vip in the city, page 40

Dim sum, the bite-size delicacies inextricably linked to the Chinese social tradition date from the 10th century Sung Dynasty, when chefs created these delicate morsels from rare and expensive delicacies like bird tongues and pheasant to tempt the jaded palates of the imperial court and, hopefully, to touch their hearts (which is the poetic-sounding, literal translation of “dim sum.”) Soon, teahouses along the trade routes of southern China began offering the light snacks to accompany tea served to travelers and area rural farmers, where the bites became part of a longstanding dining tradition. In the 13th century, Mongol invaders, under the command of Genghis Khan, forced the royal court – and dim sum – south to Canton.

The midday weekend crush at East Manor restaurant in Flushing:

Har gow (shrimp and bamboo-shoot dumplings):

Har cheong fun (shrimp rice noodle rolls, or shrimp rice crepes — depending on the menu):

Woo kok (taro root dumplings):

“Going for dim sum,” by the way, is a completely Westernized phrasing; native Cantonese never use this construction, instead referring to the meal as “yum cha,” literally, “drinking tea,” which was onetime the central focus of the gathering.

Our last pizza outing was deemed such a success that the boys and I felt that another adventure further afield was in order. That rainy Saturday, DK, SYB and I set out from Dad’s office for the streets of Midwood in search of the Brooklyn institution that is DiFara Pizza.

New Yorkers take their pizza very seriously. Despite being a trio of lifetime New Yorkers – and de facto pizza aficionados – not one of us had ever made the trip out to this shop on Avenue J, which is consistently ranked among the city’s premier pizzerias.

The afternoon began promisingly enough. DiFara is no under-the-radar spot — constant press keep the crowds coming despite its off-the-beaten-path locale — so we planned our visit around 4PM, hoping to catch a post-lunch/pre-dinner lull. We pulled into a parking spot down the block – no meter-feeding on Saturday, score! – and stepped into what was sure to be pizza heaven.

What was to follow next, though we did not know it at the time, can only be described as the ultimate test of foodie patience and pizza devotion. At this off-peak hour, DiFara was crowded but not impossibly so; I counted about half a dozen parties on line before us. The pies were being lovingly assembled behind the counter by one man, and one man only: Dominico DiMarco (or Domenic De Marco, depending on your source), the septuagenarian Sicilian who approaches his pizza-making like an artist crafting a masterpiece. His movements are maddeningly slow and deliberate: massaging the dough forms, ladling on the homemade San Marzano tomato sauce, carefully laying down hand-carved chunks of two types of creamy mozzarella and generous handfuls of fresh-grated grana padano (DiMarco Jr.’s only contribution to the pizza-making process), and adding meticulous swirls of olive oil and pinches of fresh basil and oregano. Once the pies emerged charred crisp and bubbling from the oven, they were each topped with a final long drawn swirl of olive oil, another handful of grated cheese, and finally, a finishing smattering of herbs which Dom cut over the pie with scissors. Voilà!

The entire process was laboriously slow — almost antiquated — and one which I had the opportunity to observe in great detail over the next hour and fifteen minutes.

Yes, 75 minutes. It took just about that long for us just to reach the head of the ordering line. Long enough for us to decide upon our toppings (the DiFara special: sausage, peppers, mushrooms and onions), to change our minds (on second thought: artichoke and porcini mushrooms), and to see several rounds of pies go to their happy owners, and a couple others sold off as slices, just as quickly as they hit the metal tray.

At last our turn: Dom’s son took the order, jotting it down in shorthand on a nearby greasy pad, and promptly disappeared into the back. Orders behind ours were taken, and another series of pies made their way in and out of the oven. At some point, DK and I dispatched to an empty table in the dingy dining area to await our pie, which we felt was sure to come any minute now.

Another fifteen minutes ticked by without much of anything happening. We watched helplessly as pizzas continued to go to those behind us on line. SYB repeated our order to Dom, who nodded cryptically, before setting off to work making other pies (not ours.)

What was going on? At this point, we had been at DiFara for well over an hour and half, subjected to the tantalizingly delicious smells of pizza, just out of reach. More waiting. Finally, the son emerged once more (to grate out some more cheese) and SYB managed to get his attention. Um, where was our pizza?

Turns out, it was not anywhere close to coming… because the artichokes were just then being cooked (!)… which, if you’ve ever cooked artichokes, you know is no quick process. When SYB balked in stunned disbelief, the son countered, not at all apologetically, “I thought you knew.”

Well, no. No, we did not know.

Did we want to cancel the order then?

What could we do? At that point, 100+ minutes into our pizza “adventure” – losing its appeal by the minute – we were not about to walk away. I trudged back to the table to deliver the bad news to DK.

He took it remarkably well. We sat in contemplative silence, as the rain continued to fall outside. A very sad SYB made a pitiable sight at the counter, head buried in his hands. Taking it all in, the entire situation struck me as suddenly, improbably hilarious. (I blame the hunger.) DK followed my gaze to the counter, after which the two of us exchanged glances and erupted into helpless, uncontrollable giggles.

It was either laugh or cry.

After a time, a pair of square pies emerged from the oven, designated for slices. Although the idea of eating pizza while waiting for pizza seemed absurd, we leapt upon the opportunity. SYB practically pounced on Dom, calling out for a couple of slices, which we snagged successfully, and carried back greedily to the table.

Those hard-won squares were, in fact, very good – in truth, probably among the best I’ve had – but still, it was not the pie we ordered. When at long, long last our artichoke and porcini pizza emerged piping hot from the oven, and got the finishing olive oil-grana padano-oregano treatment, we were all thinking the same thing: this had better be the best %$#@ pizza in the world.

And was it?

Top notch ingredients, tangy sauce, an excellent balance of flavors, but perhaps just a mite soggy from the toppings. I actually preferred the plain square slice from earlier. Definitely not worth the two hours(!!) of pizza purgatory we endured. No pizza is – sorry, Dom. We wolfed down our slices in about fifteen minutes flat.

The next day, DK forwarded us a couple of threads from Chowhound, which perhaps would have been helpful to read before making the trek. My favorite Food Network alum, David Rosengarten recently called DiFara “perhaps the worst restaurant operation I’ve ever stepped into—including a lot of huts and shacks from southeast Georgia to southeast Asia.”

Would our experience have been different – better – had we just ordered a plain pie? It probably would have been about 40 minutes shorter, but in my mind, an hour and a half is still probably too long to wait for a pizza… even if it’s (arguably) the best pizza in New York City.

All things considered, I would revisit DiFara for another taste of that legendary pizza. But not this year.

Dinner at Vynl, part of restaurateur John Dempsey’s Hell’s Kitchen empire. Originally opened in 1996, Dempsey’s cozy-kitschy diner relocated three blocks south to a larger space on 51st and Ninth, clearing the space for his other neighborhood holding, El Centro, in 2006. The new, improved Vynl is as popular as its predecessor was; this Friday there was a queue for a table at the improbably early hour of 6:30PM. Luckily, the new digs created space for an ample front bar, where a friendly bartender ladled out tall glasses of happy hour sangría to ease the pain of waiting.

Also preserved from the original: the NKOTB, Cher and Vanilla Ice action figures lining the walls; menus mounted on old LP covers (tonight: The Best of Blondie); Nelly, Dolly and Elvis-themed bathrooms; lots and lots of mirrors and glitter.

The quirky “American-Thai” menu is solid, if not particularly authentic or inspiring. No complaints, though, over our steamed vegetable dumplings and curry dishes.

From Vynl, it was a short trip — past a namesake bar and a starry restaurant – to Sony Music Studios for the Guinness Believer event. The evening was essentially a 90-minute seated presentation on all things Guinness, accompanied by plenty of audio, visual, and taste aids. Upon entering, we were handed tickets entitling us to bottles of Guinness draught — a product, we later learned, made possible by the nitrogen bubble releasing “rocket widget” technology, which was rolled out by the company in 1999, after spending several years and $13.5 million(!) in development. (The original – and patented — spherical widget had been used in Guinness draught cans since the late 1980s.)

There was some food, some creamy-headed Guinness, a video presentation, still more Guinness, and to finish things off, cans of Harp lager, which with the aid of our official souvenir Guinness “Black and Tan” pouring spoons, we employed to pour a series of perfectly striated pints.

“Sláinte” is a traditional Gaelic toast, literally translating to “health” or “to your health.” It is pronounced “SLAWN-cha” – or, as we were instructed that night, as if one were to quickly slur the words: “It’s a lawn chair!”

Given the liquid-heavy menu, the slurring was nearly a foregone conclusion.

An updated look for Wonton Garden, mostly consisting of new window signage. Why are they no longer claiming to be “The Best in Town!!”?

Well…

A trip to Chinatown is always something of a crapshoot when it comes to dining experiences: crowded tables; scary bathrooms; surly or harried waiters; brusque, bordering on rude, service… depending on your perspective it could be considered part of the charm, or at least an acceptable trade-off for access to the cheap and delicious food.

Since we began doing these Thursday Chinatown lunches, we’ve had relatively good experiences: a slight wait for a check here, a late arriving scallion pancake there… but today, our luck ran out. It was inevitable, really.

After being shown to our formica-topped table by the cashier/manager, we sat and proceeded to wait for one of the two waiters overseeing the dining room to take our order. Benign neglect is one thing, but for ten solid minutes, nothing happened. Absolutely nothing. The heads of our fellow hungry diners swivelled around in vain; a group of tourists, frustrated by their inability to snag anyone’s attention, rose in a fit of pique and left. Other groups were seated in their place, only to receive the same (non)treatment. Every now and then, we’d catch a fleeting glimpse of a waiter, only to have him disappear just as quickly to seat another party, or to put together other orders. Clearly, the skeleton staff was busy, but I didn’t see a single lunch order taken from the moment we sat down, until a pair of harried businessmen physically halted one of the waiters as he dashed by their table to drop off water glasses. It was as bizarre as it was maddening.

Now my first rule of dining out is: “Do not piss off the waitstaff” – not in general, but especially not if your food is yet to arrive. Reasons should be obvious. But we had sat patiently for nearly twenty minutes — and Wonton Garden has an open, full-view kitchen — so I felt I was on solid ground in voicing my concerns in this particular situation. Or rather, given my less-than-perfect Cantonese, wordlessly expressing them. I half stood, and shot the cashier/manager a cocked eyebrow, accompanied by emphatically opened palms (ASL for “WTF,” I believe) after which she immediately hissed some sharp words at the nearest passing waiter, who sullenly scurried over to take our order.

Minutes later, my dumpling noodle soup hit the table, followed by our fried dumplings: both reliably fresh and tasty, but the overall experience was somehow marred from having to rush through the meal to get back to the office at a reasonable time.

Eh, for $3.50 a bowl, I’ll get over it.

Sassy’s Sliders — the Upper East Side’s answer to White Castle, albeit slightly less grungy and without the bulletproof glass. The 50’s inspired fast food shop offers five varieties of their signature bite size-burgers (turkey, veggie, chicken parmesan and BBQ chicken) for just over a buck apiece — toppings extra — as well as three types of torpedo sandwiches. I have never seen anyone order the latter.

Delivery is available throughout Manhattan, with a $50 minimum. Those Wall Street guys do love their sliders.

Followed by an evening of chamber music at the 92nd Street Y. Featured on the Schubert-focused program tonight was an abruptly unfinished duo for violin and cello by Czech pianist and composer Gideon Klein, whose promising career was cut tragically short by World War II. Klein died at the Fürstengrube concentration camp in 1945 at the age of 25, leaving behind among his effects, several compositions from his time at Terezín, north of Prague, which was represented to the world by the Nazis as a model Jewish settlement, but where in reality Jews were received before being sent on to death camps.

Assessing the average age of those in the auditorium that night, I have to wonder: Who will be around to attend these concerts in 20 years?

At the “Summer in the City with Color Fashion Presentation” at Lord & Taylor:

Aside from the free-flowing pinot grigio (no fools, these marketers) and a couple of pretty frocks, J was singularly unimpressed. Note: puffy sleeves may be in vogue this season, but puffy shirts, not so much — summer blockbusters notwithstanding.

At NY City Center for Manhattan Theatre Club‘s Spring Boards, the annual play reading series dedicated to the support and development of innovative new work.

The distinctive building with the neo-Moorish façade and dome was constructed in the 1920s as a Shriners’ auditorium, after Carnegie Hall management, disturbed by the amount of cigar smoke generated during the Shriner’s meetings, evicted the organization. City Center was founded in 1943 when New York City Council President Newbold Morris and Mayor Fiorello LaGuardia converted the building into a home for the performing arts, designating it the People’s Theater — a cultural center to make the performing arts accessible to all New Yorkers.

NY City Center was the founding home to the New York City Opera and the New York City Ballet prior to the 1960s construction of Lincoln Center for the Performing Arts, which siphoned off most of the audience support for the center. The building was saved from demolition when it was designated a historical landmark, ensuring its survival as a premiere home for dance and, eventually, for a leading theater company.

The heat and humidity of Saturday had broken during the night’s thunderstorms — luckily, while we were ensconced inside The Officers’ Club — making way for this morning’s comfortable cool and bright blue skies.

I had a couple of hours to myself before the last of our wedding weekend activities, so I set out along Connecticut Avenue from the “Hinckley Hilton.”

Having been running almost entirely on adrenaline for the past 48 hours, I was sorely in need of a reviving cup of caffeine this morning. But where? South, past an eclectic mix of small restaurants and shops (including our rehearsal dinner place), I spotted a familiar green and white corporate logo, but just as I turned the corner, I discovered a yet more intriguing option: Teaism — a place I’d never visited, but whose storefront I recognized from my endless hours of late-night Food Network viewing. Finally, insomnia pays off! And let it not be said that I don’t give credit where it’s due: it was Rachael Ray’s $40 a Day (Washington DC) that had me craving Teaism’s chai and warm ginger scones for a week. And there the source stood before me, quite by accident. I made my way inside the quaint Asian-inspired café – still crowded, but a far more charming alternative than the Starbucks two doors down – and that’s exactly what I had. (And yes, they were delicious.)

Farther still, towards Dupont Circle where The Dupont Circle FreshFarm Market was in progress: besides the usual assortment of organic produce, flowers, artisanal breads, cheeses and jams, there was a mouth-watering selection of seafood and lamb products and heavenly smelling herbal soaps.

If not for our brunch that afternoon, I would have happily picked up a couple of crabcakes, a crusty roll, and some quality lemonade and thrown myself on the warm lawn with the rest of the locals.

The day began bright and early in a suite at the Army Navy Club, outfitted with furniture gifted to the United States by Chiang Kai-shek, overlooking Farragut Square. Amid the hairdressers, makeup artists, photographers and attendants, clouds of hairspray, and swirls of silk, satin, lace, sequins and tulle, CL was a picture of improbable serenity in this sunlight-dappled room.

The day passed in a whirlwind: the blooms, the groom’s tears, little boys in tuxedos, our maddeningly temperamental GPS, the tea ceremony, the toasts, the three-tiered wedding cake (cut with a naval officer sword!), the bride in her red cheongsam, the new couple’s first dance…

I’d never seen my friend so happy.

Maybe someday.

Congratulations, CL!

Driving to DC on Friday afternoon, I spied this sign on the approach to the Delaware Memorial Bridge:

Are jumpers such a widespread problem on this 2.5 mile span? A little research shows that between 1952 and 2003, 132 people took the plunge, which while not insignificant, is nowhere near the figures for the Golden Gate Bridge. I was stunned to read in The New Yorker a while back that a person jumps off that bridge every two weeks(!), on average — at least twelve hundred people since the bridge opened 70 years ago this month — a figure which prompted the initiation of the Golden Gate Bridge Suicide Deterrent System Study in 2006.

Ever wonder what it’s like to be a toll collector? Here’s an interesting Time magazine profile from 1980 when it costs 60 cents to cross from New Jersey into Delaware — now it’s $3.00 — and a somewhat less morbid view of the bridge:

And speaking of jumping off bridges (after which I will stop, promise!): David Blaine may just be the most annoying man on the planet.