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June 21, 2005
Russophile Weekend
Recently I have been experimenting with taking up food offers posted on my comments scripts. Tatyana suggested rich tortes at the Cafe Sabarsky, and so, upon arriving in New York, I let her buy me a slice (!); an Uzbek gentleman whom I haven't seen in three years wanted me to try his native Samsa, so when he drove over from Pittsburgh this weekend we went on a quest for the doughy lamb pockets (and Boy wanted plov).
Max had come ready with addresses of recommended venues, but we decided to go deep into Brooklyn in search of the Bukharan Jews. We walked around, the men consulting some genial but unhelpful locals (po-russki, of course), and I being amused by the DIY improvisational school of Cyrillic signmaking, as practised by a local furniture store (featuring "MEBELb"). Finally, we settled blindly on an establishment named Vecherniy Tashkent (7222 18th Avenue), a corridor-like restaurant with bigscreen Russian MTV.
Neither Max nor even our waitress knew what many of the items on the menu consisted of; the bilingual menu provided not translations but simple transliterations of one-word dishes. I grew suspicious of the kitchen long before the food arrived; what kind of waitress starts off explaining a soup by mentioning that it contains water?
Our "Fresh Salad" arrived first: a not-unpleasant, innocuous little dish of sliced tomatoes, onions, peppers and cucumber, doused in brine and vinegar and sprinkled over with (surprise!) dill. Our pot of black tea was a single bag of Lipton suspended in boiling water, to the pronounced and lengthy tut-tutting of my two gentlemen friends. Then came our Samsa, of which Max had inexplicably ordered six for a party of three. Solid pastry parcels of greying lamb and onions, each the size of a bear's paw. I had a sudden craving for carrot salad po-koreiski, which arrived in a characteristically Russian parfait-glass, but was uncharacteristically so bland that I was forced to Koreanise it myself at the table with dried chilis, dill vinegar and bits of broken sugar cube.
The shit hit the fan when the shashlyk arrived. The lamb, though somewhat gristly, was edible. The beef, however, Boy described memorably as "testicles marinated in faeces juice". We decided that the plov and bread we'd ordered were not worth waiting for - not that we were in much immediate danger of being served any (neither, in any event, appeared on our bill) - and left. Boy frowned and muttered imprecations for what seemed like a year or so, but was probably closer to thirty minutes.
In a beastly twist of fate (for Boy, at least, as I took the experience much less to heart), the following day I found this review of Vecherniy Tashkent, featuring the taunting sentiment,
On the other hand, the plov, or "pilaff Uzbek style" is out of this world: a lush, unctuous fried rice studded with shredded carrots and stewed meat, all anointed with bright orange shmaltz.
On Monday I hit Brighton Beach with Max, where he dipped his toes in the Atlantic for the first time,
and we were a little irreverent and outright in our mockery of that much-loved Russian accessory, Pointy Elf Shoes For Men:
I stocked up on cyrki, adzhika, baklazhannaya ikra and real ikra (red, though - as I explained to the saleslady, I am unemployed), and, frivolously, a Cheburashka DVD. Max bought mainly beer.
Posted by michele at June 21, 2005 3:54 PM
Comments
I know you probably know this already, but the best Russian food can be found on Brighton Beach. Tatyana on the boardwalk is awesome and International Food Store is amazing for take home food.
I would also recommend Queens if you're looking for specifically Bukharsky places. There are more of them there.
Posted by: Karol at June 22, 2005 12:17 PM