Dawging

You heard it here first. Dawging is the next big thing.

What is Dawging? Well, it’s not quite as counter-culture as raving, but it does push the culinary envelope, just a bit. Hold onto your nitrites.

Our saga begins when I am sitting in Atlanta, sweating, and reading the New York Times. I bypass all the really important news and go straight to the Food Section where I learn that a new establishment, Bark Hot Dogs has just opened in Park Slope, Brooklyn. They promise “local hot dogs” from an upstate artisan.

Immediately, I ping my college roommate, “Ford MacKenzie,” once a radical underground journalist, and now a respected and well-dressed member of the financial world, a home-canning expert, amateur meterologist and a resident of Park Slope.

We have to try this place, I type frenetically. I can already smell the condiments.

Dawging. It’s the next big thing.

For somebody like me – born and raised in Long Island’s Casserole Corridor – Brooklyn is wild country, and I need a Sherpa. Ford does not disappoint. Shortly, he is sending me suggestions for additional stops on a proposed night-long odyssey of samplings at hot dog hot spots. He sets up a few ground rules:

“We shouldn't start with the dogs, but work our way up to them. How about some $3 Pabst Blue Ribbon at Blue Ribbon on 5th Ave. and 1st Place?”

Sounds like the perfect recession-era, pre-dawging cocktail to me.

Then we start to obsess over the number of calories we are likely to consume. In a brief moment of self-doubt, Ford begins to question the sanity of multiple dawging. He writes:

“It's the sides that I am worried about--maybe we should take them off the table altogether?”

My colleague Mad Me-Shell is horrified at the very thought. “No sides?” she asks, aghast. “But, what if they have Tater Tots?”

Ford and I agree on a system. We will split the dogs so that we can each taste a variety, and we’ll try and show a little restraint when it comes to the sides. We’ll try …

So I hot tail it back to New York, and we kick off the adventure at the prescribed time at Blue Ribbon in Brooklyn.

The Pabst Blue Ribbon proves to be the perfect chaser – light, crisp and palate cleansing for the gluttony ahead.

At Willie’s Dawgs at 351 Fifth Avenue, they promise “Plump, juicy and delicious hot dogs grilled any way you like them and reverently tucked into our hand rolled homemade buns.”

We are greeted by a hot dog mural in the front dining room. It’s kind of Marc Chagall meets Coney Island.

Willie’s also features a well-stocked condiment bar. Ford is bewildered at the range of choices. “I thought mustard just came in yellow,” he says.

We order the Mutt, an all-beef dawg with natural casing, and Best in Show, all natural grass-fed beef with natural casing. What does “natural” mean? I don’t ask. I don’t care. We take sauerkraut and relish on the side, and a serving of onion rings fried in Panko bread crumbs. The Mutt tastes solidly-traditional and the Best in Show is darker and spicier.

We then make a brief stop at a French bistro – the name of which I no longer remember – so that Ford can cleanse his palate with a splash of beer. In an effort to create an authentic European experience, the air conditioning at the bistro is out-of-order. Then, it is on to Bark at 474 Bergen Street. The establishment literally barks its name to people on the street with a white-hot neon sign above the door.

Inside, the approach is minimalism. The room is bright and scores of people are perched on high, family-style tables of polished wood.

We order a NYC Classic with Sweet & Sour Onions and Mustard, and Bark Dog, which comes dressed with Sweet Pepper Relish, Mustard and Onion. At this point, the beer, the mustard, and the onions take control and there is no more restraint regarding the sides – we dive off the deep end of the pool, and order the gravy fries.

The dogs are savory and satisfying, although eventually, the condiments are a little overpowering. The sweet & sour onions are very sweet. Perhaps it’s the heady nature of the condiments, but Ford is getting sentimental. Hot dogs evoke memories of youth and he starts reminiscing about Cricket Car Hop in Connecticut, which stood on the horizon like a vision of Shangri-La.

“Cricket was famous for its foot long dogs,” he says. “That's why we used to drive from Bridgeport to go there. You used to go inside on the left and order from a window. To the right of the door was a pinball machine just below the window and I think some seats. When I was a kid, the space behind Cricket was all empty marshland and it stood at the beginning of what felt like a causeway. There was a kiddie amusement park at the other end and I used to feel like I was at one of those places you see in the movies in the Midwest somewhere in the middle of nowhere.”

At this point, I don’t think offering up a fond childhood memory of purchasing Oscar Mayer Wieners from the freezer case at the A&P will wash here, so I do the next best thing. I place an order for the Pickle Dog.

Have you ever seen such a dawg? All beef, two kinds of pickles, and a marriage of mustard and mayo. It’s a mind-bending work of art.

We wrap this night of debauchery at The Chocolate Room at 86 Fifth Avenue with an order of chocolate pudding and red wine. Have we now completely regressed to nursery food? Yes. The red wine is the only thing that saves our sanity, and our arteries. And, it’s all so freakin’ good.

As I head for the train, I point out to Ford that we’ve managed to consume no green vegetables during the entire evening.

“So what’s your point?” he asks.

In order to assuage any nutritional guilt, we make a pact and agree that technically, hot dog relish qualifies as a green vegetable. And, we’ve had plenty of that.

Dawging. It’s the next big thing.

©2009 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Eating Like a Hipster in Williamsburg, Brooklyn

The Williamsburg Bridge serves as a kind of Yellow Brick Road gateway to the foodie enclave in Williamsburg, Brooklyn.

I’m not a hipster. I can barely affect “hip.” When I do, it’s usually with the frequency of leap year.

I’ve heard legends of Williamsburg, but I always thought it was a colonial theme park in Virginia. Thankfully, there are people who can set me straight. Enter my college roommate “Ford McKenzie,” once a radical underground journalist and now a respectable member of the financial world, a home-canning expert, and a grass-fed beef addict. One night over Manhattan cocktails (which I introduced him to and he now has a clearly unhealthy obsession for) he informs me that Williamsburg (in Brooklyn, not Virginia) is the happening place where foodies go to play.

So, on the first sultry weekend of Spring I find myself trotting after Ford and his wife, Mrs. M, in the shadow of the Williamsburg Bridge and the skyline of Manhattan as we attempt to take a bite out of Brooklyn.

Ford has thoroughly briefed me on the nuances of Williamsburg. “If you put a fence around it you’d think you were on a college campus,” he tells me. There is certainly a youthful vibe. Half-naked, chiseled bodies whiz past us on skateboards or bicycles. Geeky-looking guys are locked arm-in-arm with gorgeous women. Here and there, someone carries a guitar slung over his shoulder. Amidst all this action, and a plethora of graffiti, we are three visitors in a strange land attempting to satisfy our hunger and quench our thirst. Dare I say it? “Toto, I get the feeling we’re not in Kansas anymore.”

You’d think we would have planned better. When foraging in the urban jungle, one must always bring ice packs and insulated totes. We haven’t, but we quickly establish a workable “layaway” system, in which we purchase now and pick up later.

At Marlow & Daughters, the young butchers are prepping sausage, which is made on site. The meat cases are bulging with intoxicating cuts of beef. We purchase a selection of sausage, all made from local pork.

Ford can’t resist a thick stack of pork chops. His standard preparation technique for pork chops is Shake & Bake, but these beauties might require more delicate handling.

Nearby, at Mast Brothers Chocolate, the cacao beans are ground on the premises. We sample artisanal Dark Chocolate Single Origin, and I can’t resist a bar of Dark Chocolate + Fleur de Sel …

At the D.O.C. Wine Shop, rows of blushing rose are a welcomed rite of Spring …

We stop by the Bedford Cheese Shop and admire the lactose-inspired dairyscape …

All this foraging has made us ravenous. We take a table at Marlow & Sons (a family tree might be helpful to fully comprehend the Marlow progeny present in Williamsburg) where we order Fried Eggs and Potatoes with House-Made Chorizo …

A huge stack of a sandwich made from house-cured meats and garnished with olives ….

And a crisp spinach salad dotted with tart, sweet cherries …

As the afternoon wanders on, we follow crowds of sun worshipers down to the shoreline of the East River, where the skyline of Manhattan glistens ….

Intense thirst consumes us and we stop at Radegast Hall, a genuine Biergarten, where a crush of young graduate students sit at long tables consuming wurst, fries and buckets of ale imported from Germany …

Still a tad thirsty, we descend on the bar, Spuyten Duyvil for a few sips of raspberry ale imported from France …

This kind of research is quite strenuous, and we are now famished, so we head for Fette Sau, a barbecue joint located in a former machine shop …

The bar stools are made from tractor seats, and athletic bartenders race from end to end pouring flights of whisky …

The beer taps have been customized with a range of razor-sharp items from Sweeney Todd’s tool box …

I join the chow line, which is adjacent to long picnic tables where raucous groups indulge in communal gluttony. The brisket, pulled pork and Berkshire pork sausage is served on a sheet pan, which Ford slathers with different varieties of barbecue sauce …

We try a flight of whisky, where vanilla is the predominant flavor note …

Ford grabs another heaping tray of meat, this time with ribs, succulent, charred cheeks, and a slab of pork chop ….

We soar again, with a second flight of whisky. The marriage of whisky and barbecue is frankly quite thrilling, even for a couple of faux hipsters …

And, we finish with a smoky splash of Wasmund’s Single Malt Whisky from Rappahonnock County, Virginia, topped with a big, chilly ice cube.

By the way … “Fette Sau” is German for “fat pig.” I’ll let you draw your own conclusions.

©2009 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Jackson Heights, NY: Noshing in the Nation’s Most Diverse Zip Code

The great food connoisseurs say, “Go abroad. You will only truly understand cuisine when you cook and eat among the major cultures of the world.”

Have you checked the price of an airline ticket recently?

Enter my colleague, Hal2001, a creative thinker and an epicurean who never hesitates to embrace the bold, big idea. He has recently relocated to Jackson Heights, and has been exploring the eclectic food options. “You wouldn’t believe the amount of international food you can find in one square mile,” he tells me one day during a side conversation at a management meeting.

I’ve been trying hard for years now to shake my white bread culinary roots, having grown up in the “Casserole Corridor” of Long Island. Hal2001’s suggestion is as much encouragement as I need and I arrive on his doorstep on a blistering summer morning, my backpack filled with “Little Shiver Freeze Paks” in case we decide to pick up some perishables on our journey.

Jackson Heights was a planned development just outside Manhattan that was begun in 1916. Some of the area architecture is part of the National Historic Register. Today, Jackson Heights is home to numerous ethnic populations and the food that makes them famous. It is often referred to as the most diverse zip code in the nation.

Hal2001 could quickly add a couple of inches to Eugene Fodor’s waistline. He has planned a rigorous series of gourmet stopovers, all before lunchtime. The breeze dancing across Northern Boulevard feels like warm velvet as we set out on our tour. Our first stop is Cannelle, a classic French Patisserie at 75-59 31st Avenue. Jean-Claude Perennou is the Pastry Chef, and was formerly the pastry chef at the Waldorf-Astoria for a decade.

We order up a billowy and flaky traditional croissant, an almond croissant, pain aux chocolat, and two rich caramel cream puffs with a sweet, brittle crème brulee topping.

Turning our attention to Spain, we pass a distressing bus stop poster that is perhaps a harbinger of things to come:

At Despana Gourmet Foods at 86-17 Northern Boulevard, they promise “The finest from Spain.”

Inside, we are warmly greeted by Marco Santaella, who hands us each a glass of red wine and invites us to sample a spread of cheeses and chorizo like we are part of the family. It is 10:30 in the morning. Ah, well. It’s probably time for tapas in Spain at this very moment. I manage to stock up on Serrano ham, anchovies from Cantabria, Spain and Manchego cheese.

We make a quick side trip to check out the former home of film director Alfred Hitchcock, known in the neighborhood as “The Tower.” I feel like I’ve got a touch of vertigo. Perhaps it’s the wine.

On to nearby “Little India” where the clothing of the local residents has now shifted dramatically, and we encounter women dressed in saris and stores selling DVDs of Bollywood films.

We visit a neighborhood grocery store called Subzi Mandi that is bursting with fresh vegetables, exotic produce like Indian Karela, and staples like ghee, rice and spices at prices that seem like a distant memory in my local grocery store.

At the Patelle Brothers, colorful grains and legumes are stacked from the floor to the ceiling.

And, outside, enormous prickly green orbs line the store front.

There’s no way I’m taking these home, as my backpack is now filled with Jasmine Rice, Toor Dal, pearl-like orange Masoor Malka from Turkey and red whole chilli.

Walking along Roosevelt Avenue, and beneath the elevated train tracks, we are now lured by the sights and smells of Central America. Restaurants offering the cuisine of Peru, Columbia and Ecuador line the street. I can smell charred meat, and I notice that Hal2001 seems distracted, almost possessed.

“We have to visit the cerviche truck,” he says.

“You can buy cerviche from a truck?” I ask, with just a hint of skepticism in my voice. I once tried cerviche, at a fine restaurant on Costa Rica. Cerviche is an ancient food from South America. Raw fish is “cooked” when it is immersed in citrus juice and seasonings. But I’m a little hesitant when it comes to cerviche as street food.

“You’re either in or you’re out,” says Hal2001 and sprints towards a brightly-colored lavender truck parked at Roosevelt and 80th.

Inevitably, I am “in” and we split an order of Cerviche de Camaron, or shimp to those of us who don’t speak the language.

A dozen delicate, inebriated shrimp are playfully doing the back stroke amidst red onions in a cold, crisp, citrus broth. It is tart, delicious and even a little intoxicating in the afternoon heat.

For lunch, (yes, the culinary road warriors still have room for lunch!) we dine at Meson Asturias Restaurant at 40-12 83rd Street, one of the oldest Spanish restaurants in the five boroughs.

Our meal – which comes with sangria (liberally spiked with brandy) and dessert, all for $8.95 – includes a traditional soup of white beans, collard greens and smoky sausage:

And a classic preparation of chicken with rice and chorizos:

Our final stop along Roosevelt Avenue is at a traditional Mexican bakery or panaderia for Pan Dulce, a colorful Mexican sweet bread.

I choose a pretty-in-pink slice that deliciously smells of yeast and sugar in the bag.

With our cook’s tour of the world’s top cuisines concluded, I hop a train back to Long Island’s “casserole corridor,” without the typical hassle of airport delays or customs agents, and indulge in a well-deserved siesta.

©2008 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved