I wrote this about seven years ago when I still lived in Queens, New York. It makes me nostalgic. Nostalgia mixes with a bit of embarrassment as I note my academic tone in this particular writing. But more than making me feel nostalgic or embarrassed, for that matter, it makes me hungry for the favorite places I used to go to.
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Queens
I have proudly lived in Kew Gardens, Queens for four years while working in Manhattan.[1] I initially chose to live in Kew Gardens for practical reasons. I was going to graduate school on Long Island[2] while my then-boyfriend went to music school in Manhattan. Queens, naturally, was the best option to accommodate both of our commutes: one hour to the Upper-West Side, one hour to Stony Brook. I ended up bartending in Midtown to pay my bills that the scholarship failed to cover and got sucked into the ever-so-exciting restaurant world of New York City of the glorious early-2000’s. And here I am. But that’s another story. Let’s talk Queens.
I need to put out a disclaimer first. I am happy that more people are finding out about ethnic eateries all over Queens and other outer boroughs that used to only cater to their immediate immigrant communities. More customers make good business no matter what they are. I am, however, not thrilled that “foodie” internet boards like chowhound.com and mouthfulsoffood.com [eater.com and Twitter/InstaGram feeds today] make such locales “destinations” for untamed and authentic flavors of far-away countries, viewing them to be exotic and “Oriental” in its academic sense per Edward Said: Oriental as “the Other,” the inferior but mystically attractive. I have served a number of people who post on these boards, all well-educated, sophisticated and indeed knowledgeable about food and service; they fit into and behave perfectly at the restaurants I have served them in. On the other hand, or, really, because of this, I am uncomfortable imagining them at Spicy and Tasty in Flushing, at Pho Bang in Elmhurst, at Mexican carts in Astoria and at the Red Hook Ball Fields. I cannot help imagining them as culinary ethnographers in a foreign land, observing the local food scene as “different” and “fascinating.” I hope they do not showcase their well-researched knowledge of menu items to the arepas lady as I have seen them do in my restaurants; I hope they do not grab hold of the amazingly fast order-takers, trained to meet the demand from clients who can afford less than half hour of lunch break and less than five dollars for a meal, to ask what “exactly” is in pho A.25. I’m sure that these connoisseurs of New York restaurants genuinely enjoy food and are truly excited about discovering new flavors they have not encountered yet, but looking at the sheer number of postings and the contents of the comments, it is difficult not to imagine that there may be a sense of distance and unconscious looking down as these gourmet observers venture out of Manhattan[/Brooklyn].
That being said, for those of us who simply live here, or consider its culinary offerings as an everyday part of life, Queens is an oasis. Well, most of the time, when the E and F lines aren’t flooded and we can get to our desired destinations without using the LIRR. I spend my days in a fancy restaurant in Manhattan conversing with clients on new openings of big-name chefs as well as word-of-the-mouth-only places. There are times I go into the City on Sundays to try out a restaurant or to get together with friends, but because such outings make me feel tired as though I’m working on my precious day off, I prefer to stay in Queens as much as possible.
My laziest day would start by waking up at 9, running in Forest Park, buying the Sunday Times and a plain croissant at Baker’s Dozen in Kew Gardens on my way back with the $5 bill I stuffed in my running shorts, making a pot of coffee and having a relaxing breakfast after a shower. I would then venture into Forest Hills, get my nails done by the chatty Korean ladies at Elite Nails, catch a movie at one of the town’s two theaters, stop by Cheese of the World purchasing three different cheeses and a few rolls, make my way to Austin Naturals to for a packaged salad mix and head back home. It would be about six o’clock by this time and I would wonder if I still had any wine at home. If I realize I didn’t, I would stop by a wine store, poke around for twenty minutes and end up buying a $24.99 bottle of wine that I have not tried before.[3] If it happens to be a hot summer day, I would sneak in an Italian ice or a Tastee Delite, always eaten outside as I lick the sweet syrup dripping on my fingers. Then I would be home to have my favorite Sunday supper of salad, cheese, bread and wine. I would finish with some chocolate, take a bath and go to bed early.[4]
On cold wintry days, especially when I would be under the weather, I would take the F or the E to Forest Hills, transfer to a local line and get off at Elmhurst. I would go to one of the Vietnamese places in the strip mall off of the subway stop, order pho with rare beef rounds and tripe, carefully choose my chopsticks from the cup on the table to make sure they are the same thickness and length, grab about twenty of the tiny napkins, throw in half the mint, all the bean sprouts and squeeze two limes, dunk a bit of chili sauce and slurp rice noodles with my nose running full throttle. After fifteen minutes of slurping, chewing and frequently blowing my nose with those tiny napkins (depending on the amount of chili paste I threw in, I would sometimes need to dab my eyes from the tears that have welled up, too) I would feel warm, satiated and de-congested.[5] I would take a peek at the knife sharpener doing fine business in front of the Asian supermarket in front of the subway station, always reminding myself to bring my knives next time to be sharpened by these guys (I never do; how do I sneak in a 16-inch Henckel in my purse?). Every couple months I would go to Flushing to get my hair cut at Top Style salon next to Joe’s Shanghai. Before I leave the house I would draw a picture of the desired haircut, since I don’t speak Cantonese, and my hairstylist doesn’t speak Japanese or English. I would be perfectly happy with my $25 cut and wonder what to eat. Sometimes I would just buy a skewer of grilled chicken from the street vendor on the corner, spicy please, and walk down the streets, peering into shops that don’t care if you have food. Sometimes I would go to bakeries and buy pastries in quantities I will never finish eating before it all goes bad. Some times I would meet up with friends and have a feast surrounding a round table filled with plates and bottles of Tsing Tao. Always I would go to Hong Kong Supermarket and buy things I want to cook but never get to. My next day off is in one week, and the water spinach I buy would be bad in two days. But I buy it anyway.
Such food ventures in “ethnic” quarters of Queens are neither romantic nor exotic in my opinion. It is a part of life for those of us who live here and not an anthropological quest for the wild and the untamed. I find it pretentious and quite rude for people to get so worked up over making the 7 train trek (or E, F, V, N, Q, R). Honestly, some, no, many of the foods found in immigrant neighborhoods are not terribly good. The reason I never finish the pastries bought in Flushing is because, although they are fun and exciting for first few bites, they are never so good that I would actually finish them off. Meat skewers taste good on the street because you get to eat meat on a stick on the street on your day off; it’s like having your own little street festival. Just the food itself is not that high of a quality. Although they are fun places to go with a group of friends, I have never been terribly impressed with the quality of the beef and kimchee at most Korean BBQ places on Northern Boulevard. The foods I mentioned in the previous paragraph feel and taste good to me because they are a part of my comfortable lifestyle, but are not “mind-blowing,” “amazing” and “unbelievable” as bloggers and gourmet board posters claim them to be.
I love Queens for all the reasons opposite to what online gourmands want Queens to be like; distant, exotic, unknown and strangely fascinating. My Queens is simple, laid-back, predictable and comforting.
I have proudly lived in Kew Gardens, Queens for four years while working in Manhattan.[1] I initially chose to live in Kew Gardens for practical reasons. I was going to graduate school on Long Island[2] while my then-boyfriend went to music school in Manhattan. Queens, naturally, was the best option to accommodate both of our commutes: one hour to the Upper-West Side, one hour to Stony Brook. I ended up bartending in Midtown to pay my bills that the scholarship failed to cover and got sucked into the ever-so-exciting restaurant world of New York City of the glorious early-2000’s. And here I am. But that’s another story. Let’s talk Queens.
I need to put out a disclaimer first. I am happy that more people are finding out about ethnic eateries all over Queens and other outer boroughs that used to only cater to their immediate immigrant communities. More customers make good business no matter what they are. I am, however, not thrilled that “foodie” internet boards like chowhound.com and mouthfulsoffood.com [eater.com and Twitter/InstaGram feeds today] make such locales “destinations” for untamed and authentic flavors of far-away countries, viewing them to be exotic and “Oriental” in its academic sense per Edward Said: Oriental as “the Other,” the inferior but mystically attractive. I have served a number of people who post on these boards, all well-educated, sophisticated and indeed knowledgeable about food and service; they fit into and behave perfectly at the restaurants I have served them in. On the other hand, or, really, because of this, I am uncomfortable imagining them at Spicy and Tasty in Flushing, at Pho Bang in Elmhurst, at Mexican carts in Astoria and at the Red Hook Ball Fields. I cannot help imagining them as culinary ethnographers in a foreign land, observing the local food scene as “different” and “fascinating.” I hope they do not showcase their well-researched knowledge of menu items to the arepas lady as I have seen them do in my restaurants; I hope they do not grab hold of the amazingly fast order-takers, trained to meet the demand from clients who can afford less than half hour of lunch break and less than five dollars for a meal, to ask what “exactly” is in pho A.25. I’m sure that these connoisseurs of New York restaurants genuinely enjoy food and are truly excited about discovering new flavors they have not encountered yet, but looking at the sheer number of postings and the contents of the comments, it is difficult not to imagine that there may be a sense of distance and unconscious looking down as these gourmet observers venture out of Manhattan[/Brooklyn].
That being said, for those of us who simply live here, or consider its culinary offerings as an everyday part of life, Queens is an oasis. Well, most of the time, when the E and F lines aren’t flooded and we can get to our desired destinations without using the LIRR. I spend my days in a fancy restaurant in Manhattan conversing with clients on new openings of big-name chefs as well as word-of-the-mouth-only places. There are times I go into the City on Sundays to try out a restaurant or to get together with friends, but because such outings make me feel tired as though I’m working on my precious day off, I prefer to stay in Queens as much as possible.
My laziest day would start by waking up at 9, running in Forest Park, buying the Sunday Times and a plain croissant at Baker’s Dozen in Kew Gardens on my way back with the $5 bill I stuffed in my running shorts, making a pot of coffee and having a relaxing breakfast after a shower. I would then venture into Forest Hills, get my nails done by the chatty Korean ladies at Elite Nails, catch a movie at one of the town’s two theaters, stop by Cheese of the World purchasing three different cheeses and a few rolls, make my way to Austin Naturals to for a packaged salad mix and head back home. It would be about six o’clock by this time and I would wonder if I still had any wine at home. If I realize I didn’t, I would stop by a wine store, poke around for twenty minutes and end up buying a $24.99 bottle of wine that I have not tried before.[3] If it happens to be a hot summer day, I would sneak in an Italian ice or a Tastee Delite, always eaten outside as I lick the sweet syrup dripping on my fingers. Then I would be home to have my favorite Sunday supper of salad, cheese, bread and wine. I would finish with some chocolate, take a bath and go to bed early.[4]
On cold wintry days, especially when I would be under the weather, I would take the F or the E to Forest Hills, transfer to a local line and get off at Elmhurst. I would go to one of the Vietnamese places in the strip mall off of the subway stop, order pho with rare beef rounds and tripe, carefully choose my chopsticks from the cup on the table to make sure they are the same thickness and length, grab about twenty of the tiny napkins, throw in half the mint, all the bean sprouts and squeeze two limes, dunk a bit of chili sauce and slurp rice noodles with my nose running full throttle. After fifteen minutes of slurping, chewing and frequently blowing my nose with those tiny napkins (depending on the amount of chili paste I threw in, I would sometimes need to dab my eyes from the tears that have welled up, too) I would feel warm, satiated and de-congested.[5] I would take a peek at the knife sharpener doing fine business in front of the Asian supermarket in front of the subway station, always reminding myself to bring my knives next time to be sharpened by these guys (I never do; how do I sneak in a 16-inch Henckel in my purse?). Every couple months I would go to Flushing to get my hair cut at Top Style salon next to Joe’s Shanghai. Before I leave the house I would draw a picture of the desired haircut, since I don’t speak Cantonese, and my hairstylist doesn’t speak Japanese or English. I would be perfectly happy with my $25 cut and wonder what to eat. Sometimes I would just buy a skewer of grilled chicken from the street vendor on the corner, spicy please, and walk down the streets, peering into shops that don’t care if you have food. Sometimes I would go to bakeries and buy pastries in quantities I will never finish eating before it all goes bad. Some times I would meet up with friends and have a feast surrounding a round table filled with plates and bottles of Tsing Tao. Always I would go to Hong Kong Supermarket and buy things I want to cook but never get to. My next day off is in one week, and the water spinach I buy would be bad in two days. But I buy it anyway.
Such food ventures in “ethnic” quarters of Queens are neither romantic nor exotic in my opinion. It is a part of life for those of us who live here and not an anthropological quest for the wild and the untamed. I find it pretentious and quite rude for people to get so worked up over making the 7 train trek (or E, F, V, N, Q, R). Honestly, some, no, many of the foods found in immigrant neighborhoods are not terribly good. The reason I never finish the pastries bought in Flushing is because, although they are fun and exciting for first few bites, they are never so good that I would actually finish them off. Meat skewers taste good on the street because you get to eat meat on a stick on the street on your day off; it’s like having your own little street festival. Just the food itself is not that high of a quality. Although they are fun places to go with a group of friends, I have never been terribly impressed with the quality of the beef and kimchee at most Korean BBQ places on Northern Boulevard. The foods I mentioned in the previous paragraph feel and taste good to me because they are a part of my comfortable lifestyle, but are not “mind-blowing,” “amazing” and “unbelievable” as bloggers and gourmet board posters claim them to be.
I love Queens for all the reasons opposite to what online gourmands want Queens to be like; distant, exotic, unknown and strangely fascinating. My Queens is simple, laid-back, predictable and comforting.
[1] For many young professionals who work in Manhattan but cannot afford to pay the minimum $3K a month for rent, the obvious choice is to live in the outer boroughs or New Jersey. Brooklyn is the coolest pick, [way too cool now]followed by New Jersey, the Bronx and Queens.[2] Studying music theory and history. Yeah, I know. What happened? My parents would ask the same question.[3] $14.99 seems too cheap and $34.99 seems too expensive. Somehow a $24.99 bottle would convince me of the value of the wine no matter how good or bad the wine might be.[4] On even lazier days, and I write this as a footnote because I am embarrassed to put it in 12-point font, I would buy a can of beer and kaki no tane (tiny rice crackers) with peanuts and consider the combination a perfect supper, especially when followed by a nice bowl of Haagen Daz strawberry ice cream. Bath and turning in early would follow the same way as in aforementioned situation.[5] This, my friends, is not a pretty scene. For this reason, this is always done alone. I don’t ask for company on my pho days.
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