My Buddy, Sorrel*

As hipsters trample over each other to snatch the first overpriced signs of spring--ramps, really?--you'd be better off sauntering to a farm stand that features sorrel, a tart lemony green, and a superb companion for fish and shellfish, particularly the richer ones. (Speaking of richer... with scallops at $25 per pound, a sprightly sorrel sauce can be a good helpmeet in stretching those expensive nubbins a little further.)
  I started the sauce by scorching two lovely fat chopped shallots to death, as, at the time, I was busy pulling the veins out of the sorrel leaves. (Rinse the leaves, Lightly pat dry. Fold the leaf in half, lengthwise, then pull the vein out. Annoying, I know, but it must be done.
    Now is the time to saute the shallots. Some butter, some neutral oil, add the shallots, and cook, stirring from time to time, until soft. Throw in the sorrel, then wonder where it went. Add some heavy cream, and give it another stir. Whiz in a food processor, or with a blending stick, until smooth, with flecks of green. Adjust for seasoning. This keeps without separating but it is, after all, dairy, so use within a day or two.
*Please note that sorrel rhymes with quarrel, not with the surname of acclaimed television writer, Buddy Sorrell.

In a Stew

Wide egg noodles are among my very favorite things...particularly with butter, especially with butter and  breadcrumbs.Yesterday, I seemed alone in this, as I schlepped from store to noodle-free store, up to my ass in slush. Pasta yes, noodles no. A clerk in one upscale market showed me to the noodle section. All gone. Given the allotted space, I assumed that some lucky shopper had purchased the sole bag of noodles. Another such market didn't carry noodles at all. Am I that downmarket in my taste? Next stop, the newly tarted up and confusing Key Food, where there is a dazzling array of all things eggy and farinaceous.

Obviously, I'm not going to provide you with a recipe for noodles, as most of you  know you way around a kitchen, although I have doubts about one who seems to subsist solely on popcorn.

Stew is pretty flexible. I was out of (or couldn't find in the uncurated museum that is my refrigerator) beef stock, so went with chicken and a touch of caramel coloring, courtesy of Gravy Master, which has been saving cooks' sanity since 1935. I used 3/4 pound of chuck, cut into smallish cubes, and dredged in flour seasoned with salt and pepper (and a pinch of Aleppo, if possible). Over medium-high heat get a good brown on the beef without overcooking, four minutes or even less. Remove the beef. Add a chopped large onion and a clove or two of minced garlic to the pan. Cook until soft, a minute or two. Put the beef in the pan, some sliced carrots, if you'd like, and add four cups of stock and a healthy slosh of red wine. Pour yourself a glass.

Cook for at least an hour, feeding it more wine from time to time. 

Given that there is no starch is the stew, which at this point resembles soup, it's time to add a thickener. I was out of Wondra, which has featured on the message board for these many weeks, so I mixed a tablespoon or so of all-purpose flour with a couple of tablespoons of stock until smooth. In to the pot, repeating if necessary. Toss in some frozen peas at the last minute.

Arrange as attractively as possible. Strew with chopped parsley, which I sure as hell wasn't going back out to get. What do you think this is, Posh Nosh?

Dippy Onion Meatloaf

I grew up in an era when packaged foods were preferred to fresh. My mother, the Great Spam (do click on the link) Queen, thought that only little old immigrant ladies stood over the stove all day, stirring and sniffing and tasting.  Why would anyone do that when the freezer's stocked with frozen waffles?

Then, sometime in the eighties,the food world shifted on its skewer.  Suddenly, we were all making pesto (Who would have known what pesto was a mere ten years before? That old woman at the stove, that's who.), and cooing over baby arugula, which led to the whole foodie cult(ure).  I can't exclude myself from it, either.  I have frozen curry leaves in the freezer and Maldon sea salt on the table.  But I also have a box of Lipton Onion Soup Mix in the closet. I bet you do, too.

Have you ever used it to make soup?  I didn't think so.  It's either the dip, which all people of  good will admit that they have never stopped loving, or the meatloaf. Looking idly at the two recipes on the back of the box the other night, I had a "your peanut butter got on my chocolate" moment.  Why not make an onion-soup dip meatloaf?  Okay, I'm sure you can think of plenty of reasons. I'm went ahead anyway.  It emerged from the oven moist, tangy, and sublimely oniony.

I used about a pound and a half of ground meat, mostly beef, with some veal and pork mixed in. You can use all beef, of course.  Then, in goes 1/2 packet onion soup mix (shake it to make sure it is well blended), a 1/3 or so cup chopped onion, 2 eggs, 6 or so tablespoons sour cream, a dash or two of hot sauce, ditto Worcestershire sauce, and a squirt of ketchup.  Salt and pepper, of course.  Now, squish it all together with your hands.  Add dry breadcrumbs, until the mixture almost holds together.  Let stand for about five minutes, during which the breadcrumbs will swell somewhat and absorb more moisture.  At this point, you can take a spoonful of the meatloaf mix and fry it, then adjust the seasoning. Not necessary, but if you like fiddling about in the kitchen, go right ahead.

Form into a loaf. Or a ring.  That worked for me once or twice.  Ends for everybody! I like to glaze it with a blend of ketchup and hot sauce, but that might be too downmarket for some of you, not that it isn't downmarket enough already.

Bake at 350 for about an hour. Let rest for a few minutes before serving.  Draw the curtains.

Porking My Way Back to You, Dears

As some of you doubtless know, 2011 (damn those odd numbers, never good) was not one of my better years.  It had its moments, though, including waking up in the ghost town that was Chadwick Beach on the morning of Hurricane Irene's arrival.  (Why were we the last?  As we told the very nice firemen, were well into happy/grilling hour and had no intention of packing up our hamburgers and hitting the road.  Also that hitting said road at sunset with vodka coursing through one's bloodstream is, I've heard, a bad idea.)

So, here we are in an even-numbered year, and I'm ready to throw myself back into the kitchen, and this blog.  Note to self: Remember that you do not mean throw literally; you are barely healed from the CD rack incident.

By my lights, the NY Times Magazine's food articles had reached a nadir several years ago, with the dreadful woo-and-coo barf fest offered up by Amanda Hesser. I think it was followed by some guy trying to feed his kid, but I never stopped to check on my way to the crossword puzzle.  Perhaps it was Mr. Latte.  However, I've been truly inspired by  the mag's new approach to the weekly food article, conceived and written by Mark Bittman.  The stories often careen into Mad Hatter charts, allowing you to map your way to any number of astonishing combinations for, say, canapes.   Bittman offers both recipes and jumping-off points, and is sometimes deliberately vague, leaving you to find your own way, which is the best way of all. 

This week, Mark features pork and apples, a classic combination from Normandy to Nova Scotia.  I was instantly drawn to Apple-Stuffed Pork Loin with Moroccan Spices.  However, there was a problem:  The recipe serves six to eight people, as do all others on the page.  Either Mark knows a lot of large families, or NYT readers give dinner parties at a mad clip

So, following directions, I sauteed the onions and apples, using the full amount, which I was going to attempt to stuff into a pint-sized (1 1/2 pound) pork loin.  I figured that if it was yummy, I could use the remainder later.  Or eat it directly out of the pan.  If you look at the picture of the finished dish in the Times, you can see that the suggested stuffing cavity is rather small and elegant.  Yet Bittman said, "...make the hole as wide as you can."  So I did, first using the spoon, then stuffing my fist into the little sucker. Far less tasteful, but far more tasty.

Stuffing hot onions and, worse still, hot apples, into the hole made for an X-rated vocabulary in the kitchen.  In the end, though, it was well worth it: juicy, succulent, and full of complex flavors.

For better or for worse, I'm back again.  You can consider that while I go slice myself a hunk of fruit-filled pork.

Eating Alone with Friends

On the all-too-rare occasions that I have an evening in on my own, I usually turn to my three bestest friends for company: bread, cheese, and wine.  However, given the frigid weather of late--and the endlessly broken and repaired and rerepaired boiler in my building--I decided that something hot was indicated.

I'd made pasta with eggs before, but the eggs were always accompanied by bacon, teaming up for a deliciously artery-shattering carbonara.  Since I was going to be solely responsible for the dishes resulting from this particular dinner, I decided to simplify, dropping the bacon and--more important--the pan that would wind up greasily in the sink.  Yes, there's a pan involved here, but frying bacon is a whole other kettle of...um...pork products. 


The principle if not unlike a carbonara, except that the egg is lightly fried in seasoned oil before being tossed with the pasta and cheese.  It turned out to be a lovely little meal: warm, rich, creamy, and, accompanied by a glass or two of wine, thoroughly satisfying. And, it occurs to me, it's a meal with the friends mentioned above,  just in winter guises.

 pasta
olive oil
 red pepper flakes
a clove or two of garlic, chopped
1 egg
tons of grated cheese
salt, pepper

Cook a single serving of pasta.  I particularly like linguini fini.

Heat a splash of olive oil over medium heat.  Add red pepper flakes and garlic, stirring occasionally, until garlic softens.  Break egg into pan (or into a bowl, then into the pan--much easier).  Cook until white is almost set.  Pour entire contents of pan over pasta. Toss with a great deal of  Parm or Romano. Salt and pepper to taste.  It suddenly occurs to me that a handful of chopped parsley mightn't be bad here, either.

My Sole Rejoices

Back from sickness, back from Pittsburgh, in case you were wondering.
  Today, I'd like to address my inability with fish, and how I've gotten around it.  Not shellfish, mind:  Set me loose on oysters, mussels, lobster, you name it, and I will create dish fit for Neptune himself.  Flatfish, however are my piscine bete noir.  I undercook and overcook and can't turn a filet without it falling to bits--even while using a special fish spatula.

All of which somehow brings me back to my Catholic school girlhood, and the days of fish on Fridays.  Until my mother discovered that she could buy shrimp already cooked and chilled, we had lemon sole every week.   It amazes me now that it seems to have occurred to no one at all that it wasn't that fish was compulsory on Friday but that meat was on as 24-hour proscribed list.  Seriously, it would have been nice to have a grilled cheese sandwich stand in for that sole once in a while.

Mom, no great fan of cooking in general, did have a simple method of preparing that relentless lemon  sole.  She dotted it with butter and popped it in the broiler.  My method is a bit more complicated:  melt the butter, add some spices, dip the fish in the butter, and pop in the broiler.  (Why did I not remember this sooner?  Tied up with memories of the utterly horrifying St. Agnes Seminary, I expect.)

 I was rather shocked at the results: perfectly done, moist fish, that flaked at the touch of a fork.  Now, if only I could forget Sister Helen Gertrude.

fish filets, cut into reasonably similar-sized pieces (I used cod)
melted butter, seasoned with--at the very least--salt and pepper. (Other options include aleppo pepper, hot    sauce, Old Bay, a squeeze of lemon, and so forth)

Heat the broiler.  Dip fish in seasoned butter.  Broil until done, 5-7 minutes, depending upon thickness.  If you're not sure that the fish is done (I never am), slice into gently and check.

Greek Treats on Essex Street

For better or for worse, but certainly for more expensive, the Essex Street Market on the Lower East Side has undergone some significant changes.  Cilantro and jalapenos are replaced by artisanal cheeses and chocolates.  As long as I can still a get buck bunch of cilantro that rivals my head in size, I’m okay with that.  However, it’s also nice to see newcomers arrive that gently look to the past, not the future.  Such a place is Boubouki, a homey little stall owned by Rona Economou.  Photos of her family decorate the walls of the tiny space. Ms. Economou turns out fresh, flaky spanokopita, baklava, and feta flatbread, featured on a roster that continues to evolve and expand.  Don’t overlook the unassuming Easter cookies, which taste like a cross between a butter cookie and the most insanely good crumb cake ever.

Boubouki

120 Essex Street

718-344-4202

And a Cheesy New Year to You

There are leftovers and then there are leftovers.  If you haven’t finished up the last of the turkey and stuffing, it’s time for it to go.  If that just reminded you of Thanksgiving leftovers lurking in the back of the fridge, well, you’re my kind of housekeeper. 

In the week between Christmas and New Year’s Day*, we managed to use up just about everything—except some odds and end of cheese that had suffered from being in and out of the refrigerator one too many times. (Yes, I know you’re supposed to cut off the amount you need, but I always think I need all of it, every single time.)  There is a way for those cheese bits to go out in a French blaze of glory: fromage fort.

Fromage fort ("strong cheese") is insanely easy to make, endlessly variable, and has an eau de sophistication that most leftovers don't.  The French like to age their fromage fort, which increases its strength (hence its name).  I don't have that kind of patience.  

Fromage fort (FroFo?) can be eaten straight out of the food processor or, better still, spread on baguette slices and broiled briefly.  I used some blue, some brie, and a bit of Humboldt Fog.  Perhaps a quarter pound of the first two, and half as much fog.  Into the Cuisinart they go, along with a clove or two of garlic (or not).  Start processing the cheese, then enough white wine (1/4 cup or so) to create a smoothish paste with smallish lumps.  (If the spread ever makes it to the fridge, it will thicken a fair bit.)

There, isn't that better than those festive turkey-stuffing balls you were considering?

*I resolve to be a better and more reliable blogger in 2011.  Like you care.

A Hiccup at Il Laboratorio del Gelato?

LdG's big, shiny, new Houston Street location was scooping the sorbetto over the weekend, but not today.  I was planning on a black-sesame gelato for lunch on my way home today, only to find the lab closed.  There was  much activity involving ladders and a large bag of either insulation or cotton candy on the floor.

Take My Cookbooks...Please!

Over the last few nights, I have been overly elaborate, filling the sink with dishes and our plates with, well, some dinners that didn't live up to the hype.  On Friday, I made boeuf bourguinon from a NY Times recipe recommended by a friend.  What I forgot was that her mother cooks this for her, and all she has to do is swan to the table and chow down. Me, I went through three hours of blood, toil, tears, and sweat for what was, in the end, a very expensive, quite nice--nice? after all that!-- stew.  (There are no photos of the boeuf, I collapsed in a swoon as soon as it was done.)
  Next up was a quiche Lorraine, to use up some of the bacon that I bought for the boeuf.  Just fine but another recipe-following experience.  Trying to track a recipe down was quite a trip.  Every cookbook spitefully told me that, of course, a real quiche Lorraine involves no cheese at all.  No cheese? No thanks.  Experts be damned, I threw a ton of Gruyere in that sucker and topped it with some grated Parm.
  This brings us to last night.  After a couple of sort-of French meals, I woke up (yes, I think of dinner the moment I awaken) with a craving for spice and pork.  Looking up a recipe in 600 Curries, an exhaustive and intelligent cookbook, I found an off-beat Pork Vindaloo that resembled in no way the vindaloos that I have had on what remains of East 6th Street.  That's when I should have realized that what I was craving was an inauthentic vindaloo and just winged it.
  But no, I made a paste out ten or so ingredients, cooked that to dryness in the pan, added the pork and coconut milk and cooked it for the requisite time.  It tasted raw and harsh--not spicy-good, just harsh.  I added more coconut milk, cumin, and curry leaf, and had to cook it for ages to reach a level of acceptableness before serving.  I'm sure the fault lay in me, as I had to do a last-minute substitution on the pepper front, but I was bummed nonetheless.
  Tonight, I'm using the beef leftover from the stew, and making a pasta sauce out of it.  And I won't be opening a single cookbook to do it.

So, the Balance of the Bird

There was risotto that was a bit too dry, as I tried a new method.  Dumb move, perhaps, but lots of butter and cheese saved the day, as it so often does.
There was more chicken salad.
There were chicken and rice patties.
And there was, and is, an enormous amount of stock.
So, ten or so meals thus far out of a $5.30 bird.  Not too bad.
Will catch up with you guys tomorrow, have been buried in endless--and strange--copyediting, but I have been doing some interesting eating both in and out.  Lots to catch up on, starting tomorrow.
Pork vindaloo tonight.

Big Bird, Day Two: Not Very Chinese Chicken Salad

After dealing with the pan in which I roasted the big fat chicken, as well as myriad other dishes, I decided that day 2's dinner should involve a minimum of cleanup. So, into the bowl goes mayo (light okay, nonfat revolting, don't even think it), grated ginger, soy sauce, and sesame oil.  Mix and taste and add and taste until you like it.  I added a good shot of hot sauce. 

Chop up a good handful of cilantro, a few scallions,  and the contents (well, of course) of a small can of water chestnuts.  Yank some chicken from the carcass, and shred with your hands.  If you're squirmy about such things, a knife will do, but pulling by hand is the way to go for the best texture.  Stir all of the foregoing into the box and mix thoroughly. 
To serve, top with some pomegranate seeds that you happen to have lying around in the fridge.  Ring with a crown of slightly broken chow-mein noodles.  Unnecessary, I know, but I'm from the if-a-little-is-good-more-is-better school. You should see my clothes. 

Two Smallish People and One Big Bird

Since the Rangers were playing last night, I wanted to make something for dinner that would require little attention. Like takeout.  Since I'm trying to be fiscally responsible for at least the next year, I didn't want to go down that overpriced road.  Ah, but what did I espy in our local Key Food?  A seven-pound chicken for $5.31. Game on. 

I'm not going to elaborate on roasting a chicken; if you don't know how, you probably don't want to know how, and what brought you here anyway?  (Rubbed with oil, filled with shallots, dried cherries, spices added to all surface.  Start  hot, finish lower.  Ta-da.)  What I am planning on is recording, for however long it takes, what we do with the rest of that chicken.  We finished off our favorite bits, the legs/thighs last night, and are now confronted with a great deal of white meat to use up.  I'm planning some kind of pseudo-Chinese salad (complete with chow mein noodles from Streit's tonight.

In the meantime, here's the shredded chicken I had for lunch, with mayo, hot sauce, and cumin, on the amazing Magic Pop Cracker, topped with yellow Peppadews.  (I had popped the succulent oysters into my mouth some time before noon.)

And after all that, I should've made something complicated, like risotto.  The Rangers were awful.

Thanksgiving Foreplay

Found the two items above at Trader Joe's the other day. The pumpkin spread is creamy and mellow, redolent of warm spices; the cranberry-apple butter is bright and sassy. While each is yummy on its own, using them together with a little seasoning creates a little foretaste of Thanksgiving, not to mention the other face-stuffing holidays.


  Follow closely: This could go terribly wrong in inexperienced hands.  Spread a cracker (or toast, or a buttered English muffin) with the Pumpkin Cream Cheese Spread.  Sprinkle with sea salt.  Drizzle with some Cranberry Apple Butter.  Dust with poultry seasoning, preferably Bell's, or use a little crumbled dried sage.  Consume while being thankful that, unlike on that Thursday in November, there will only be a knife to wash.

Summer-Autumn Overlap at Union Square (Plenty of Seating)

Summer is morphing into autumn extremely slowly this year.  Corn and squash are costarring right now, while choruses of cherry tomatoes sing out from baskets in every corner of the market.  Tourist and New Yorkers alike form an appreciative audience sitting in Uncle Mayor Mike's popular little plaza on the northern edge of the market to enjoy the bounty of this overlapping harvest. Oh, wait...

(See my story today on Moroccan m'smen at Union Square.)

Burger Queen for a Day

On Monday*, I made what was most likely the best burger I've ever made.  What troubles me about this--aside from the fact that from now on, everything  is downhill--is I'm not at all sure why it was that good.
  1. I don't usually buy ground meat from Key Food unless it's for something that's going to be cooked well done.  This time, I had no time, told myself I was being silly in the first place, and bought a 1 pound package of ground chuck, making for burgers at around 1/2 pound each.  Bigger than that is kinda revolting, not to mention hard to handle; smaller can be way too easy to overcook.
  2.  I'd been doing a lot of cooking lately on a nonstick grill pan.  Love it, but it doesn't quite deliver the char you want surrounding that rare, beefy-red interior.  Since I also wanted to fry some onions for topping the burgers, I used a  well-aged cast-iron skillet, which retained a bit of the oniony flavor to pass on to the patties.
  3.   Used a splash of Worcestershire along with salt and pepper, nothing else.  I also remembered to add the crucial dent, using my knuckles, on top, so that patties wouldn't puff up.
  4.  Placed them on the searing hot pan, making no attempt to turn them until they released from the surface.  Too soon, and they will leave their crusty goodness on the pan.  I've done that once too often.
  5.  The cheese, ah yes, my most frequent downfall.  I love cheeseburgers.  I love them so much that I've tried every which way to make them work.  The usual way, that is, throwing on the cheese at the last minute, either resulted in half-melted cheese or overcooked burgers.  I spent a year or two messing around with other methods, like stuffing the cheese inside the burger, a la Minnesota's Juicy Lucy.  It didn't work for me: the cheese either leaked out, making an unholy sticky mess on the pan or I didn't use enough cheese, suffusing the burger with a vaguely cheesy flavor and oleaginous feel.  Too much cheese?  A blistered mouth.
  The solution was so obvious that I'm almost embarrassed to mention it.  A minute or so before the burgers are done, slap the cheese on, the cover with a pot lid or metal bowl. Perfectly melted cheese every time.    I've used aged cheddar, blue, provolone, pepper jack, and quite a few others but I  always come back to Kraft slices.  So sue me.
  6. English muffins? Okay, but a bit coy and brunchy.  Standard-issue burger buns?  Pap.  My answer is the wondrous Big Marty's sesame roll.  Sturdy enough to hold up to burger juice, cheese, and onions, coated with so many sesame seeds you can barely see the bun.  Roll royalty.  Toasted on the inside only, using my toaster, the world's slowest, on the bagel setting.

  What did the trick: One, some or all of the above?  Or, was it, as the ineffable Irma said, a kismetburger?  I won't know until I try again, which should be sometime soon.

*Not this past Monday, or even this past part Monday.  Started writing this about a week ago. Lousy fall cold left me disinterested in food and life in general.

It Doesn't Have to Be Purim!

 And, to quote an old Levy's Rye Bread commercial, "You don't have to be Jewish!"

Celebrate this rainy day--and one of the last old-school bakeries in the neighborhood--with hamentashen from Moishe's on Second Avenue.

The Return of Coney Island Native Bonomo Turkish Taffy

See my NY Daily News story, "Oh, Bonomo!" here.

Eataly: A Fine Grocery

Eataly is in the eye of the beholder: In the past couple of weeks, it's been called an indicator that the recession is ending, a sign of the apocalypse, and a doomed celebrity showcase. Given that I'm neither an economist nor a soothsayer, all I can tell you is this:  Eataly is a damned fine grocery store.  It may be fifty times larger than the Italian groceries that my mother sent me to, but it is a grocery store all the same. (My mother refused to go into one herself because she thought that the Parmesan smelled like baby puke.  I thought it smelled like heaven.)

Yes, Eataly is sprawling and somewhat oddly laid out.  The center of the store is filled with tables--served by a variety of restaurant stalls that I hope to investigate on a further visit--occupied by diners and winers chatting and observing the passing scene.  Charming enough, but stick to the perimeter, where the actual food departments live.  It is sometimes clogged with tourists and gawkers; as with Dean & DeLuca and H&M,  weekends are best avoided.

While there is an unending riot of Italian soft drinks and beer, not to mention the more obvious olive oils, pastas, cheeses, and spumoni (how did I miss that?), a lot of what you'll encounter is just fine foodstuffs.  There's nothing intrinsically Italian--or French, or Moroccan--about a lovely nectarine.  Or oysters, or lamb. Or a crunchy, just out-of-the oven loaf. 

The prices don't seem unreasonable to me, or perhaps I am still startled after paying over five bucks for three onions at my local grocery yesterday.  The seafood prices seemed in line with, say Citarella.  I got a gorgeous mozzarella ball for $3.50. You will notice more strollers than shoppers, which should make your trip to Eataly relatively easy--I was in the cashier line for less than a minute.

Let me know if you find the spumoni!

Eataly
200 Fifth Ave (@24th Strret)

Chock Full o' Memories

I have a sad history with coffee shops, at least as an employee.  My first job, at an independent joint on Kings Highway owned by a fat, pig-eyed man of indeterminate Mediterranean ancestry, lasted something under an hour.  My boss pushed me against a wall while I was donning  my pink polyester uniform in the dank icy refrigerator room in the back.  I managed to escape, but not before tossing several racks of freshly iced doughnuts into a shopping bag as I raced for the door and the B2 bus.  

My next--and last--doughnut-related job was also on the three-hundred year old thoroughfare, but in a far more pleasant and emotionally salubrious place: Chock Full o' Nuts. I worked for a very different kind of boss there: a fifty-something woman with violently dyed black hair, who told me that she had eaten a Chock Full o' Nuts hamburger for lunch every day for the last twenty-five years.  Alas, I would not approach her record.  In fact, I wouldn't even make it until lunchtime.  My astonishing incompetence in calling orders to the kitchen (perhaps I should have joined my high-school debate society, mentored by the future scourge of Manhattan, John Sexton) led to the delivery of six toasted corn muffins to one very surprised old lady.  It was then I decided that my parents were correct, and that high school should remain my sole job for the present.

I didn't hold my short-lived cakery career against Chock Full o' Nuts: I was pleased to see a Chock in Hoboken but, alas, it was a scaled-down Chock Full o' Nuts Cafe.  When I read that a full Chock would be opening on West 23rd Street, I was delighted. 

I didn't venture into the dining area--all I wanted to score were those legendary whole-wheat doughnuts and a date-bread cream cheese sandwich.  The scene was a bit chaotic, which is understandable for a place that will not be officially open until mid-October, but the decor hit every high note in my nostalgic Brooklyn soul: bright yellows, dark wood, and lots of black and white photos of a working class New York. (Not to mention black and white cookies!)

When I opened my mouth to order,  a man behind me requested a cup of coffee.  When the counterman turned to pour it, I sputtered angrily, "Do you just pick people at random to serve?  I was ahead of him!"
 He replied, "That's the owner."  Oh. I wasn't sure if that made matters better or, worse, but when I turned around to meet Joseph Bruno, a big bear of a Brooklyn native whose accent was redolent of home, all I could say was, "I'm so thrilled to be in a Chock Full o' Nuts again!" Bruno thanked me, and we chatted for a bit.  He had often gone to the Chock on Kings Highway, although not during the morning I worked there.  He told the counterman to "take good care of her," and to toss an extra doughnut in the bag, "from me."

The doughnuts--cake, by the way, not yeast--were exceptional, with a crisp outer shell surrounding a light, slightly nutty, interior.  Two for ninety-nine cents.  A great deal, for sure.

Due to the large demand from date-nut sandwich obsessed customers, the place was out of cream cheese, but that's okay:  I couldn't have grinned any more than I did as I walked downtown, knowing that sometimes, even in Manhattan, a place can still come along for us.  Not the tourists, not the hipsters, not the SATC girls, just us.  And that's more than enough for me.

(Sorry about the single crappy picture.  I ate the doughnuts before I remembered to take their portrait.)