My friend's sub (it was better than mine).

Generally speaking, I’m a good orderer. It sounds like a dumb thing to say, but it’s true. Ask my family—when we went to restaurants as kids, my brother Abe would usually wait for me to choose so that he knew what to get. I was that good. Abe held that my preternatural food selection abilities owed to my total disregard for a given dish’s long-term health impacts and/or caloric content, and I can’t say he was wrong.

So yesterday, when I got out-ordered by not one but two of my friends at City Sub on Bergen, I was, well, surprised. I ordered a hot roast beef and Swiss cheese sandwich with peperoncini, onion, lettuce, and horseradish, and it was really, really sweet. NOT WHAT I’M LOOKING FOR IN A ROAST BEEF SANDWICH. The bread, studded with sesame seeds and perfectly textured, left nothing to be desired, but as I looked around the table at my fellow diners’ choices, I was disappointed. Disappointed at my own poor choices and disappointed that I wasn’t having the best sandwich possible.

If I can’t order half decently, who am I?

The only thing that blunted my sadness was my friend Rachel’s offer to swap sandwich halves. Before ordering, we agreed to go bite for bite, and after switching subs, I didn’t want to give hers back and she didn’t want to return mine. Thus, bite for bite turned to halvesies. Solid. Her tuna fish sandwich, on the same bread as the roast beef, had lettuce, mayonnaise, mustard, and (American?) cheese, and it was pretty high quality. Note: owing to an incident during which I made 300 chocolate Mike-and-Ike tuna fish balls during college and then watched competitors eat through them in search of a single piece of bubble gum, I do not usually like to eat the chicken of the sea.

What can I learn from this experience, aside from the importance of having friends that like roast beef?

1) Don’t let previous meals influence your ordering choices. I ordered the hot roast beef because I’d had a turkey sandwich for lunch (creative, I know) and I didn’t want a repeat. But you know what? If I had ordered a turkey sandwich, I would have enjoyed the hell out of it. What was I doing messing around with sweet horseradish sauce? That’s insanity.

2) City Sub has serious potential. Their bread—toasted but not dry—is wonderful, and with a better choice of topping (i.e. not sweet horseradish), could be the base of a transcendent sandwich.

Where’s City Sub?

450 Bergen St (between 5th Ave & Flatbush Ave)

How do I get there?

Take the 2/3 to the Bergen St. stop.

What else should I know?

They close at 6pm. Also, Bergen Bagel is right across Flatbush from these guys. They’re my go-to bagel guys, and I advise you to stop in for a toasted everything with cream cheese after your sandwich.

Left: lambajin. Right: five-salad platter.

On Atlantic Avenue at Bond, an unassuming Middle Eastern restaurant abuts a painted brick church, and I suspect that both are zoned as houses of worship.

Not really—I’m constitutionally incapable of holding any suspicions related to zoning except when constructing rhetorical devices—but I will tell you that Bedouin Tent is a shrine to pita. Alternately chewy and ethereal, crispy and soft, the white manna is baked on site, and it is a semi-religious experience. There are worse things you could do than go to this place and order a stack of it, if only to give flatbread the attention it so clearly deserves.

The warm, heavenly bread underlies Bedouin Tent’s success, along with a family of dishes: they serve up a few kinds of “pitza” (get it?), which are way tastier (and significantly less uncool) than they sound. Last night, I tried the lambajin ($8), which is a pita covered with ground lamb. The meat, cut with tomato, onion, and spices, is mind-blowingly, conversation-stoppingly delicious. Obviously, it all depends on the pita base, but, in this situation, the lamb steals the show. Seriously. Go to Bedouin Tent now.

Wikipedia photos of the food suggest that Bedouin Tent’s interpretation, heavy with meat, is a bit heartier than the norm. Extra food? Sounds good to me.

It's like this, but meatier.

While I was there, I also got a combination plate ($9), which entitles you to small portions of five “salads.” Don’t worry, the salad category includes such non-salads as hummus, babaghanouj, stuffed grape leaves, and lentils-and-bulgar.

Note: the grape leaves are phenomenal, and the creamy, mellow babaghanouj almost outshines the pita. JK—babaghanouj and pita have a synergistic relationship like that alligator and the bird that cleans its teeth.

Also note: they gave my friend and I this small, cakey dessert for free:

We accidentally ate half of it before I remembered to take a photo

Where to get delicious pita:

Bedouin Tent
405 Atlantic Avenue

How to get there:

Take the F to Bergen, the 2/3/4/5 to Nevins, or the A/C/G at Hoyt-Scheramermn Hoyt-Schermerhorn

Menu online?:

Nope.

Left dog: the Viet. Right dog: the Wangding

Yesterday, I did two relatively new things: 1) I combined friends from high school with friends from college and 2) I went to Asia Dog. I had ventured nervously into friend merges and gourmet hot dogs before, and my past experiences had me more concerned about the former. In August, a friend and I had plans to meet for dinner in Chinatown, and then we agreed to “gaggle mash [mash together our gaggles of friends]” so as to maximize dinnertime socializing. Textbook social efficiency. Then, like a couple of idiots, we both showed up with eight-person retinues and our merger failed catastrophically. On the other hand, my half of the failed merger had delicious vegetarian dim sum. Win sum lose some.

In hindsight, though, I should have been more concerned about gourmet hot dogs, if only from a purely analytical perspective. What I love about hot dogs is their cheapness, their mustard/sauerkraut vehicularity, and the fact that I can eat seven of them. When I’m in Denver, my cousin and I sometimes buy a dozen hot dogs, a dozen beers, and ride that mustardy wave until dinnertime.

The point of all this is that I don’t just like to eat hot dogs—I like to eat hot dogs in excess. E.G.:

A decent number of hot dogs. Note: not from Asia Dog

The most important piece of information in this blog post, then, is that Asia Dog is a bad place to hot dogs in excess. These puppies run you $4.50 per (you can also do two for $8), and I was still hungry after downing a couple. Actually, like two hours after we went to Asia Dog, I lead a pilgrimage back to Punjabi Grocery and Deli. Concerns were raised about the microwaving of styrofoam (“look at the shape of your—no, LOOK at the shape of your bowl”), but survey said ‘delicious, albeit carcinogenic’

Asia Dog actually wasn’t bad. They serve fancified hot dogs with (you guessed it) an asian bent, and they’re pretty good. I had the Viet and the Wangding. The Viet, which I thought was the better of the two, comes with cucumber, cilantro, daikon, carrots, pate, spicy aoli, and jalapeno. There’s also sri racha around in case you’re trying to prove a point or whatever. The Wangding, which I found cloying, comes with pork belly, cucumber, and scallions. One of my friends spoke very highly of the Ito, which is topped with Japanese curry and kimchi apples, but the fact that he didn’t offer me a bite proves my point: when you come down to it, hot dogs are pretty small.

Right dog: the Ito. Left dog: no idea

I’m glad to see enterprising culinarians putting other kinds of delicious stuff on top of tubed meat after all that press for Mexican hot dogs. There’s a lot of potential there. I just wish they would lower their prices.

Where to get Asia Dogs:

66 Kenmare St.

Also they’re at Brooklyn Flea on weekends.

How to get there:

Take the 6 to Spring Street, the B/D/F to Broadway-Lafayette, or the N/R to Prince St.

Menu online?:

Yup.

DON'T SKIMP ON THE TOMATOES

Six months ago, when I was unemployed and living in at my uncle’s house, I had a lot of free time. More free time than I knew what to do with. Every day, he and my aunt drove to work and left me alone apply for jobs from the leafy suburb of Wayne, Pennsylvania. For the most part, that’s what I did. Sitting in their basement, swiveling on a grey upholstered office chair, I sent out cover letters to software companies, non-profits, more non-profits newspapers, and, in one instance, a Washington State oyster farm that reminded me of an article about shellfish that I read in high school.

Some days, in an effort to fight the impotence of postcollegiate limbo, I would set out on foot. If I couldn’t go to a job just yet, I could walk myself to Wawa, Spizzico Pizza, or the library. My aunt and uncle had given me a Wawa gift card when I moved in with them, and I whittled down its balance with 20-ounce diet cokes, tastykakes and milk.

Other days, in an effort to feel more like a regular person, I would cook. I’d grill, make Chinese, and, often, I’d turn to Marcela Hazan’s Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking, which I’d picked up at the aforementioned Wayne Public Library.

I liked Marcela because she spoke so authoritatively. Whereas I was simultaneously applying for jobs at magazines and an experimental aquaculture farm in Sarasota, Marcela knew exactly what the fuck she was doing (on basil: “Use only the freshest basil you can. Don’t make do with blackened, drooping leaves….it’s best not to take a knife to basil…do not ever use dried or powdered basil. Many people freeze or preserve basil. I’d rather use it fresh and, if it isn’t available, wait until its season returns”).

Here is Marcela Hazan’s phenomenal bolognese sauce, which you sort of need to be unemployed to make (it simmers for 3+ hours at minimum).

Pasta Bolognese (from Essentials of Classic Italian Cooking, by Marcela Hazan)

• 1 tbsp olive oil
• 3 tbsp butter (and extra for tossing the pasta)
• 1/2 cup thinly chopped onion
• 2/3 cup thinly chopped celery
• 2/3 cup thinly chopped carrot
• 3/4 ground chuck. Buy a fatty cut from a decent producer – you can legitimately taste the difference in this dish.
• 1 cup whole milk
• Nutmeg (whole)
• 1 cup white wine (pinot grigio/not box wine)
• 1 1/2 cups San Marzano tomatoes, crushed or diced by hand, with their juice.  Don’t cheap out on the tomatoes, please.
• A box of pasta (I like rigatoni)
• Parmigiano-reggiano cheese

Combine the oil, butter and onions in a decently-sized pot. Cook on medium until the onions are translucent, and then add celery and carrots. Stir it around and cook for about 2 minutes.

Add the ground beef and salt. Crack some black pepper over the meat and then mash it with a fork. Cook until the meat isn’t red anymore.

Add the milk and let it simmer until it’s all evaporated. Note: the sauce is going to look disgusting at this stage. Once the milk’s evaporated, grate 1/8 tsp of nutmeg into the sauce. Stir.

Add the wine and let it simmer until it’s all evaporated.

Step 4: get the beef drunk.

Add the tomatoes and stir. Once the mixture starts simmering, turn the heat way down, and taste the sauce (Bolognese is the pasta sauce equivalent of low-and-slow barbecue).

Simmer for three or more hours. As long as you can hold out. I find that, with Bolognese, I can rarely wait past the three hour mark, but definitely cook for at least three hours.

When you crack and decide that the sauce is done, boil a pot of water with salt (for your pasta).

Taste the sauce with a wooden spoon. Praise jesus.

When your pasta is done, strain it, reserving 2 tablespoons of the cooking water.

Dump pasta into your Bolognese sauce, cook it on low for about a minute.

Add the cooking water to the mixture, along with a tablespoon of butter, a bit of olive oil, and some cheese.

Rigatoni Bolognese: more delicious than it looks

Serve with wine.

Bonus: Chow Tips on saucing your pasta.

Punjab Grocery and Deli. Motto: 'we don't sell pastrami.'

I don’t claim to have discovered Punjabi Grocery and Deli, and I don’t care that I’m late to the party. Why? Because this party is delicious, and the food nerds/cabbies are all having a good time.

Here’s the deal: across Houston from Katz’s, a narrow, standing-room-only restaurant serves incredibly delicious Indian food at cut-rate prices. Customers wait in a line snaking back from the cash register, assessing the row of “100% vegetarian” dishes in the glass display case before them and eyeing the customers that are already wolfing down veggie plates at a skinny counter to their left. You add yourself to this line after you figure out where it ends. Then, after you wait for a couple of minutes, an extremely nice server doesn’t make you feel bad for not knowing the numbered ordering system as well as your fellow diners (all of whom seem to be professional Punjabi food orderers). After this, the kindly worker scoops jasmine rice onto a Styrofoam plate, ladles your chosen entrees on top, and microwaves the whole batch for you.

Once you get your food, you realize that the restaurant is laid out for food consumption, not the desultory chatting that so often distracts us from our dinners. Everyone seems to be in love with their curry. They are in dialogue with their meal.

“Oh my god.”

“Unghhhhh—chana masala.”

“Aaaaahhhhhhnguhh [saag].”

On my first trip (I will be back) I had a plain samosa, a large rice plate with saag, chana masala, and some kind of potato curry, and the cheaper chai option (the internet recommends the ritzier version).

Saag, chick peas, and potato curry. The samosa isn't in this photo because I ate it too quickly.

The saag—rich and complex—was some of the best I’ve ever eaten, and I would characterize the potato curry as “dope.” The chana masala was solid, and the samosa was $1. My dinner companion got a samosa smothered in chick peas, yogurt, and chopped onions ($2-3), and it made me very jealous. Note: a yellowish chutney is freely available in the canisters that line the dining counter, and it should be used judiciously. Overzealous application can overpower the dishes’ delicate flavors. Also note: you will want to sauce up your samosa, especially if it’s unsmothered. Two bottles to the left of the microwave will do you right.

But—are you listening?—here’s the important part: it’s $5 dollars for a big plate of rice with three dishes on top, and the place is open 24/7. THAT’S INSANE. THIS IS NEW YORK. For propriety’s sake, I didn’t title this post ‘DELICIOUS, CHEAP-AS-HELL RESTAURANT OPERATES IN AREA WHERE DRUNKEN REVELERS ROAM,’ but that’s probably the most important piece of information for you to know. Punjabi Grocery and Deli sits at Houston and Ludlow, seven blocks from the East Village’s cheapest watering holes and just north of the Lower East Side’s cheap(ish) bars.

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Where to go:

Punjabi Grocery and Deli
114 E 1st St (between 1st Ave & Ave A)

How to get there: 

Take the F to Second Avenue, walk east on Houston. The place is on the north side of the street.