Bahhston, part 2: Taiwan Cafe

Catch up here! Bahhston, part 1: Pho Hoa, No Name, Finale

There's no better way to start off a day, I think, than with a Taiwanese-style breakfast. TL and I, after waking up the next morning, headed once again over to Boston's Chinatown area, this time for a savory meal of Formosa's classics at Taiwan Cafe.

Above, a bowl of sweet soy milk, a bowl of salty soy milk (with chunks of fried cruller floating on top), two flaky, pork-filled buns, and a large mantou filled with lettuce and cold slices of five-spice marinated beef. Thumbs up on the pork buns, but the beef-filled mantou was a mistake: too much bread and much too dry; nearly flavorless until I added hot sauce. The salty soy milk was good, flavorful and just a little bit spicy. Typically people ask for a whole cruller alongside and tear off large pieces to dunk in it, but I didn't order one as we also had a few other items.

Above is an egg pancake, which I try to order whenever I see it. In most cases it's something like a scallion pancake that has a layer of beaten egg adhered to one side; you eat it rolled up and cut into pieces. I love the chewiness of the pancake paired with the fried egg, and I always douse the thing with some Sriracha if I can get my hands on it. This version was just okay.

I am aware that it looks like a bun threw up here. But if you can get past that idea, you can see the dish for what it is: pieces of meltingly tender braised pork belly scattered with chopped pickled mustard leaves, sugar, and crushed peanuts, all tucked into a soft and fluffy steamed bun. It sounds weird, I know. But the combination is actually quite delicious.


Stuffed (to the gills—geddit?) with Taiwanese food, we hung out at the New England Aquarium for a few hours before heading to the bus terminal to catch our ride back to NYC.

The bus station was chaotic, packed with all the people heading out at the end of the weekend. It was a minor miracle that TL and I still managed to get seats together, which I'm sure he must have regretted once I ate one of the leftover pork buns from Taiwan Cafe, not realizing until too late that its fragrance was basically wafting over the entire back area of the bus.

Whoops…well, at least I hadn't tried to eat any stinky tofu, right?

Bahhston, part 1: Pho Hoa, No Name, Finale

The next morning after our ill-fated adventures at the Long Island City piers, TL and I woke up early to hop on a Fung Wah bus to Boston. Just several days earlier we had made the spontaneous decision to head there for the long weekend, and both of us were looking forward to getting away from the hubbub of NYC for a few days.

On the way up, we had a few roast pork buns from Tai Pan Bakery. But by the time the four-hour bus ride ended and we got to our hotel we were starving, so we quickly dropped off our bags and headed right out again in search of food. Wandering around, we moseyed right into Boston's Chinatown.

At Pho Hoa TL and I split an order of spring rolls, and he ordered a bowl of phở while I opted for the bún chả, cold rice vermicelli paired with grilled pork meatballs, sprouts and veg, and fish sauce. Bún and phở are my two fallback dishes in Vietnamese restaurants; they're generally the ones by which I judge a place. Here, the noodles in the bún chả were broken and unsatisfyingly short, making me feel like I was eating some kind of thin and slippery rice. But when I bit into one of the hefty meatballs and its sweet, smoky, porky flavor filled my mouth, that almost made up for it. There were quite a lot in my bowl, too, eight instead of the more common four or five.

After lunch TL and I spent the afternoon wandering around—he had never been to Boston, and while I had visited several times before, I hadn't seen all of it, either.

Bostonians are much more whimsically patriotic; we came upon this group while walking around near Boston Common, and were tickled when we entered a graveyard and found an entire ensemble of musicians in full 18th century gear playing marching tunes.

And later, just outside Quincy Market, a whole friggin' orchestra was playing.

The last few times I had come to Boston I had eaten at No Name, a solid, unpretentious place on the waterfront—mainly for the opportunity to eat platters of fried whole-belly clams for cheap. Tucked away in the Seaport District, its dining room is a cavernous, wood-paneled affair with paper placemats and paper cups of water that can be refilled from the pitchers on each table. The food is basic and without frills, and I had never thought of it as a popular spot. But when we arrived for dinner, I was shocked to find a long line of people snaking out the door. We had to wait for about half an hour before we were seated.

I come for the fried clams, but their fish chowder is a must. The thin, milky surface of the chowder is deceptive: beneath it hides an iceberg of fresh, flaky chunks of firm white fish, whatever is their catch of the day. The briny, un-thickened broth is swirled with dots of butter, and the fish is tender. A cup is almost a meal and a bowl will do you in entirely.

The last several times I had eaten here, the fried clam bellies had been sweet, plump, and perfectly fried. Unfortunately, not so on this night. The clams in both my clam roll and TL's fried clam platter bordered on soggy and seemed to be filled with more black gunk than usual. They were still plentiful and cheap at about ten bucks for the clam roll and seventeen for the platter, but quantity just didn't quite make up for quality this time. It may be that I'll have to retire this place.

Since we still had the Zip Car we had rented for a few more hours, we decided to drive over to Cambridge for dessert at Finale, a random choice. The place could have been a Cosi that specialized in dessert; not in a bad way, just in a pseudo-warm yet chain kind of way. Our tiramisu was served with some fancy touches, like pistachio tuiles and coffee-flavored gelee dolloped inside a curl of chocolate. Not too sweet and well prepared.

It was a nice, peaceful end to a busy day. And all too soon—tommorow—we would be heading home.

Next: Bahhston, part 2: Taiwan Cafe

Kimbap and calamari on the Fourth of July

On the Fourth of July (yes I am behind) a bunch of us decided that after three years of talking about it, we would try to catch the fireworks from the Long Island City piers, reportedly one of the best spots available. RT had gone the first year he had moved to New York, and described the view as being amazing. "They look like they're falling on your head," were his words. Year after year we had foregone the piers in favor of something else, but this year, it was time.

We arrived early to stake out a spot, which was unusually good planning on our end as later on the piers were closed to keep from overcrowding. Only with bracelets could we come back in and out.

For food, we picnicked Asian style: with a huge load of kimbap that GQ and JL went to pick up in Flushing beforehand (the above is only some of the spread). We also brought hummus, grapes, crackers, and a giant tub of cut-up watermelon. I don't know where they got it from, but the kimbap was pretty damn good, with the spicy tuna version (bottom) being the best.

Unfortunately the weather wasn't very cooperative that day, and soon after we ate the first clouds started rolling in. As the sky darkened around us and the drops started falling, the eleven of us packed up our food and cuddled up against one another under umbrellas. The rain came and went, never pouring, but never quite stopping, either. If it hadn't been so warm out still, we might never have stuck it out.

Four hours and two games of Mafia later, the fireworks began. And this was our magnificent view:

I shit you not. Unannounced to practically everyone, the fireworks this year had shifted forty blocks south in order to better showcase the New York City skyline. The hundreds of people standing on the piers clearly had no idea; we certainly didn't. And after everyone had waited for so many hours in the rain, let's just say that after our inital shock there was some slight bitterness around.

All was not lost, however. After shuffling through the hoards of people leaving the piers after the show ended, we ducked into Jackson Avenue Steak House for some drinks and a break, where plates of calamari—salty, hot, and crisp; tender and greaseless; and paired with a perfect, chunky, clearly house-made marinara—made practically everyone happy. It wasn't fireworks, but for hungry people on a rainy, frustrating day, it was pretty spectacular.

I wouldn't Alta a thing

The Whole Shebang. How many times had I heard people mentioning the craziness that is Alta's definition of the term: every damn thing on their extensive small plates menu for a total of $350? I'd wanted to indulge in this forever, but though opinions on how many people are necessary to consume this spread vary, one thing seemed certain—five people is way too few. So with only four other friends to explore the menu with, we did the best we could without getting it all.

I started with a mint julep, just to get things rolling. Mmm.


We ordered a number of small plates, and above are the crispy brussels sprouts, lamb meatballs with lebne, a bacon-wrapped olive stuffed with an almond, and sauteed broccoli rabe. Of these the tender, savory meatballs were the hit, followed by the sprouts, which had been paired with crème fraiche, pistachios, and an apple cider reduction. To me the bacon-wrapped olive, despite being, y'know, BACON, was salty and just alright, but the others scarfed them down.

I loved the crisp, tangy fried goat cheese balls, which arrived atop a sweet, gooey puddle of lavender-infused honey. But there was something odd in the flavor of the smoked eggplant and lebne dip; the menu describes za'tar, honey, and mint lemon zest, but there seemed to be something else present too that I can't put my finger on (helpful, I know). It was okay.


The "coca," described as a Catalonian flatbread and covered with roasted mushrooms, fresh ricotta, and truffled cheese, disappeared lickety-split. So did the chorizo-wrapped shrimp, four large, crisp specimens to an order. Less so the ricotta parmesan gnocci, which while tasty were a little bit too rich and heavy for the day. Tuna tartare, which came with hearts of palm, chorizo, and macadamia nuts, was something more like a salad and while fresh and light tasting, could have used a bit more acidity and/or salt somewhere, I think.

For dessert there was a cold cantaloupe soup, with an herbal note from either mint or basil (I can't remember which). I think I couldn't get used to the texture of the soup, which was almost as if it had been thickened with corn starch. I liked the flaky tart better, which was filled with sticky apricot (I think). Most of us were too full to take more than a bite though.

Alta was pretty good overall and perfectly charming; romantic, too, if you want it to be. Though nothing stood out as being super amazing in particular, most of what we ordered was tasty. I feel like I've sampled enough so that I don't need to be all crazed about doing the Whole Shebang, but still, I might be back again if I'm looking for an interesting place to eat and drink.

Yajai: For noodles yes, for fried taro no

This fried monster is the "taro pancake" appetizer from Yajai in Astoria. I'm not sure I would recommend it though—this solid block of taro shreds was fried way too hard and tasted mostly of oil, and the whole peanuts studded throughout didn't add anything to it, either. Still, for the other items on its menu Yajai remains probably one of the best in the area; they offer pretty decent curries, salads, and of course, pad thai and pad see-ew. Among other Astorian friends, Yajai seems to be everyone's standby Thai takeout place, and for good reason.

I heart outdoor food: Brooklyn Flea and New Amsterdam Market

I'll be the first to admit that it wasn't the antiques, the jewelry, or the clothing that drew me to Brooklyn Flea: it was the food. Specifically, the wares of the vendors from Red Hook that had sought refuge amongst the hipsters and bargain-hunters.

One Sunday I gathered up a handful of friends and we set out from Astoria to Fort Greene. After walking from the subway and sweating all over the place, one of the first things I did once I reached the flea market was make a beeline to water myself with a beverage. The Red Hook vendors didn't have the cashew fruit drink that I had loved so much last year, but they did have watermelon juice. Packed with small chunks of the fruit itself, the icy juice wasn't very sweet but was still the perfect antidote to the overwhelming heat.

The seven of us spread out onto different lines, acquiring various food items for the group. AL and XJS picked out pupusas, one filled with loroco flower and cheese, and another that I can't remember now. The fat cornmeal patties were rustic, piping hot, and totally tasty—awesome.

One with chicken, and one with beef: huaraches! Each necessitating two hands and at least several mouths in order to consume. Folding those suckers in half and biting into them sideways seemed to be the only way we could pull it off. Stabbing at them with forks worked, too.

After eating we all poked around the market for a while. DL picked up this rhubarb tart from Whimsy & Spice, who were also giving out samples of their excellent spiced shortbread cookies. I tried the honey lavender, the brown sugar gingerspice, and the chocolate orange cardamom, and all were really good.

And then it started to rain. Like mad!

We sought shelter on the steps of a building, under some scaffolding, while trying to figure out where to head next.

It seemed the only sensible thing to do was to head towards more food. So we hopped on a train to New Amsterdam Market by South Street Seaport (after rejecting the Unfancy Food Show as too complicated to get to). The rain had stopped by the time we came out of the station, but the market was almost closed.

Nonetheless there were plenty of treats to be had, both for sampling and for purchasing alike. I was too full to try much though, so I just bought this cup of cold-brewed iced coffee (black, please) at the New York Coffee Society booth. After hanging out for a while (and peeping Olafur Eliasson's waterfalls, anyone else think they just look like something sprung a leak?) we all parted ways, since it looked like it was about to rain again as well.

Just another day of food-centric frolicking in New York City….