Holiday Food: Sufganiyot

Eating Tours: Famous Fat Dave

When I blew into Cairo in February of 2005, I’d already been doing my eating tours for friends and family (and friends of family and family of friends) in New York for years. But I met a cabbie there who took me on a tour that made me realize I should be Famous Fat Dave for real.

As far south as Abu Siembel (40 clicks north of the Sudan border) I’d heard rumors of this cabbie in Cairo who gives pyramid tours. On the way to Luxor I ran into a friend I’d met back in the Sinai, and she gave me his name and number. So the minute my train stopped in Cairo, I called this Ibrahim and within an hour he met me at the station cafe just as the sun was coming up.

He was a huge man with a huge smile. After he made sure I was well fed at the cafe, we were off. His cab, a classic black and white taxi (the yellow cab of Cairo), was comically small. I couldn’t bring myself to dream how this big guy squeezed into his tiny 1975 Peugot with 3,000,000 km on it all day long. But he did.

We spent the day cruising around the 22 pyramids of the lower Nile region. He stopped at all the amazing views. He gave a running commentary on everything from Egyptian history to Cairo traffic.

And his jokes were priceless. Before we stopped for lunch, he said that his cab was “hungry too.” At the gas station he pointed to the oil palms lining the Nile, turned to me and said, “But David, we don’t have much oil here. Only a little” and then made a gesture as if to ward me off. “Mr. Bush can smell oil,” he said (he never knew that I was crying inside). When a man pulled his donkey into the gas station, Ibrahim let out a belly laugh and told me the donkey was there to get gas too, “IN HIS ASS!” I’m not sure if the pun was intended.

I wanted to go native for lunch. I’d never tried Egyptian seafood, and I saw some people eating it at a stand. But Ibrahim warned me not to eat anything out of the Nile. Instead Ibrahim took me to a super touristy spot because he got to eat there for free (this was not an eating tour after all, we had 22 pyramids to squeeze in). Still, the meal was delicious. The babaganoush, tahina, hummus, and pita were nothing less than fantabulous. And the mixed grill and pickles were okay. But I could have eaten for three days in Egypt for what it cost me.

By the time we reached the Great Pyramids at Giza, he’d taken a real shining to me (I’d like to think). I told him about the Famous Fat Dave tour I conducted back in NYC and that I drive a yellow cab, so, naturally, he saw a little of himself in me. He pointed to my burgeoning pot belly and said that in 30 years, I’d have a belly like his. I told him I hoped to have a tour like his as well.

So when I returned to New York, I began promoting my tour in earnest. I’d already discovered a great Egyptian spot to take people on Steinway Street called Kabab Cafe. The food there is better than most I had in Egypt, and Ali, the owner, with his larger-than-life personality and bold opinions reminded me of Ibrahim.

My cousin Aaron, the swingin’ violinist who played on my theme song, moved to NYC last week (his first gig will be as the lone violinist at a Stephane Grapelli tribute at Lincoln Center on June 1), and I took the drive out to LaGuardia to pick him up. Afterwords, I stopped off to see Ali on Stienway Street for some falafel and a chat. But his store was shuttered for renovations. I considered going to his brother’s restaurant Mombar up the street which is just about as good, but I noticed an inviting place called Sabry’s across the street.

Sabry’s bills itself as an Egyptian seafood restaurant. Because Ibrahim warned me not to eat any fish out of the Nile, and it’s illegal to fish out of the Red Sea, I never ate any seafood during my month in Egypt. So I was intrigued.

This place had some beautiful looking fish on display in the middle of the dining room:

And all sorts of interesting fish were being pushed across the counter to the frenetic waiters like whole Red Snapper:

And fish heads:

We got it started with some of best, hot pita I’ve ever tasted:

A strawberry smoothie that would have hit the spot if I were in the Sinai:

And some fried shrimp to gauge how good the place might be compared to any old seafood shack:

We could tell we were in for a treat, because we’ve both had our fair share of fried shrimp, and these were especially good. They were plump and fresh, fried just to the point at which the freshness was still evident.

Our main courses were amazing. The talapia special that the waiter pushed blew my freaking mind. The meat fell off the bone like bbq pork even though it was grilled fish. And it was loaded with all sorts of amazing herbs and spices that gave it the flavor of Egypt with the quality control of America.

The other dish they called “fish cake” because it came piled high like a wedding cake. I’d never had anything like it. I didn’t get the name of the fish from the waiter whose English, though better than my Arabic, was a little weak. Nevertheless, I enjoyed the delicate fish mixed with steamed vegetables immensely and I’m glad the waiter convinced me to order it.

Egyptians must just be a gregarious bunch, because this waiter, like Ibrahim in Cairo and Ali across the street, was nothing but smiles and jokes the whole meal:

Ibrahim, from the driver seat of his black and white cab, took it upon himself to explain to me that the Jews refuse to live in peace and must always make war, so the Arab-Israeli conflict will never end. There were billboards all over Cairo proclaiming “Egypt is the Leader of Peace.” Our waiter, however, told us that he thinks terrorists are crazy. I didn’t bring up the subject, and I felt sorry for him that he felt the need to clarify that to me, as though if he’d left it unsaid I’d assume he agrees with terrorism. But mostly, he just joked around with us and smiled a lot.

Even the guys preparing the fish and making that delicious pita behind the counter were friendly:

So I’ve got a cab like Ibrahim’s and a tour like Ibrahim’s. My belly still isn’t quite like Ibrahim’s. But now, unlike Ibrahim, I’ve even got a place for Egyptian seafood.

Sabry’s, 24-25 Steinway Street at Astoria Blvd, Astoria, Queens

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The Famous Fat Dave experience has managed to attract a good deal of media attention. But until this morning, none of the stories delved into my psyche or explored my passion. Mark Phillips (the musical genius behind the pop sensation Sono Oto) worked for months on a New York Public Radio story that aired on WNYC 93.9’s “Weekend Edition.” Mark tagged along on a couple eating tours, rode shot gun in my yellow cab picking up fares late at night, and ate a LOT of food with me. In just four minutes and forty seconds, he manages to capture the essence of what I do, why I do it, who I am, and why I love this town.

You can listen to the New York Public Radio piece and download the mp3 here

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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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On August 20, 2001 my brother Josh moved in with his special lady friend Tracy in Boreum Hill Brooklyn. Soon thereafter, I began driving a yellow cab. Two of the first three garages at which I worked were located in Brooklyn, so it quickly became something of a tradition for me to stop by their apartment on Mondays (Josh’s day off) to relax and eat before my night shift began.

And what a neighborhood in which to eat. Less than a block off Smith Street, the world was our oyster when it came to ordering. I’d always spend the first chunk of my Monday shift gleefully stuffed with pannini from Pannino’teca, a rueben from Salonike, or a burger from Bar Tabac.

It was a perfect setup for me. Relax and eat, eat and relax, and then go out and face the city being of sound mind and full belly. But then some ominous developments began to occur. Josh and Tracy got engaged. Josh and Tracy got married. Josh and Tracy began talking about moving to the suburbs. Josh and Tracy had a baby — Milo. Josh and Tracy bought a station wagon.

I tried my hardest to convince them that Milo would grow up to be much cooler if he grew up in Brooklyn rather than the ‘burbs as we had. But Josh countered with some nonsense about sending Milo to a good public school and giving him a backyard to play in. As well as Josh and Tracy are doing, you’ve pretty much got to be a millionaire to buy a place with a backyard in that part of Brooklyn and send your kids to private school.

Before I knew it, they’d bought a house in Westchester, and they were packing their things. I’d grown quite attached to their neighborhood in the five years they lived there together. But I guess I could understand them wanting to give Milo a backyard and a good school. Plus, I fully admit that it’s nice to be a little further away from the Gowanus Projects than a quarter block.

It was with a heavy heart that I drove over to Josh and Tracy’s for my last Monday lunch. Tracy was at work, but Josh and I decided to head over to Montague Street in Brooklyn Heights to do our final lunch right. We took Milo to Teresa’s where he was an instant hit with the Polish waitresses. And they were a hit with him.

The blintz was a hit with me. I ordered the pierogies, which I’d had many times before and never left me disappointed. Boiled and served with apple sauce and onions, Teresa’s pierogies are as close to the gut-busters I had in Krakow as any I’ve tasted in New York.

But I’d never orderd their blintzes before. I’m used to blintzes being mediocre at best. The filling always seems to be too sweet for me, as though some uncaring cook just stuffed it with Smucker’s jelly. And the outside is always too mushy.

But the blintzes that Josh ordered that day were a thousand times better than any blintz I’ve ever tried. The outside was just crispy enough to change the entire texture of the treat from the usual “blah” to the rare “delicate and gourmet.” The sweet farmer’s cheese filling was by no means overwhelmingly sweet. So much so that it benefited from more sweetness being shaken onto it from above in the form of powdered sugar. And the plum butter gave the whole thing a down home flavor.

Milo dug it the most:

Josh and I had never eaten at Teresa’s together, and that meal just made me more wistful than ever. Now, when I drive the cab on Mondays, I’ve got no anchor to throw before I start working. I just have to dive right in.

I’ve been up to Westchester a few times already. They’re supposed to have great Mexican food on North Avenue. But the burritos we had at El Jalisco were merely pretty good, though they were clearly authentic. Milo loved them because they were covered with two slices of melted Muenster – his fave.

Watching Milo enjoy them so much made me like them a little more. But he won’t remember the superior burritos at California Taqueria on Court Street. Maybe we’ll find better burritos somewhere else in Westchester.

The whole family went out for some Turkish food one evening at Turqoise in the next town over from Josh and Tracy’s house. The meal was delicious, especially the stuffed grape leaves jammed with pine nuts. But Milo enjoyed the milk more than anything else:

I still prefer Kapadokya in Brooklyn Heights for Turkish food. I took Josh there for his bachelor party, and we ordered from there a few times afterwards:

I was starting to wonder if Westchester was going to yield any great food. We heard there was great whitefish salad at one deli, but when we went they were sold out. We heard Walter’s has the best hot dogs in the whole New York area, but when we went they were closed.

Yesterday, Josh threw his first barbeque at the house. Melissa and I brought some Merguez sausage and a whole wheel of parsley and cheese pork sausage from Pino’s on Sullivan Street. The wheel, once unwound, went over big:

Milo couldn’t resist it.

So there we were, deep into the suburbs. Brooklyn was already a distant memory. Milo won’t ever remember it. I took stock.

Josh was firing up the grill. Kids were running around the backyard as we played football and baseball. The sun was shining through the clouds, and the shadows were short. People were spread out across Josh and Tracy’s big house. Parking was plentiful. And everyone was relaxing and eating, eating and relaxing – including me.

Teresa’s, 80 Montague Street at Hicks, Brooklyn Heights

Kapadokya, 142 Montague Street at Henry, Brooklyn Height

Pino Prime Meats, 149 Sullivan Street, SoHo, Manhattan

Turqoise, 1895 Palmer Ave, Larchmont, Westchester

El Jalisco, Somewhere on North Avenue 576-4008, New Rochelle, Westchester

Famous Fat Dave, 5 Borough Eating Tours, New York City

Kabab Cafe

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