A Trio of Food Truck Titans Tackle the Mac (and Cheese) Truck

It had to happen sooner or later.  The stars align, the traffic patterns converge, and I find myself food trucking on a stunning spring day with my BFF Amanda and my college roommate Ford McKenzie.  It’s almost as good as the first time the Super Friends teamed up – but less spandex.  Here’s what transpired. 

It started like any other ordinary, ho-hum day.  I am leaving an appointment at the dermatologist (I ask you, what could be more ordinary than that?) and I’m obsessively checking Facebook on my iPhone as I ride the elevator down to street level.  There I see the post that will forever change my day.  The Mac Truck has landed on 47^th below Park.

The Mac Truck is the primary purveyor of mac and cheese truck food in New York City. I’ve been tracking the Mac Truck for close to a year, but never, ever have I found myself in the right place at the right time.  This is simply unacceptable for a mac and cheese addict. 

Standing on Broadway, I immediately ping my BFF Amanda back at the office.   Is she free for lunch?   Her response makes me weep.  She is in back-to-back meetings until 2:30 pm.  Next I ping my college roommate Ford McKenzie.  Despite having spent way too much quality time with me in recent days, he is game for lunch and agrees to rendezvous on Park Avenue at 12:15 PM.  Success!  I can almost taste the cheddar!

What happens next can only be described as carbohydrate karma, or an embarrassment of high calorie riches.  Amanda’s noon appointment cancels, and she too, is available for lunch!  “OMG, power of intention!” she responds.

Double good mac and cheese and a double date for lunch!

“I’m suited up and I’m even wearing lipstick today,” she writes.

“You will look stunning in whatever hotel Ford chooses for lunch,” I write back. 

We convene in the lobby at noon. Amanda is wearing a fabulous charcoal suit by Chicos, turquois jewelry accessories by Stella & Dot and cosmetics by Bobbi Brown. And don’t forget the heels.  

“This is the perfect lunch,” she tells me as we steel away through the not-so-secret underground tunnels that connect Rockefeller Center.  “My three basic food groups are lasagna, cupcakes and mac and cheese!”

The hike to 47^th and Park is a little daunting, particularly for a gal in heels, but Amanda soldiers on with great pluckiness.   I have a moment of panic when we get to 47^th and I don’t see the Mac Truck.   Have I dragged this poor woman across town in heels for nothing?

We spot Ford on the corner.  He is decked out in Carhart for Opening Ceremony cotton pants, checked custom shirt from Maxwell’s of Hong Kong, Timberland for Opening Ceremony boat shoes, a contrasting check car coat by Hope, and Brooks Brothers underwear and socks.  (I didn’t fact check the last reference).  

I am wearing generic jeans, and a Charles Tyrwhitt slim cut sky blue gingham shirt, but this is never about my fashion choices.  

I introduce them, realizing that Superman and Batman have nothing on this team.  This team up is perhaps more momentous than when Holmes met Watson, or Mary met Rhoda.

“I’m wearing skinny clothes,” says Ford by way of introduction.  “They’re not really conducive to eating mac and cheese.”  One must pity the poor fashion-forward gentleman who buys his slacks one size too small.   

I sense a commotion on the other side of Park, and indeed there seems to be a street party in progress.   There, sandwiched between a line of food vehicles is the elusive canary yellow Mac Truck.   We join the communal lunch line.   A medley of R&B and gospel music is blasting from the speaker on the Mac Truck.

Overall, this food choice may be a little risky.   It’s very near the end of mac and cheese season.  Gorging on mac and cheese in late spring is a little like wearing white after Labor Day. 

Ford immediately reveals all my deep, dark secrets from college.  “We used to call him the Phantom,” he tells Amanda, “because we could never find him.” Amanda appears to file that fact for future reference and leverage.  

My College Roommate and My Perfectly Accessorized BFF Line up for Mac N' Cheese

We reach the truck window where we are greeted by Dom, a lively and wiry guy, who is scooping mac and cheese into plastic containers.   He wears a black T-shirt with the slogan, “You May Say I’m A Dreamer.”   Until then, I’d not realized that John Lennon was a mac and cheese fan.  The “small” serving of mac and cheese could feed a small army.   We can't even fathom ordering the large serving.  Ford makes a snide remark about the calorie content, which Dom summarily dismisses. 

Dom Dishes Mac N' Cheese

“I’m on the mac and cheese diet and I’m losing weight,” he retorts.    

Amanda orders the Classic Mac N’ Cheese with breadcrumbs, I choose the Bacon Mac N’ Cheese with Parmesan, and Ford orders the BBQ Pulled Pork Mac N’ Cheese and a side of Fried Mac Bites.   That’s right – basically Mac N’ Cheese croquettes.   As he is a connoisseur, Ford also orders an orange soda to go with his nearly orange lunch.  

Ford Orders BBQ Pulled Pork Mac N' Cheese

The question we now consider is where do we eat?   Ford suggests the Intercontinental Hotel, which is right around the corner.  We’ve dined there before, but he likes the cushy paisley sofas in the lobby and thinks they will be perfect for the inevitable food coma that will follow lunch.   As we approach, the door to the hotel opens automatically, as if to welcome well-dressed street food urchins with open arms.  

We settle down on the paisley sofa, lay out the carbolicious buffet and begin to sample.   Immediately, the toasted breadcrumbs scatter across the mahogany veneer tabletop.   Amanda notes that the Classic is just a touch bland, and we wonder if Dom was dancing so fast that he might have left out the salt.   The Bacon Mac N’ Cheese is loaded with smoky flavor, and the fried Mac Bites are just a ridiculously excessive indulgence.   Hands down, our favorite is the BBQ Pulled Pork Mac N’ Cheese, which has a perfect balance of sweet and smoky BBQ sauce and cheesy goodness.   I guess we are mac and cheese iconoclasts at heart.  

Amanda gives Ford career advice (because that's what she does, and quite well, thank you) and the two of them trade parenting tips and tribulations, while I nosh on the noodles. And, if there is any doubt by now that dining on street food in hotel lobbies is the next big thing, I note that there is a couple reclining on the sofa not far from us, chowing down on taco salad in Styrofoam clamshells and drinking Pepsi.  We truly are trendsetters.  

Dining on Street Food in Hotels is the Next Big Thing

The food coma is almost immediate.  Ford considers checking into the hotel for the afternoon or making a coffee run.  After all that cheese sauce, Amanda wants a palate cleanser, so we agree to stop at a frozen yogurt truck on the way back to the office.

“Sprinkles are essential,” Amanda notes as we begin to clean up our indoor picnic.  

“My figure can’t handle frozen yogurt after mac and cheese,” says Ford and he leaves us after we’ve deposited our trash in a can on 48^th Street.  

I treat Amanda to an awesome swirl of vanilla yogurt with rainbow sprinkles, and I can’t help but notice how beautifully her perfectly lacquered red nail sets off the multi-colored sprinkles.

Can you imagine that some people actually bother to go to the Four Seasons for lunch?   If only they knew what we know.  

©2014 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved  

Melted

Who can turn the world on with her smile? My BFF Amanda can light up a room, and melt the blues away and she doesn’t even have to toss her hat in the air. Not that I’ve ever seen her with a hat.

I am craving her luminosity as we slog through this long, cold winter, so we make a lunch date to pop over to the “Melt Shop” for grilled cheese sandwiches, a new arrival in our work neighborhood. 

The only thing more comforting than a grilled cheese sandwich for lunch is a date with Amanda.  She’s let her fondness for me override her attraction for grilled cheese. She’s held off storming the Melt Shop solo until I was available. She made a pinky promise. I’m truly blessed.

Melt Shop has a lively white and yellow dairy cheddar motif. There are bright yellow picnic tables and sparkling white tile on the walls.  And, it’s packed tighter than a dairy barn during the milking hour.  There’s a heck of a lot of folks suffering from grilled cheese fever.  The team behind the counter wears T-shirts with cheesy slogans like “Girl, you looking Gouda!”

We cue up to place our order. After some consideration, Amanda selects “The Classic” – cheese on white bread with tomato and caramelized onions.   It’s kind of an elementary school throwback with a dollop of sophistication.

I go for the “Truffle Melt” – Havarti, truffle oil and arugula on sourdough.  It’s kinda precious, and kinda noveau grilled cheese. As always, the lunch adventure rules apply. We have to share. 

Amanda snags a table, so we have a chance to sit and savor the cheese.  It’s surprisingly warm in the dining area – even warmer than the grilled cheese sandwiches. Amanda cuts her sandwich into quarters, because it’s easier to share, it’s very grilled cheese traditional, and as she puts it definitively, “I always cut my grilled cheese in quarters.”  I follow suit with the truffle melt.  

Did I mention the side dish?  Some super cute, crispy tater tots that are downright yummy. 

While the tomato classic is a tad short of piping hot, Amanda declares, “Great flavor, and I like the bread to filling ratio.”  She is clearly a grilled cheese connoisseur. 

The Havarti has just the right melted, stringy, pliability.

My truffle addiction is in full gear.  I could bath in it.  Amanda is more reserved, but she thinks the truffle to cheese ratio works. “I like my truffle subtle, not noisy, intrusive and bossy,” she says.

We spend a little time gossiping and pack away a healthy amount of grilled cheese. You would think all this lactose would satisfy, but it’s not quite enough. I make a proposition. 

“If I got a shake for dessert, would you share it?”

“In a second,” Amanda replies breathlessly. There’s no debate about the flavor – Nutella-Fluff is the clear winner. I head back to the counter to place the order. 

Amanda signals her appreciation by posting this update on her Facebook page:  “Love is T.W. Barritt waiting on the really long Melt Shop line so you can share a shake.”  

I bring back two straws so we can share. Archie and Veronica, eat your heart out.  The combination of Nutella, Fluff and a drizzling of chocolate sauce are deliriously good and enough to guarantee that our afternoon productivity will probably falter.

I ask Amanda’s permission to slurp, because you can’t finish a shake without slurping.  

“You have to,” she insists.   “It’s the only way.”

My BFF even approves of slurping milkshakes. 

My heart is like a warm and cozy puddle of delicious melted cheddar.  

©2014 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved

Amanda’s Latkes and Vodkas

It was not yet Halloween and my BFF Amanda was already stressing over holiday preparations. Her issue? The stars and meteors had collided for the first time in 70 thousand years creating a November holiday mash-up extraordinaire – the celebration of Thanksgivukkah.   

“It’s so early!” she moaned. “Hanukkah and Thanksgiving on the same day?  I love both traditions, but this is going to get messy.”

Her solution is to adhere to the traditional Thanksgiving menu (“Forget any cutesy, Thanksgiving-themed latkes. It’s not gonna happen.”), and stage a latke marathon for the remaining hours of the long holiday weekend.  She invites me for a culinary play date on Saturday.  On the menu will be latkes with sour cream. Amanda does not buy into the whole applesauce shtick. 

“We might need a special cocktail to enjoy with our latkes,” Amanda suggests.  

“Perhaps, a cocktail made with potato vodka?” I ask.

Her eyes light up. “Latkes and vodkas!  It’s brilliant! It even rhymes!”

Note the plural in “vodkas.”   Because “latkes” and “vodka” singular just isn’t quite as poetic.

As Amanda is the Queen of Latkes (a well-deserved reputation which she enthusiastically promotes), I take on the vodka assignment. I visit at least four liquor stores, searching for infused options that will pair well with fried food. At one point I discover an interesting ginger and lemongrass vodka and text Amanda with the news.    

She responds, “Lemongrass and sour cream might not be friends? Think savory winter Hanukkah oil thoughts – what would the Maccabees do?”

So, I continue the hunt for latke-friendly vodkas.    

This is not the first time I’ve made latkes with Amanda. The first episode evolved into a bacchanalia of sizzling oil, fried potato and a sampling of hundreds of variations of the traditional Hamentashen cookie.  It was so completely over the top, so deliciously frightening, so insanely caloric, that I’ve never been able to tell the story, and it remains an infamous untold Culinary Types tale.  

Amanda is very particular about her latkes. Some might call her charmingly obsessive, but I think purist is the best description. 

“Grandmother said, Don’t mess with potatoes and onions,” Amanda explains crisply.  “The secret is no ingredients other than potato, onion, egg, salt and MAYBE a scooch of flour.  No nonsense. Potatoes grated and squeezed dry. Hot oil. Burn to a crisp!”

Amanda has spoken.  It’s as simple as that.

I arrive for Latke Fest – packing an intriguing selection of vodkas – and the ingredients are assembled on the counter – five pounds of potatoes along with onions, eggs and flour. She explains the formula in true Food Network instructional style

“For every pound of potato, I use about a quarter to half an onion 1/4-1/2 an onion, one egg, and maybe a tablespoon of flour,” she tells me and adds,  “The fact that some people make latkes from a mix breaks my heart.”

Here’s the recipe inspiration for Amanda’s less-is-better when it comes to latkes approach. 

We quickly peel the potatoes and Amanda runs the spuds through the Cuisinart.   She likes the larger grate hole, which results in a longer “ropier” potato.  

I’m assigned to incorporate the eggs, onion and seasoning into the potatoes using the most efficient kitchen tool ever created.

“Nothing beats clean hands,” declares Amanda, “But, women need to de-ring for the procedure. I once thought I’d lost a precious stone. It was panic time, and it would have really ruined the latkes.”

Next – with frightening speed and accuracy – she begins to scoop the potato mixture into the hot frying pan.  Hot oil sizzles, and the intoxicating smell of caramelized potato fills the kitchen.  

The latkes humming in the pan, they start to develop a festive, lacy edge.   As they cook, Amanda bemoans the state of latkes in America.  

“How can you put Matzoh in latkes” she demands.  “Matzohs are a food of oppression, and will ruin a perfectly good latke.”  

She removes the latkes from the pan, and allows them to drain on paper towels.  I sprinkle them with just a hint of salt and we commence with our pairing of latkes and vodkas.  

On the menu are three options:  LiV Vodka, made from Long Island Potatoes for the fan of locally-produced spirits, Skyy Vodka infused with real ginger(sans lemongrass), and a carnivorous delight called “Bakon Vodka.”  

The latkes are luscious – delicately crisp, with a creamy potato center.   The LiV Vodka pairs particularly well – fried potatoes melding with distilled potatoes. The Skyy Ginger offers a bright and bracing contrast to the potatoes.  This pairing is Amanda’s favorite, so much so, that I end up leaving her the bottle.

Amanda is not completely sold on the Bakon vodka pairing. 

“I don’t drink my bacon,” she says.

I, however, am quite enamored of the match. The Bakon Vodka has a smoky, salty flavor, and even a sort of fatty mouth feel that creates a kind of edible symphony with the latkes. At this point, I’m mixing my metaphors, but with three vodkas to sample, what would you expect? 

In the spirit of full disclosure – I must admit that I probably consume too many latkes, and enjoy the Bakon Vodka just a tad too much.  But, heck, tis the season, after all. 

Perhaps it’s not exactly how the Maccabees might have marked the occasion, but we are really quite pleased with our new holiday tradition.

Amanda smiles with satisfaction. “I’ve had worse lunches,” she sighs. 

The Queen of Latkes has spoken.  Happy Holidays!

©2013 T.W. Barritt All Rights Reserved