dave’s Midnight Munchies Tour last week for a www.gawker.com story. I cannot express to you how overjoyed I was that I had, in my cab, the man who said, “I got soooooome babaGANOSH!!!” and the man who responded, “I wanna dip my BALLLLLLLLLLS IN IT.” Coolest thing ever.
The direct link is: http://www.gawker.com/news/gawker-walker/gawker-walker-midnight-munchies-with-famous-fat-dave-179379.php
(Famous Fat Dave never looked so fat or so famous)
(David Wain rarely smiles, but I assure he loved the bulgogi)
(Ken Marino, next to the cab parked on Avenue T, expressed his feelings on the adventure)
Visit www.famousfatdave.com to take virtual eating tours without comic geniuses
At some point, you might have gone on a ride-along in a police cruiser to experience just how our blue boys keep us so safe. I’ve never gone, but I’ve always wanted to. I have, however, taken people on ride-alongs in my yellow cab. In fact, almost as much as I drive solo, I drive with a friend riding shotgun. As long as people aren’t too confused or afraid to get into a cab with two people in the front (some skittish New Yorkers seem to think we might be criminals or undercover cops), ride-alongs naturaly create a much more social atmosphere. The dynamic between three people rather than two, as well having the ice breaker of an unexpected third party, puts people at ease.
One night, I picked up my friend Jack after he played a late concert at the Bowery Ballroom with his band Sam Champion (I think they should be called Carey Schwindenhammer). He was amped because he’d just played an amazing show, and his enthusiasm was rubbing off on me as usual. We were cruising Alphabet City very late on a Tuesday not really expecting to find anyone on the desolate streets. But when I saw a hand shoot up from between two parked cars, I immediately swung the cab around in a tight u-turn on Avenue C.
We were happy to have company, but as we pulled up next to the girl with the outstretched arm, we both realized at the same moment that the girl looked terrifying. We could see that she was an Asian girl in her 20s, but she looked awful. She looked like she’d been murdered (choked to death, to be exact). Her hair was disheveled in a way that appeared as if she’d been shaken violently, her clothes looked like her Sunday best that she’d been buried in six months ago, she had two black eyes, her skin was full of burst blood vessels, and her face was deathly white. Black and purple bruises ringed her throat.
We shot each other bug-eyed looks as she opened the door, and I quickly said, “Don’t say a word” to Jack even though it is normally my rule that my ride-along copilot cheerfully great new fares with a smile and pleasant salutations. My heart was pounding as she told me, “32nd Street and Broadway” in a perfectly normal, un-undead voice.
Jack and I sat mationless as though she was The Predator and she might not see us if we didn’t move (although we were not coated in mud so if she was The Predator she would have been able to see our body heat). She immediately got on her cell phone and had a run of the mill “I’ll be there in ten minutes” kind of a conversation while we took turns eyeing her suspiciouly in the rear view. Her normal voice and bland conversation gave me some courage, so I asked her, “Excuse me miss . . . if you don’t mind my asking . . . I was wondering . . . what is up with you?” She was still making me nervous, and I felt like I’d just mustered the courage to ask a girl to the prom.
“Oooooooooh this?” she said, leaning forward through the window in the plastic divider. “Yes . . . that,” Jack replied. She paused for a moment, clearly reveling in the moment. “I’m a zombie. I’m an extra in that zombie movie they’ve been shooting all week. We just wrapped for the day,” she said, making perfect sense. “Ah, that makes perfect sense,” I said.
Now that everyone was at ease, and we’d all had a laugh about the whole night of the living dead scare, we resumed that three party rapport that makes conversation so much easier when I have a ride-along. The girl turned out to be all about “L.K.” or Little Korea. I had always called it Koreatown, but I guess I was wrong. She was on her way to a late night karaoke session that she was planning to do in her full zombie getup. Then she was going to eat Korean bbq at one of the 24-hour joints on that 32nd Street strip.
Now, I usually drive out to San Hai Jin Mi in Flushing for my Korean bbq, but this girl clearly knew her way around L.K. here in Manhattan. As we turned onto the strip, she pointed out certain black cars lining the street that she claimed automatically take you to Korean whore houses if you get in. I saw that there was much I could learn from her.
Before she jumped out, I asked her where she was going for Korean bbq after her 2am karaoke session (she’d already told me that the karaoke place was just for Koreans so I didn’t bother to remember which stair case she ascended for that). She told me that her friends always go to New York Kom Tang.
Jack and I had just eaten, so I returned this Memorial Day weekend with my best friend Jennifer from back home in Maryland and her dad. Jennifer is half Guatemalan, half Palestinian, and half Irish. She’s got a lot of ethnicity in her is what I’m trying to say, so I felt the need to entertain her with some authentic ethnic food when I got the call that’d she’d be coming in to Penn Station with less than an hour to kill in the city. New York Kom Tang is just a block away from the trains, so, banking on the zombie’s recommendation, I showed them the way to L.K.
(a feast already and our second bbq dish hadn’t even been cooked yet)
We got a nice table at a huge window overlooking 32nd Street, and we were made to feel welcome immediately with wide smiles and plentiful unordered appetizers. The owner helped us choose from the expansive menu (although he tried to convince us to get two orders of the same thing for some reason), and we ended up going with bulgogi (my favorite dish at my place out in Flushing) and jeyook gui.
The bugogi, messy slices of sirloin, came first and was grilled on a metal plate over the charcoals in our table. We had no idea what to put in it, and a Korean woman came by to flip the meat and add the whole pieces of garlic and sliced peppers. Had she not arrived, Jennifer would have taken over, and her plan was to put the spicy kimchi into the pan. Thankfully, Jennifer restrained herself and we all enjoyed bulgogi done right along with our myriad appetizers.
(Jeyook gui and glowing charcoal)
The jeyook gui, neater slices of broiled pork, came second and was grilled without the metal plate. I found it to be delicious, especially inside a leaf of letuce smeared with a red paste that looked super spicy but wasn’t.
(Our bulgogi lady and our jeyook gui man)
So the meal was a hit. Both meat dishes were stupendous (though the bulgogi in Flushing is still much better and clearly worth the trip), and all of the appetizers were great. Being native Marylanders, both Jennifer and I were fascinated by the raw crab covered in gobs of red paste. I chickened out, I must admit, but in my defense I was stuffed by the time we got around to it. Jennifer said it was “fine, but it’d be better with Old Bay.” Once I realized that the red paste wasn’t only not too spicy but absolutely delicious, I began to eat it right out of the spoon:
I wonder why I hadn’t ever taken a restaurant recommendation from a zombie before.
New York Kom Tang, 32nd St btwn Broadway and 5th Ave, Little Korea, Manhattan
Visit www.famousfatdave.com for a chuckle or to book an eating tour
Osama is a flaming homosexual vegan dancer from the Panshir Valley. I found him just after sunset at the corner of Roebling and Metropolitan. He was staggering drunk, wearing a black and white checkered headdress around his neck, and frantically hailing me. He told me he was heading back to The Village to meet “one of my lovers,” and boy did he have a chip on his shoulder.
The traffic on the Williamsburg Bridge afforded me time to learn many (but I’m sure not all) of the trials and tribulations one goes through when his is born a flamer in Afganistan in the early 60s and lives with the name Osama in New York in the 00s. His mother wore mini-skirts when she visited Kabul with him during his youth. He was adamant that he was not a terrorist, though I had not accused him of being one. He said, “I’ve always been gay. I grew up playing with barbies not bombs.”
Thankfully for Osama, he did not have to liv through the Taliban era. I can’t imagine he would have made it very far. In fact, he did not even have to endure the Soviet occupation. He, his sickly sister, and his mother managed to make it to New York just in time for Osama to enjoy the burgeoning disco scene. He told me he remembered learning of the Soviet invasion as he walked out of a gay porno theather on 42nd Street on Christmas day in 1979. In his words, it was a “buzz kill.”
Osama told me the US reconstruction effort in Afganistan is a joke. He recently returned from a trip to Kabul, and, according to my increasingly agitated fare, the only visible sign of progress is a newly paved road between the capital and Kandahar. And even that is only used by heavily armed UN and NATO troops because the bandits are prevalent.
What’s worse, he meets people all the time here in America who tell him they hate his name, or hate him for his name. Osama claimed that is the equivalent of an Afgan hating all Westerners named John. I will admit to you that, when I trekked through Morocco’s High Atlas Mountains soon after September 11th, I named the mule that carried all of my heavy, stinking bags “Osama” out of spite. I didn’t mention this to Osama last night, because I didn’t think he’d see the humor in it.
He had worked himself into a tizzy, and he felt it important to tell me, “Let me tell you, I cried harder than you did when the World Trade Center collapsed, because you were born here but I had to work to become an American.” Before Osama got out of my cab in a huff, I asked him where his favorite cheap place to eat in The Village is.
Without hesitation he told me he’d been going to Temple in the Village for more than 20 years. The Temple serves the healthiest buffet in the city, if not the world.
The lengthy buffet table consists entirely of vegetarian, vegan, and macrobiotic (foods that occur naturally in the local ecosystem according to Osama) selections. Osama declared that he had lived on a macrobiotic diet since his youth back in the Panshir Valley.
My belly was pleading with me for some veggies after my giant, late-night slice of pizza the night before. I was more than satisfied with this meal. I grabbed myself three quarters of a pound of seaweed, pickle spears, collard greens, bean sprouts, bok choy, sesame broccoli, olives, zucchini tempura, broccoli rabe (a personal favorite) and spicy cabage kim chi. At 6 bucks per pound, my whole meal was only 5 dollars including tax. I asked the shy owner why the kim chi was so good, and he told me it was because he is Korean and he makes it himself in the back.
It was one of those places I couldn’t believe I’d never been to after all the time I’d spent in that neighborhood over the years. I’ll be eating at the Temple in the Village again I’m sure. I won’t, however, be making fun of anyone’s name again anytime soon.
Temple in the Village, West 3rd Street between LaGuardia and Thompson, The Village, Manhattan
Visit www.famousfatdave.com for a laugh or an eating tour
