03.01.07
Posted in All-U-Can-Eat, Manhattan, Seafood, Sushi, West Village at 2:37 am by Administrator
“If you will it, it is no dream.” Theodore Herzl. State of Israel. If you will it, Nigiri, it is no dream.
And that is precisely what Nigiri did. He willed it. His eyes, just moments before glazed over and drooping nearly shut, lit up. His posture improved. His upper lip literally stiffened. And he began to eat once again.
“Did I blow it?” The Big Vashinsky mumbled as he bit off half a yellow tail. I studied my cell phone’s stop watch. It had been more than a minute. Jack counted the pieces remaining on the plate. It was still possible to break the record. Because he started out so strong, because he downed about 30 pieces in the first seven or eight minutes alone, Nigiri still had an outside shot.
“No, you can still do it,” Jack told him as he rubbed his shoulders like a prize fighter between rounds. And so Nigiri ate. And ate. And ate. He’d hit his brick wall, and he’d smashed through it. True, he’d come out slower on the other side, but he was still downing pieces, one after the other. No time for chop sticks. No room for soy sauce. Nigiri was running on pure will power.
Meanwhile, behind the scenes, a problem arose. The buzzer that George the sushi chef and the waitress brought out was running fast. Compared with the stopwatch on my cell phone, it was a good two minutes off. This could pose a problem. Do we contest the clock during the heat of competition? That might break Nigiri’s concentration. And even if we did challenge the false clock, we still might end up like the American basketball team of the 1972 Olympics (not to compare Yummy Village to the Evil Empire).
Jack made the decision: don’t let our champ know. Just tell him to keep eating and have him beat the official clock.
The water, which was just a luxury at the start, became a necessity between each bite. The remaining pieces, which ranged from average to slightly larger than average, looked gigantic even to me. And then came the final thirty seconds:
VIDEO OF THE PANDEMONIUM (with an unfortunate audio delay I cannot fix)
With no time left on the clock (yet just over 2 minutes on my clock) Nigiri did it. He swallowed the last piece as the clock hit the buzzer. Pandemonium broke out at Yummy Village.
I couldn’t believe what my eyes were telling me. It was the most impressive thing I have ever witnessed. No, I ain’t never seen no queen in her damn undies. But I have seen the Sistine Chapel. And I have seen the great pyramids at Giza. And I have seen the 1998 Yankees. And I have even seen Takeru “The Tsunami” Kobayashi eat a similar number of hot dogs in just 12 minutes.
But The Big Vashinsky is not a professional. Yummy Village, though it should be, is not on the competitive eating circuit. What Nigiri did that night was something no one could ever take away from him, even if his record falls which, like sands through the hour glass, it surely will. Takeru, a Japanese man, came from Japan to eat a record amount of the ultimate American food- hot dogs- in Nigiri’s neigborhood. And now Nigiri, a Brooklynite, comes to Manhattan to eat a record amount of the ultimate Japanese food. The irony should not be lost.
Nigiri faced a Wall of Fame full of dozens of challengers, some losers, some champions, and he defeated each and every one of them by sheer force of will.
VIDEO OF THE WALL OF FAME
He did not come out of it unfazed. After achieving his sushi immortality, he stumbled out onto MacDougal Street and tried to throw up (I told you I refuse to sugar-coat what we’re really dealing with here). But he couldn’t. It was as though he stomach was saying to him, “NO! We’ve come this far, we won’t lose our honor now.” When he returned from the frigid lower Manhattan elements, he couldn’t get warm for ten minutes. Clearly, all of Nigiri’s blood was in his belly.
During the ceremonial pinning up of the Polaroid, he was still in extraordinary pain.
VIDEO OF THE PIN UP
But even after all that, Nigiri abides.
Nigiri abides. I don’t know about you, but I take comfort in that. It’s good knowin’ he’s out there, Nigiri, takin’ her easy for all us sinners.
PART II OF THIS TALE IS ALSO PUBLISHED ON SUPERSIZED MEALS DOT COM,THE DIRCET LINK IS HERE
YUMMY VILLAGE SUSHI IS LOCATED ON MACDOUGAL STREET BTWN BLEECKER AND MINETTA LANE IN THE WEST VILLAGE, MANHATTAN
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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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01.24.07
Posted in BBQ, Chic, Chinese, Hamburgers, Italian, Latino, Meats, On The Open Road, Sandwiches, Seafood, Sushi, There's A Beverage Here Man at 1:15 pm by Administrator
There is something fundamentally wrong with a country in which a man has to work for 20 years before he gets to take 5 weeks of vacation. Every time I travel, I run into Europeans, Australians, Argentinians, Congolese who have been on the road for months. Sometimes years. And the Americans feel lucky to take advantage of a four day weekend.
I consider it my civic duty to travel (or vacation, whatever you want to call it) as much as possible. As a yellow cabbie, I don’t get paid vacations. I don’t get dental. I don’t even get a refund if I rent a cab that breaks down twenty minutes into my shift. But I do get to make my own schedule.
So over the new year, I headed out west. Melissa, my sweet, Khmer-style Thai girlfriend, put her vacation days from 06 together with her vacation days from 07, and we managed a fairly lengthy west coast swing.
And even though my job has me logging a lot of hours behind the wheel, I intended to do California right by making it into a classic Highway 1 road trip. We had family and friends to see (crash with) all along the way. We had nature to experience. We had nerves to calm. But mainly we had bellies to feed and taste buds to please.
Jeremy, my very talented and chic Hollywood editor of a cousin, took the first week of our journey off of work so he could join in the festivities. He promised to show us around LA after exploring a little more of his adopted state together. He also promised to let me drive as much as I wanted. And with a plan to NOT make any plans more than half a day in advance, we took off in his souped up Honda Accord heading north along Highway 1.
But before we left, Jeremy introduced me to a Santa Monica Italian (possibly Sicilian because I saw a big map of the island up on the wall) institution called Bay Cities. In addition to ridiculously big and delicious heroes that would make any New Yorker blush:
(the other half was bigger)
I was overwhelmed with the selection of Italian cheeses, olives, jarred imports, salami, (Jewish) pickles, and fresh bread. I decided to stock Jeremy and his roommate Mike up on some Bay Cities delights:
And neither of them wasted time tearing into the particularly tasty sopressata (though Jeremy had a hard time remembering what it was called, nice Jewish boy from Chicago that he is):
Every single thing we bought was nothing short of great. An old woman I chatted with as I waited for the counter man to scoop my artichoke hearts proudly informed me that Bay Cities used to be a tiny little shop with saw dust on the floor that smelled overwhelmingly like parmesan. Now, they had hit the big time with a much larger location.
There was a sign claiming that Bay Cities makes fresh bread all day long. I didn’t believe it until I saw someone come out of the back with a cart full of piping hot filone (pictured above on the table and in the sandwich). All I had to do was look at him, and he handed me a loaf that was literally too hot to hold. Try finding filone too hot to hold at 4 pm in New York City.
From the way people, particularly New Yorkers, talk about LA and its food, I didn’t think a place like Bay Cities existed there. But if Bay Cities were on Bleeker Street in Manhattan, there would be a line out the door all day long and tourists would be coming in from every corner of the globe to take a picture in front of the garlic hanging from the ceiling. Right then and there, I realized I didn’t know ANYTHING about LA. I also thought I might be able to live there.
We put LA many dark hours behind us. Most of the first leg of the journey was done in the pitch black because we’d spent the daylight eating Bay Cities and playing Mike’s Guitar Heroes II. My internal clock felt like we had until 9pm before the sun went down because the weather was like summer. Highway 1 north of LA FELT beautiful even though we only saw the first 15 minutes of it at dusk. And we spent the rest of the night at a lodge in Big Sur.
There, we found Monterey Bay beef jerky. And on a roadtrip heavy on jerky, that bag of Monterey Bay proved to be the tastiest. Even though we all commented on how amazing it was (”I think this is the best beef jerky I ever had,” Jeremy said during our inaugural game of Rummy 500 at the lodge), we somehow managed not to take a picture.
We did, however, take a picture of the famous dungeness crab I had in the actual town of Monterey at a strip mall spot called Sea Harvest Restaurant and Market:
And it was tasty indeed. It was much easier to find big bunches of meat than back home near the Chesapeake. But I have to say Monterey dungeness crab, if that was a typical example, doesn’t compare to Maryland blue crab for taste or overall experience. But hey, no one ever told me they were competing.
Next stop: San Francisco. We stayed with our extremely generous friends Lily and Levi in their beautiful apartment in Twin Peaks with an insane view:
(okay this is the view from the hill just up the hill from their apartment, but apparently building a city on a series of steep hills has one advantage: abundant views)
We actually managed to have not one, but two mediocre burritos in The Mission. The first spot’s lackluster performance could be explained away by the fact that our visit to La Taqueria Corneta came just before closing the day after Christmas. Their hearts must have been with Jesus rather than refried beans.
But we went to Poncho Villa’s in the middle of day on December 29th, and it was WEAK. Both burritos were dry and lacked flavor. Pictures were taken in wild anticipation only to be deleted in genuine anger. I’d had incredible burritos in the Mission on past SF trips, and I don’t know what went wrong this time.
Chinatown, on the other hand, did NOT disappoint:
The Peking Duck at Great Eastern was perfect. Super crispy skin. Super tender meat. Not too much fat in between. And the steamed bun vehicle is so choice. If you have the means, I do suggest you try it. I’ve never had that option back east, but I found the buns add a wonderful texture to the duck that pancakes never could. And they are much smaller so you could easily handle three or four or five sandwiches, while I usually have to stop at two pancakes.
And everything else we ate – Mongolian beef, fried rice, the lemoniest lemon chicken ever, mussels– was about two notches above what passes for great in New York’s Chinatown. We sat there eating like kings and queens of the Ming Dynasty until midnight. We even got a spot across the street (unHEARD of according to Levi, who was born and raised in SF). It truly was a blessed meal.
Next, Jeremy and I went across the Bay for a meal with our beloved Aunt Francis and dear cousin Sandy. They wanted to show us Sausalito. They claimed it was much more beautiful in the daytime, but I thought it was plenty nice at night.
Aunt Frances can be picky, and she shot down Sandy’s suggestion of Thai food saying, “Too spicy.” But when Sandy suggested sushi, Aunt Francis agreed saying, “I love anything Chinese.” Classic Aunt Frances.
We arrived at Sushi Ran ready to eat, and we had a feast. My white tuna sushi (top right) was, hands down, the best I’ve ever tasted, and white tuna is my bar none favorite piece of negiri. So that’s saying something.
Jeremy and I both loved his citrus salmon roll (top left) as well. They sliced the lime so thin that the rind didn’t take away from the melt-in-your-mouth experience in the least. The California roll (bottom left), which I ordered on the logic that I ought to since we were in California after all, were the only thing mediocre on the table. Aunt Frances popped the entire ball of ginger (bottom right) into her mouth before we could stop her, sucked on it for ten seconds, spit it out, and shouted “Wa Wa Weeeeee Wah!” I guess Borat did not invent that, because Aunt Frances told us, after we finished laughing, that Wa Wa Weeeeee Wah is just something people used to say.” She then declared the restaurant to be shabby even though her teriyaki was admittedly great.
For dessert, Jeremy ordered a tea which had hundreds of tea leaves stitched together by hand with silk thread. The tea leaf flower, when it arrived at the table, blossomed at the bottom of the glass of hot water before our eyes:
I can’t say it was the best glass of tea I ever had, but it was very California.
Then we found ourselves in Sacramento. The “annoying hipsters” call it Sacto, according to my friend. Andy and his girl Jess, with whom I made fast friends while we all lived in Spain a couple years back, call it “Sac Town” or just plain “Sac.”
Anyway, I had no idea what Sac would be like, but I knew that I never would have gone if it weren’t for Andy and Jess. And I knew that they would show us a good time no matter what. They are the type of people who attract all sorts of wild characters, they surround themselves with genuine folks, and the fun is just bound to follow:
(That is Andy is on the upper right, Jess is squished beneath him, and that’s his friend Phips with ZA CRAZY EYE in the middle in “Old Sac”)
We hit 3 bars in three hours, all of which were fun in their own way, and then made it back to Andy’s place for some Spain-style late night partying. There, amidst the drunkenness and insanity at Andy’s house at 230am, Andy introduced me to my single favorite treat of the entire roadtrip:
The Sacramento Salsa Company makes a garlic salsa that blew away every other salsa I ever tasted (I’ve never been to Mexico). They claim to use tomatoes from California’s “tomato country” which I didn’t know existed (could it be as good as Jersey tomato country? apparently). And the plentiful garlic comes from Gilroy, a mythical town Jeremy told me of where everything is made from cloves of fresh garlic including the ice cream.
Andy and Jess swore that making nachos out this Sacramento Salsa would change my life. I was reluctant because I enjoyed eating it straight out of the container so much. But Andy argued that cooking the garlic brings out the flavor, and did his bidding.
(Jess couldn’t decide on the international sign for ROCK or the the international sign for WEST SYIIIIDE to show off the Sac Town specialty)
Yes, I admit, it may have been because it was very late at night, I may not have been entirely sober, and I was RAGING with my old friends from my crazy days in Spain, but those nachos really did change my life. At that moment, in that town, no treat could have been more perfect. And I’ll never look at salsa the same way again.
The rest of the roadtrip was a bit of a blur. But we did continue to search for delicious tastes of the golden state.
I recall going for breakfast the next morning bleary eyed. Andy led us to the tastiest “Mexican food cooked by white people” in all of Sac. It was called Nopalitos, and Melissa finally got a great burrito there:
I had a bold salad with vinaigrette on top and chile verde beneath:
We encountered the most pitiful salad bar in history at our hotel in Yosemite. And I ended up trying to drink of one of the park’s impressive waterfalls:
We visited with my cousin Bo and his family in Santa Cruz. We pretended it was Santa Carla and we were vampires. Jeremy even had the sound track in his car. “Eat this David and become one of us.” On the pier, we ate surprisingly stellar fish and chips and fried calamari (that gave Melissa and me surprisingly nasty burps for our cruise back down through Big Sur that made Jeremy both love and fear us more):
(I didn’t read the signs saying “Don’t Feed The Seagulls” until AFTER I fielded an array of dirty looks from the locals who should be so lucky that I didn’t feast on their flesh. I’m tryin’ to watch the Lost Boys.)
And Melissa and I later stumbled upon the best diner food of our young lives. She knew she was going to be happy with the food in California because her two favorite meals are sushi and burritos. But I’d have to say chicken fingers are a very close third.
While we were spending a couple days in Palm Springs testing out what life would be like if we were already retired (I consider this my civic duty along with vacationing as much as possible), we were told to try Ruby’s Diner. We were shocked by how amazing the chicken fingers were:
(Melissa is laughing because she can’t believe how good such a simple diner menu item could be, especially when you’re retired)
We also enjoyed Ruby’s Kobe sliders. Normally, I would never order Kobe anything, but I figured as long as I was retired, I may as well:
Sadly, the roadtrip had to come to an end. But once we returned to LA, the good eats just kept on coming. Our meal at Roscoe’s House of Chicken N Waffles was all I ever dreamt it would be and more. We were overwhelmed with our choice of high quality fast food burger joints, any of which would be the best of its kind back east. And we eagerly wolfed as many as we could.
But the most distinctively LA eating experience we enjoyed came when Jeremy’s mom/my Aunt Linda told Jeremy to take us all out on her credit card. Jeremy wasted no time heading straight for The Ivy.
Oh yes, that’s Sharon Stone dining right next to where we waited for our table on the sidewalk. It was an odd sensation standing next to a woman I’d never met but whose beaver I’d seen (and examined closely on slow mo and freeze frame when I was 12). And the woman she is with is wearing sunglasses ON HER HEAD. I love LA.
The maitre d’ thought he knew Jeremy. And Jeremy responded, “Yeah, you’ve seen me before.” So we got a table right quick.
The calamari app came quickly too, but we were too busy being fabulous to think about it too much.
(That’s us/Melissa still being fabulous by dessert with our super fluffy key lime pie)
My entree, a mixed seafood pasta caught my attention though.
The pasta looked hand cut. And they do NOT skimp on the seafood at The Ivy. I was extremely pleased with the dish. But after Angelica Houston meandered past (she wasn’t even there WITH Sharon Stone), I couldn’t concentrate on my food anymore. There was just too much external stimulation:
We managed to fight through the gauntlet of paparazzi trying to take Melissa’s picture:
Only to find Jeremy’s souped up Honda Accord’s hood covered not only in bird shit, but feathers as well when the valet brought it back. I don’t think Angelica’s Houston’s car came back that way.
I was still coming off the high of the roadtrip, and I was going through driving withdrawal. So Jeremy let me drive to dinner that night, whereupon I BUMPED the car behind me while parallel parking. Jeremy and Mike gasped in audible horror when I did it. “What, you don’t bump people’s cars out here?” I asked innocently. “No, Dave, you definitely don’t bump people’s cars out here.” Makes sense. I could go with that flow. But you should see the bumper on my car here in New York.
Thankfully, we were parked outside of Baby Blues BBQ. Jeremy declared it to be his single favorite restaurant in all of LA. And, AGAIN, we were greeted like old friends by the staff. Jeremy, the waitress let me know, is the “sweetest kid.” But I already knew that.
He’s also got great taste, because the food at his pick was so good it made me wish we’d eaten there every night we were in LA. It’s southern bbq, which is a risky venture to undertake anywhere outside of the south (I admit I was skeptical before I sat down and smelled the array of bbq sauces). But this meal turned out to rival anything I’ve eaten down south.
My “Memphis ribs” (above) were supple on the bone, crispy at the edges, and bursting with smoky, meaty flavor. I was surprised they called them “Memphis ribs” if they weren’t dry rub like at Rendezvous (a famous rib joint in Memphis that made remember how happy I am to be alive). The waitress said they start out as a dry rub, but Baby Blues likes to bring them to the table with a little sauce.
No matter what style the menu described them as, they were some of the best ribs I’ve ever tasted. And mine were served on a Yankee plate?!? What a pleasant surprise to find after ripping through half my rack. Baby Blues is truly a restaurant after my own heart.
As you could see from the size of my Yankee plate, I only ordered half a rack and sauteed okra (I’d filled up on cheese from Bay Cities before we left). Jeremy, on the other hand, ordered a whole rack of Texas style beef ribs. And he challenged himself to eat them all:
(On the left, Jeremy is a man on a mission; On the right, he feels like he hit a brick wall with two to go, but I think I recall him polishing those off as well before we stood up from the table)
Before we knew it, we had to catch our flight back. We knew we loved California. But we had, to our surprise, grown quite attached to LA. We agreed that we’d live there if the drivers weren’t so NUTS. People turn their wheels like they are making a turn from an avenue onto a street in Manhattan just to change lanes on the Freeway. I saw the fresh aftermath of THREE different apparently fatal accidents in the few days I was in the LA area. That is not normal to see back east. Jeremy seems unfazed. He also seemed unfazed when a drunk in an SUV nearly smashed into us head on just a block from his place in West LA. To me, the drivers seem more dangerous than the earthquakes and the mud slides and the wild fires and the gangs. I tried not to let it bother me. I was on vacation.
Before we left, I wanted to eat something that I couldn’t get back in New York. So Jeremy and Mike took us to Wahoo’s:
Fish tacos are almost never an option where I usually eat. In fact, I’d NEVER eaten an authentic one. The fish tacos at Wahoo’s in Santa Monica sealed the deal for me. I couldn’t have done my public service of going on vacation in any more appropriate of a locale. California is certainly a spot that makes me feel like I’m getting some serious vacation time in:
Visit www.FamousFatDave.com
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09.21.06
Posted in All-U-Can-Eat, Bensonhurst, Brooklyn, Japanese, Manhattan, Posts For Not For Tourists, Seafood, Sushi, West Village at 2:20 pm by Administrator
All-you-can-eat sushi makes some people nervous. But it just makes me excited. Check out the “Tracts” section of Not For Tourists Guidebook’s New York page for a long, sole-searching piece I wrote on a magical neighborhood deep in Brooklyn where all-you-can-eat sushi is a way of life:
Stuffed To The Gills: All-U-Can-Eat Sushi
(Gary: The man behind the fish)
Visit www.FamousFatDave.com to book an eating tour. May I suggest my own version of all-you-can-eat sushi: The Famous Fat Dave Sushi Bar Hop
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09.13.06
Posted in Alphabet City, DC, Manhattan, Posts For Not For Tourists, Sushi at 1:46 pm by Administrator
Take a look at Not For Tourists Guidebook’s New York City page as well as their Washington, D.C. page. I’ve already mentioned that I’m not afraid to admit I enjoy fast food. And you could have guessed that half-priced sushi would make me happy:
New York: Sushi Lounge
DC: Taco Bell
This just in: since I’ve eaten at that Taco Bell, the area around it has been torn down to make way for some condos. The Taco Bell may be soon to follow. In that case, consider the story an obit.
Visit FamousFatDave.Com to book a five borough eating tour
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07.05.06
Posted in Dave's Faves, Famous Fat Dave's Five Borough Eating Tours, Manhattan, Seafood, Sushi, West Village at 7:58 am by Administrator
All the great ones have theme songs. John Williams wrote Darth Vader a classic. The Greatest American Hero’s theme song was better than the show. And Sergei Prokofiev gave every character in Peter and The Wolf his own. So, being a megalomaniac, I wanted a theme song for myself.
Last week the stars aligned and the gods smiled, and my theme song was recorded. The two most gifted musical talents I know happened to be in New York City simultaneously for the first time in quite a while, though they met and became friends many years ago.
My cousin, Aaron Weinstein, is the best jazz violinist since Stephane Grapelli (and I’m not just saying that because I’m related to him and I’m prouder of him than I thought humanly possible). Before he graduated from high school, he was touted as the next big thing in music and played regularly with Les Paul, Bucky Pizzarelli, and the late, great Skitch Henderson. Now that he has reached the ripe old age of 20, he has redefined the way both the violin and mandolin are played. Even Nat Hentoff, the famously judicious and discerning jazz critic, recently called him “an unmistakably personal improviser who can be intimately tender as well as so fierily invigorating that you have to move to his music” in the Wall Street Journal. And most importantly, Aaron is my eager partner in gluttony whenever he comes to New York for a gig.
My best friend, Jack Dolgen, is a character who has come in and out of this blog since the beginning. Though he appreciates jazz, he is more of a rock n’ roller than Aaron is. His pop band, Sam Champion, is a high energy, bass driven explosion of sound and fun that puts on one of the best shows in New York City every time they take the stage. Yet, Jack reveals a soft, folksier side when he does his solo music. He is an accomplished song writer, and he used all of his skills to write my theme song one afternoon after I took him and his family on an eating tour. Like Aaron, Jack is one of the most serious, adventurous eaters I know.
Aaron was flying in for a day to play at Bucky Pizzarelli’s 80th birthday tribute show, so Jack, Melissa, and I picked him up at Laguardia after midnight. I figured I just needed to get the two prodigies in the same room for a couple of hours and the magic would happen. I was right.
(Jack’s bedroom is basically a recording studio)
I dropped them off at Jack’s apartment after a harrowing trip to DUMBO to pick up Jack’s acoustic guitar (I had to pull off the BQE to reattach a piece of metal that had been dislodged from the bottom of my car by a monster pot hole and was kicking up sparks. Then we were assaulted by a gang of monster rats in the stairwell on the way down to Sam Champion’s studio – welcome back to New York Aaron). It was close to 2 a.m. by that point, and it was up to Melissa and me to bring back the sustenance to keep the geniuses going for what was sure to be an all night session (Jack called his downstairs neighbor to warn him of the emergency recording session and tell him not to be alarmed by the ruckus).
Last year, only after unpacking all of her belongings in her 6th floor walk-up SoHo apartment, Melissa informed me that she’d moved to New York mostly because she wanted the luxury of ordering sushi in the middle of the night. I asked her who told her that she could do that, because it wasn’t me. She had made an assumption, and she was sorely mistaken I believed. Once the clock strikes 2 a.m., I told her, even on the weekends, freshly prepared sushi is just not an option. She considered packing up and moving back to D.C.
It was my cousin Aaron who discovered the only open sushi bar (that I know of) with me at 4:30 a.m. one Monday night earlier this year after a long show at the Algonquin’s Oak Room. On MacDougal Street, a strip I’ve walked and driven countless times, we saw, to my amazement, a shining beacon in the night called Yummy Village Sushi. Open until at least 4 and sometimes as late as 6 a.m., the Yummy Village sushi chef work tirelessly cutting large, moist pieces of nigiri and constructing hefty, tender maki.
The discovery has changed Melissa’s impression of this town, and she is training to surpass the mark set on pieces eaten in a twenty minute period (the number stands only in the low 20s for women, whereas the men’s benchmark is the stuff of legend that only a real man like my heros Takeru or Joey Chestnut could hope to challenge). Aaron and I are convinced that Melissa can beat the record, get the meal on the house (and if she fails, the meal would be on Aunt Linda anyway), and have her polaroid mounted on the wall of fame.
(This is where we stood more than half way through the session)
When we returned with a couple of party platters for the group, the recording session was well under way. Sushi was a perfect food for the occasion since it wouldn’t make anyone’s string fingers greasy, and every person involved was a great lover of Japanese cuisine.
(I felt bad putting my little cousin to work all night long, but this sight eased my conscience)
My entire being was consumed with unadulterated joy as I watched two of my favorite people (who also happen to be two of my favorite musicians) collaborate musically for the first time and gorge themselves on sushi until the sun came up.
(Eat a little, work a little, pick a little, talk a little)
Aaron laid down violin tracks, did a mandolin chuck (I learned that term that night), and even played the music stand with those drum sticks that have metal spokes like a rake called brushes. Jack, who’d just spent endless hours in the studio cutting Sam Champion’s much anticipated second record, did the producing and worked the sound board. He was also responsible for the lead vocals, backup vocals, acoustic guitar, bass, bongos, maracas, and snaps. Melissa and I basically just watched in awe. You can also hear us singing backup along with them on the “ON THE WHEELS OF STEEEEEEEL” line.
(Notice one of Aaron’s biggest fans watching intensely)
Adam B. was given a sneak peek at the song and called it “The best theme song since the It’s The Gary Shandling Show theme song.” Another person close to the project called it, “The greatest song ever.” My dad has it on his ipod. Let us know what you think. And Nat Hentoff, if you are reading, we’d like to know if you think this song is as fierily invigorating as Aaron’s last album.
Listen by going to www.famousfatdave.com, scrolling to the bottom of the page, pumping up the volume, and pressing play.
And do yourself a favor by going to Sam Champion’s website, Sam Champion’s MySpace page, Gothamist’s take on Sam Champion, Aaron Weinstein’s website, and Aaron’s MySpace page.
Yummy Village Sushi, MacDougal Street btwn Minetta and Bleeker, West Village, Manhattan
(The Mick watches over an historic recording session that would impress even Danny Elfman or, more appropriately, Django Reinhart)
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04.29.06
Posted in All-U-Can-Eat, Japanese, Manhattan, Seafood, Sushi, West Village at 8:47 am by Administrator
Never trust a junkie. I’d say that’s generally good advice. But the price of gas has gone through the roof, taking money straight out of my pocket, so l’ve been in the market for a less expensive sushi joint. Last night I had a guy in my cab who was clearly strung out on something, mostly not making much sense, but he did make one intriguing comment. He was telling me his sad life story when he said, “About ten years ago I had to give up my $200 a week coke habit because I picked up a $300 a week sushi habit.”
He had also apparently picked up a heroin or oxycotin habit since then. But I wondered where he got his sushi fix now that he clearly was spending the bulk of his money on drugs again. He admitted that he rarely ever goes for sushi anymore because he doesn’t have any spare cash. But this was a clever junkie. He told me he gets more than enough sushi at all-u-can-eat nights at Funayama on Greenwich Avenue.
I used to take my private car all the way down to Bensonhurst, Brooklyn to get all-u-can-eat sushi at one of the many competing Japanese spots along 86th Street and Bath Avenue. It was as cheap as $18 tax and tip included, but the sushi was merely average, and now that gas is more than $3 a gallon and the price of sushi went up a buck or two at all those places, it hardly seems worth it. So I took the junkie’s advice and stopped for an extended pit stop at Funayama on Greenwich Avenue.
Every Monday and Thursday nights Funayama serves all-u-can-eat sushi for $23.10 (I did not get a straight answer out of anyone there as to why the ten cents) which comes out to about $30 with tax and tip. I didn’t have time to really get my money’s worth the way I used to in Bensonhurst where I once ate fifty pieces of sushi spread out over a three hour period when a meal with a couple friends degenerated into an eating competition. But I did my best last night:
Just as they are at Yama (the restaurant Funayama spun off from), the negeri pieces are cut huge. And the oversized hand rolls compliment the massive pieces perfectly. The white tuna was not good, but nothing had to be spit out which is more than I could say for the first all-u-can-eat sushi I had in the Village about 8 years ago which had a 10 to 1 ratio of edible to inedible pieces. They charge you $3 for pieces you don’t eat so I had to pocket a couple pieces, but that’s all part of the cat and mouse game that goes on at all-u-can-eat sushi places. Once in Bensonhurst I had to hide an entire dragon roll in my miso soup.
All in all, Funayama was a pleasure. The negeri was fresh and moist, the seaweed and shrimp tempura maki came warm. And I spent the rest of the night in the cab gleefully stuffed. It probably doesn’t sound like much to you, but Funayma wins the prize for best restaurant recommendation by a junkie, and to a cabbie who has met more than his fair share of junkies, that’s saying something.
Funayama, Greenwhich Avenue btwn West 10th and Charles
Check out http://www.famousfatdave.com for a chuckle or to book an eating tour
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