Exciting! Exciting!

Charles is coming back!!!! Oh man, my sweatpants can hardly wait for my next trip to New York, so I can eat some of that fantastic fried chicken. Aficionados will only need to wait until October 15th.

Plant Jenny's Garden

I've been raving about the cooking skills of Jenny for awhile. Jenny is responsible for the revitalization of the park area up around 138th on the west side. Years ago it was an area frequented by prostitutes and drug dealers, but she took it upon herself to clean the area up.

New York Cares offers a gardening volunteering opportunity at Jenny's Garden, and on occassion, Jenny cooks.

Near the shed where she keeps the tools, Jenny also grows some vegetables and fruits that she uses in her fabulous cooking.

As a way of thanking her volunteers she'll sometimes cook a massive buffet.

Jenny will make you work for it. She has her team weeding and pruning all morning long.

And there won't be any opportunity to show off your young, healthy, muscular body because Jenny, will inevitably have more energy and stamina than you.

Apparently she woke up at 5 in the morning this day to prepare our feast.

I don't know how she does it. I first tried Jenny's cooking about two years ago, and for some reason her oven broke down that day, so she ended up going to her daughter's (who lives in the same building) and cooking into the wee hours of the night.

A vision of sun-dappled mac 'n cheese in Manhattan, now that's a life worth living.

I don't know what this is, but it was good.

Collards that Jenny grows in her garden.

It's startling the availability of unexpected experiences one can find in New York.

Some of her friends brought a few side dishes, and I believe this Moroccan carrot salad was one of them.

A decimated beet salad, can you guess why?

This is my plate, round 1. As you can see, I don't believe in missing out.

Burgers on a grill.

The lady herself. Jenny is an unstoppable force of nature.

And this pie. Lord have mercy.

Flaky and sweet and all sorts of homemade goodness.

Take a good gander and feel envious. There's really no other proper reaction.

Prune

In my continuing quest to try everything on Prune's menu, I went ahead and ordered their hot chocolate and their toasted caraway seed and sour cream omelette.


These homemade marshmallows intimidate me. I'm not much for sweets, and these suckers are denser than the mass-market processed ones. I ended up eating about a third before it did me in.

Prune's potatoes rosti have got to be amongst the best in town; they are the perfect combination of crispy on the outside and soft on the inside. The omelette doesn't look to soft with its wide expanse of smooth exterior, but it had a surprisingly light and fluffy interior, and there was a more than generous smear of sour cream that made me wonder why I had ever been reluctant to order this dish.

Next goal, go to Prune for dinner. I really need to find a way to get G, my so-called friend, bastard consultant, who really is the spawn of a legitimate marriage to go with me because he's the only one I know who will truly embrace a dinner of bone marrow and sweetbreads.

Prune, 54 E. 1st Street (b/n 1st and 2nd Ave.), 212-677-6221

Soul Food and Silverware

Happy Birthday to me. As an excuse to throw a party and be lazy, I called over a bunch of friendly folks over to the apartment for some good food and good conversation. Since I knew I didn't have time to cook, and even if I did, I didn't want to reek of grease for once, I ordered the food from Charles Southern Kitchen, which is my favorite place to get fried chicken in town.

A person's cooking had better be pretty amazing for me to allow it on my dining table and present it on my serving ware.


Back to arranging all the food for guests. The dishes were all loaded into those shallow aluminum pans that one sees everywhere in barbeques or picnics at the park. The mac n cheese suffered the most in the transfer from aluminum to serving vessel. I made W, who has a Ph.D in something related to chemistry and works in management consulting, transfer the mac n cheese from the squat rectangle to the skinny rectangle of my Pyrex dish. This was upon the pretense that he was the most mentally equipped person to figure out the geometry problem, but it was also so it wouldn't be my fault when the mac n cheese inevitably cracked in the move. Actually, he did a pretty good job.

Then there was the potato salad, which was pretty eggy. Look at how much yolk Charles puts in his potato salad. Hello sweet sweet cholesterol. It cracks me up to see the Gramercy Tavern and Public matches nestled amongst the candles, since the table is covered with food from 152nd St. I bet the vast majority of people who dine at Gramercy Tavern and Public rarely make it about 59th St.

People loved the candied yams. I was tempted to take credit for it.

Either people must not believe in porky tasting greens or there is a huge amount of collard greens packed in there because all the dishes were decimated by the end of the night except for this one, and I think Charles's collards are excellent. The problem is probably the latter because I'm still drowning in collard greens as I slowly try to work through the leftovers.

And finally, the blessed chicken. I ordered 60 pieces. Thank goodness. I was intending to order 40, and KM basically was able to convey over g-chat that that plan was stupendously moronic.

There was also a huge red velvet cake and some extremely rich and delicious chocolate brownies that a friend brought over.

I got a huge basin for chilling wine and the French Laundry cookbook. I cannot wait to dig into the cookbook, and we loaded up the wine cooler with beer that very night, so it's already a member of the household.

Cheesy Jalapeno Cornbread Muffins

In preparation for a birthday party, I only made one dish, Cheesy Jalapeno Cornbread Muffins. I based it off of this recipe from Epicurious, basically following it except I dumped in a bag of shredded chedder cheese and used whole milk instead of buttermilk. I may have thrown in a little half-n-half on top of the whole milk. Might have been a bit heavy with the butter too. I doubled the recipe and ended up using four large jalapenos.

These were pretty easy to make. Maybe about an hour from start to finish. Easily could be less, but I didn't set out with a clear game plan. Originally I intended to cook just one batch, but I'm constantly afraid there won't be enough food.

Sadly these were served just warm and a day later, even though they are best straight out of the oven, hot, soft and cheesy.

A Chat with Charles

I paid a visit to Charles of Charles Southern Style Kitchen, otherwise known as the purveyor of the finest fried chicken in town. I'm throwing a party soon, and there won't be time to cook for it, and I'm feeling lazy and decided to bring in some cooking that I could serve with my head held high. There wasn't much information available to figure out costs and sizes for large orders, so I took the subway up to 155th and had my first official meeting with the man.

Charles works hard. Seven days a week, every week of the year except one week off to visit home, which is Charlotte, North Carolina. He believes that his method of frying in soybean oil in huge cast iron pans instead of using a fryer is what sets his chicken apart. Since it's necessary to turn the chicken, the whole piece doesn't sit in the oil and lose its flavor or absorb too much oil. It takes about 20 minutes before the chicken is finished. This doesn't make too much sense to me, but Charles knows better than I.

Above is the buffet portion of Charles's restaurant. About a month ago, some drunk teenagers took a wrong turn at 2:30 a.m. and ended up in the restaurant. Luckily, noone was hurt. It's going to take about another week for the insurance money to go through and for Charles to rebuild and reopen. I hope it happens soon.

*news flash* I just got off the phone with Charles's wife. She seems really nice. But the woman does not like to cook! Amazing. I told her she married the right man.

My Pants May be Safe

This weekend I volunteered again uptown. Instead of heading to Charles per my usual habit, I decided to do something about the survival of Soul Food in Harlem and head to Louise's. It's not that lively around 121st and Malcolm X, and the storefront looks decidedly rundown.

Louise's is a little depressing. When I walked in around 2:30 p.m., it was completely empty. A countertop with stools runs along the right-hand side of the restaurant, and the seats off of the first two stools were missing. The restaurant had dealt with this problem by covering each seatless stool with a black garbage bag. There is no restroom to use, and instead they provide a CVS antibacterial wipe to clean your hands. When using antibacterial products, you're hands are supposed to be wet for over fifteen seconds. (Here's a helpful article.) There's no way your hands are going to be wet long enough using a moist wipe. In a restaurant that serves food that's begging to be eaten with one's hands, this seems rather unsanitary.

In fact, gag moment, I just discovered that Louise's has not done so well on its most recent inspection by the Health Department. Thank you immune system, I didn't get sick, but maybe small children and the elderly should think twice. Oh, that's a terrible thing to say about a restaurant on its last legs, but I really can't recommend Louise's. I'm happy to report that Charles's passed their inspection.

The real problem with Louise's is that the food isn't blow-your-mind delicious, which is really what it needs to be in order for the restaurant to survive. I ordered the ribs, collard greens and potato salad, which comes with a side of corn bread. There was some miscommunication because the witress told me that pig's feet were only available on Friday's, but I'm pretty sure that a man who came in afterwards was able to get a plate of pig's feet, collard greens and black-eyed peas. The ribs were not tender and fatty enough. And speaking as a salt fiend, both the ribs and the potato salad were too salty! This is a rare complaint coming from my lips. The butter on the corn bread was fantastic, and the corn bread was that slightly gritty style that I prefer, but the edges were overcooked and dry. The collard greens were nonoffensive, but there wasn't a pronounced smoky or porky flavor to them. Nevertheless, they were the only item I completely finished.

So it's a no on Louise's. But not necessarily a no on uptown eating. After lunch, I wandered around the neighborbood, and there were a lot of African grocery stores and restaurants. Which part of Africa I don't remember, I want to say Senegalese, but I'm not sure. Anyways, it all looked very intriguing, so I'm hoping to check them out soon.

This is tragic

Oh no, I just read this article from the New York Times, "In Changing Harlem, Soul Food Struggles." This is tragic. I'm battling my desire to fit into my pants and this battle cry I hear to single-handedly try to stem the exodus of soul food from uptown.

I'm not joking about the pants, either. Summer of 2005, I spent a month in Florence and two in Paris. In the process, I must have gained 15 pounds. When I came back, I could only fit into pants with elastic and this one pair of jeans that thankfully had 2% lycra in the fiber blend. I refused to buy fat clothes because I knew that then it would be over, and it'd be muffin-top all the way until I hit the grave. It took me a bloody year to lose the weight, and at the end of it not only was I able to revisit the rest of the pants in my closet, I managed to cram myself for a wedding in a black formal gown I purchased in college. We won't focus on the fact that at the end of that night, when I peeled of said dress, all down my left side was a clear imprint of the zipper, pressure tattooed into my flesh. Sexy yes?

So back to Harlem, I can't believe I missed out on pig tail stew. Augh!

Biggest Mistake

Yesterday, I made what may have been one of the all-time most stupid eating decisions in recent memory. This story is long, as nearly all my stories are, so brace yourself. One of my favorite volunteer projects is a gardening project up near 137th Street on the West Side -- effectively the boondocks as far as this Lower East Sider is concerned.

The team leader has been spearheading this project for over a decade and usually brings those Dunkin' Donuts holes, that I've since been informed are called Munchies. Those donut holes will save you because, Jenny, the grand lady who runs this community garden will work you hard. First time I volunteered she had a half dozen volunteers shoveling into painter's pails a mountain of wood chips taller than any of us, while another half dozen folks scurried around dumping the mulch all over the garden beds.

Luckily, Jenny is a loving generous woman, and perhaps more importantly to me, an amazing cook. She grows collard greens and other vegetables on one plot of land and usually cooks up a feast. This woman does not mess around. That first gardening experience, her oven had broken down, but her daughter lived below her, so she had commandeered her child's kitchen and cooked late into the night. Her husband mans the grill, and he's not so shabby either, but I'm sending my accolades Jenny's way. There were ribs, grilled chicken, collard greens, mashed potatoes, mac and cheese, candied yams, salad, lemon pound cake, lemonade and at least a handful more sides that I can't recall. After hours of sweating over woodchips, I nearly swooned with happiness that first volunteer session when I realized that Jenny was going to let us dive into this spread of hers.

So you must understand that this time I had a certain amount of gustatory anticipation when I was rushing up ina taxi to make it to the garden 10 minutes late. Terrible news, that last tulip bulb planting session months back also turned out to be the team leader's final run of it. She had moved to the burbs, and the commute was too long. (Note to city folks who move to burbs: See what happens? You still think it was a good idea?)

The new team leader, sweet thing that she was, did not know about the donut holes. Jenny and her husband threw around some excuses about being busy and doctor's appointments, but frankly I think Jenny was just depressed about the old team leader leaving because Jenny did not cook. So when two hours of weeding and raking leaves had passed, and people stopped for a snack around noon, I was not thinking straight. I did not bring a snack. I was running late. I did not think I would need to bring a snack. I did not know what to do.

A friend suggested we head over to Broadway and see what there was to buy. Conveniently, a Subway sat on the corner. I have not had a Subway sandwich in who knows how many years. Last time I can remember was back in high school when I was on a school extracurricular trip, and one of the kids in the car was a gangly fellow who liked to drink several sodas for breakfast and loved Subway sandwiches.

I thought it was be a treat to eat trashy junk food -- something different. Mind you, we were scheduled to slave under Jenny for another two hours. (I kid about the slaving, but I had forgotten that I was volunteering and not intending to eagerly trade manual labor for some amazing home cooked food.) So I ordered a 6" Philly cheesesteak and proceeded to stuff my face with it on the walk back to the gardens.

By the time we got back, it was probably closer to 12:30pm. I walked in full and ready to squat amidst the plants and yank at some weeds for another hour plus. But where were my gloves? Turns out that Jenny had a 1pm appointment and everyone was tidying up. Someone else had put away my gloves, while I was putting the last bits of salty chopped meat, melted cheeze and fluffy bread away. There was maybe 5 minutes more of work. Don't see the disaster that's about to happen do you?

This is because you might not know that I love fried chicken, though you might have guessed by now I suppose. You also might not know that I know from personal experience that Charles Southern Style Kitchen has arguably the best fried chicken in town. Charles is on Frederick Douglass between 151st and 152nd. From the vantage point of the LES, this is very very far away from home. It's easier to hop on a plane and fly to the Carribbean than it is to gird yourself up to go up to 151st. You think I'm joking, but I'm not. You definitely didn't know, but maybe you are piecing this together, that I always intended to try and swing by Charles after volunteering because 151st and Frederick Douglass does not look very far away from the vantage point of 137th and Riverside.


The point is, there is no excuse and I should have known better. So now you know. Now you can see what happened. I convinced another friend, K, to walk with me to Charles, where for 14 dollars and some cents you can get all-you-can eat fried chicken, ribs, baked(?) chicken, candied yams, collard greens, green beans, mac n cheese, potato salad, coleslaw, fruit salad, corn bread, sweet tea, lemonade and for dessert slices of coconut/chocolate cake or carrot cake.

I walked into Charles completely full. It had been a year since the one and only other time I visited this place. K and I knew what we were going to do, and we foresaw that it was going to hurt. I loaded my plate with collard greens, mac n cheese, green beans, potato salad and coleslaw. Then I ordered some sweet tea. Then I got another plate and picked 2 thighs and 2 drumsticks for K and me.

Yes, yes, there was plenty of other goodness that I left behind on the buffet table. I do not apologize about skipping the other meats because I wasn't about to waste space on what I'm sure was perfectly decent food, but I wasn't going to go fool around with decent or even pretty darn good when I had heaven on my plate. (Note to philanderers: one needs to know when to grow up, make a decision and focus on the fine things in life.) The candied yams and the cornbread -- yeah, those are some pretty bad casualties I admit.

Oh sweet mother, Charles knows how to fry some chicken. You know something is good when your entire body is screaming "No, no, no!", but when that third piece of fried chicken touches your lips it still tastes good. I imagined my stomach looking up from below and waving its hands in frantic protest shouting, "What are you doing? Don't you understand that it's all we can do from keeping the entire system from collapsing? This is a Code Red. A Code Red. Stop! And preserve yourself, for the love of all that is good and decent!"

I was eating greasy chicken with my fingers, and I'm not the most neat eater to begin with. At one point I unthinkingly dive bombed my hand between my thighs because pieces of fried chicken skin had missed the napkin, and I was wearing shorts. Two gentlemen sitting next to us happen to laugh right afterwards, and I suddenly realized that maybe I was the object of their amusement and that I had officially lost all sense of propriety.

I know you're not impressed at my stomach pains at only the third piece, but that darn Subway sandwich was filling. The bread must have been soaking up the sweet tea and messing everything up.

To give you a better sense of what Charles can do to someone who is prepared and not some dumb fool, my friend K managed to get down a full serving of mac n cheese, collard greens, two servings of candied yams, a rib, a big piece of corn bread, 5 and a half pieces of fried chicken (and she wasn't some namby pamby cheating by eating only wings; breast, thigh and drumstick all spent short stays on her plate), two sweet teas, one lemonade, and I helped her pick at two thin slices of the coconut/chocolate cake and the carrot cake.

Around K's fourth piece I yelled at her to stop, she was going to throw up and die. I used to mock K about her ability to chow down. Never again.

The walk to the subway was so painful. I flitted with the idea of throwing up when I went to the bathroom, but I knew it was pointless to try. In a previous gorging scenario, I had crouched above the toilet bowl but my stomach had been so trained to embrace the food I send it that nothing happened, and I realized that I probably shouldn't consciously embrace an eating disorder, gave up, got into bed and moaned softly.

That Subway sandwich was the biggest mistake. But I ate enough fried chicken to remember it fondly for months and hold me by until I can next make it back up to 151st. Because I don't let my mistakes get in the way of getting the job done.