I aspired to be a fruitarian and was obsessed with fruit. I had fantasies of finding my own Shangri-La. And I had at last a vacation booked to visit my first tropical island – Puerto Rico, where I hoped at least to find some taste of tropical paradise.

My girlfriend at the time was Hispanic, and she had few relatives who hailed from Puerto Rico. Knowing my passion for all things fruit, her cousin asked if I had ever tasted guanabana. When I responded in the negative, his response was, “Ohhhhhh, guanabana.” When I asked others about this mystery fruit, I got the same response. It became a private joke among us and a comedic refrain, much like Comin’ Up Comin’ Up. I could see that my trip to Puerto Rico was to become a mission to find guanabana. I did finally have guanabana, known as soursop in the United States, which can be found in markets here, particularly those catering to West Indians. It has a quite unique flavor and texture, perhaps an acquired taste.

At the time, I believed that natural sugar was better than refined. I learned that West Indians prepared sugar cane juice. I reasoned that this certainly must be the nectar of the gods, and I lusted for a taste. However, I had never seen sugarcane juice in New York City but I learned that it could be had in Spanish Harlem. I remember the excitement when I saw my first large stalks of sugar cane at a street side vendor. The cane was run through a press and juice came running out below. I purchased a small cup. It was ghastly sweet – virtually undrinkable, even between a number of people. What had I been thinking? It was literally pure sugar and water. Better to stay with fruit.

Recently, on a trip to Jamaica Bay, a wrong turn in East New York, Brooklyn, brought me to a fruit stand. It was tidy and pristine-looking, and my companion and I had eaten little. Stopping was de rigueur.  The fruit looked phenomenal. Everything appeared to be at optimal ripeness. There was watermelon, papaya, mango, pineapple, cantaloupe, avocado, banana, coconut, and bags of peeled oranges.

The owner, Ulysses, was so congenial and sensed my love of all things fruit. He welcomed my photography and as I explored his roadside domain, I learned that the entire group socializing behind the stand was his family – father, mother, brother, and uncle. His father, Victor, was busy preparing fresh coconut, something rarely found for some inexplicable reason. A small container for $2 was an extraordinary bargain. Papaya, typically a pricey fruit, was selling for much less than typically found in Manhattan. I purchased a large specimen for $6.00.

We spoke of guanabana and the world of fruit. As I surveyed his fruit stand, leaning against a truck were stalks of sugarcane, and as chance would have it, they had a press and were making juice. When I told them that my companion had never had sugarcane juice, they offered a sample with abundant ice, which did some to chill and dilute the sugary drink. But to me, fruit is a virtual metaphor for good, with or without Guanabana 🙂

You want some sprouts, man? It was the 1970s in Washington Square Park, and a friend, rather than trade in drugs, was offering free raw alfalfa sprouts from a clear plastic bag. Sprouts were huge in New York City, as was raw foodism and other innumerable variants on extreme dietary regimes.

Natural foods or vegetarianism had not yet gone mainstream. Even in New York, there were no Trader Joe’s, Whole Foods, or Jamba Juice, or anything like them. It was infinitely better than the burbs, however, one still had to search to find those few establishments catering to vegetarians – places like the Cauldron or Angelica Kitchen.

The problem with vegetarian or natural foods restaurants, historically and even to this day, is that the cuisine is guided primarily by what is NOT, rather than a celebration of flavor. Of course all restaurants strive to make things tasty, however, whereas in French cooking, regardless of any health consideration, if it tastes good it’s going IN, in the natural foods or vegetarian community, if it is tastes great but is verboten dietarily, it’s staying OUT. And then there are things eaten irrespective of taste because of their purported health benefits, like brewer’s yeast. At the time, the phrase health foods was used more than the currently prevalent natural foods. The prevailing thinking at the time is best illustrated by an experience I had:

I used to frequent a health food store on 8th Street in Greenwich Village. I knew the owner, Gene, well and found myself many days visiting the shop, lingering and socializing. One day, I pointed out a health bar to Gene that was particularly dreadful – it was made with raw grains and had a distinctive taste of raw dough and was bitter. Having never tried that particular bar, the owner grabbed one, tore the wrapper open and took one bite. He immediately spit it onto the floor and through out the rest. He agreed it was disgusting and inedible. I asked if these actually sold. He said yes, quite well. More importantly, I asked if any were ever purchased more than once by the same customer. He said yes. Incredulous, I asked why. He answered because they thought it was healthy.

Although certainly today’s natural foods strive for a much higher standard, nonetheless the industry is still largely guided by restriction. It is this that leads someone like Anthony Bourdain to make his notoriously caustic remark about vegetarians.

All this said, I was a vegetarian for decades and still am health conscious in my eating habits. Recently, I decided to revisit and introduce to my girlfriend the legendary Angelica Kitchen, a place I had not been to in 30 years. I had no idea what to expect – my memory of the place was old-school grubby decor and strict dietary guidelines.

I was surprised walking in that it was now quite upscale in decor. The place was packed with a cue for a table. Certainly things had changed, and already I had a story idea and title – Vegetarianism Grows Up. I was very optimistic and full expected that Angelica’s would be added to the “list” and would be part of my regular restaurant rotation. I remembered their famed “Dragon Bowl” and ordered that, along with soup and their bread and miso-tahini spread. My girlfriend ordered a dinner salad.

The food arrived. As we ate, things became progressively more and more disappointing. The bread brought back memories – it was the same, leaden and tiresome even with the miso-tahini spread. The soup was extremely bland. My girlfriend’s salad entree was appetizer-size and plain. Cold drinks were described as chilled – ice is taboo and not available. Nonetheless, most online reviews for Angelica Kitchen are excellent.

There is a great scene in the film Annie Hall with Woody Allen that echoes my sentiments and ties my life experience in health foods together nicely. In the film, Woody visits Annie in LA. They meet in a health food restaurant. Looking at the menu, Woody orders a cliched meal: I’m gonna have the alfalfa sprouts and a plate of the Mashed Yeast. 🙂

Related Posts: Whole Earth Bakery, Vegan Chic

I was born and my parents grew up in an area where cheese type was identified by color. One color. If you doubt me or do not understand, read The Yellow Kind, I Guess here. Eating out was mostly about value and portion size. One of my uncles and his wife ate virtually nothing but starches – dinner consisted of potatoes, macaroni, and a stack of white bread with, perhaps, a token pot of boiled carrots.

It was the very olden days, a time before the Internet or cable TV. I had never had any ethnic cuisine, not even Chinese food. I had never heard of bagels or delis. Fortunately, my mother was a good cook and she maximized the potential of traditional foods from northern New England. She baked. We had very little packaged or prepared foods. We occasionally had pancakes made from buckwheat – a flour I would encounter years later. Nonetheless, I really knew next to nothing about food and ethnic cuisine.
So, when I arrived in New York City in 1969, it was nothing less than incredible, thrust in the midst of one of the most diverse cities in the world with all the representative cuisines. Here, I learned virtually everything I would ever know about food. It has been an extraordinary culinary adventure and, like for many New Yorkers, eating out is one of my primary activities.

Shortly after moving here, I became a vegetarian. Natural foods had not yet permeated the American landscape, so living in the Village was particularly special. Outside the city, it was virtually impossible to find restaurants catering to the vegetarian. But here, one could find a plethora of health food stores and restaurants. One of those was East West on 9th Street. East West was a cut above the others, somewhat more expensive, so I did not eat there as frequently as I would have liked.
It was at East West that I first became acquainted with two of my favorite food items, both in one dish – pesto and Soba noodles. Since that time, most of my Soba noodle experience has been in home cooking in soup. Most Japanese restaurants favor noodle dishes and soups with ramen and udon. But I love the coarser, earthier texture and flavor of Soba, which is made from buckwheat flour. Until recently, Soba noodles were much more difficult to make and more expensive. Now they are made by machine and can be more easily found in markets.

I recently had a hankering for Soba noodles, and rather than hope to find a place serving them by sheer happenstance, I decided to become more proactive. Perhaps surprising, but there are a handful of restaurants in New York specializing in Soba – one is soba-ya Japanese Noodle Restaurant at 229 East 9th Street. I had my first meal there Sunday night.
It was immediately apparent that this was a serious establishment, evidenced by the large Japanese clientele and the woodsy ambiance with a decor featuring traditional elements. It was a warm and cozy place on a cold winter night for a hot bowl of soup. With Soba 🙂

Thelewala Restaurant at 112 MacDougal Street

Some time ago, a friend and fellow diner began to routinely ask of a new place, “So, are we putting it on The List“? The List is now one that is shared between a number of friends I typically eat with.
Any New Yorker who eats out frequently (or every meal) typically keeps a mental list of restaurants. Such a list is dynamic, changing organically over time as places are added and others dropped. Eating becomes an exercise in balancing mood and desire with deciding which place or cuisine should be next in the rotation. Exploring new restaurants becomes not just a quest for variety for one meal but also simultaneously judging whether the place is a candidate to be added to The List. Of course in the case of a group list, not every member is equally enamored with every restaurant, so the choice of where to eat as a group also takes into consideration places that may be less liked or be the favorites of others.

Historically, MacDougal Street (between West 3rd Street and Bleecker) has not been a place to canvas if you are looking for quality merchandise or good food. It is arguably one of the tackiest and most touristy streets in New York City. There are a handful of places that have found favor with locals such as Olive Tree, Mamoun’s Falafel, and Panchito’s, but generally, I have avoided the block. However, in the past year or so, there have been quite a number of shop openings, all newly and nicely done, and I have dabbled down the block, discovering a few places of note.

I love Indian food, and a tiny place, Thelewala at 112 MacDougal, recently caught my eye one evening – the street outside the restaurant was overflowing with a large number of young Indian Americans. Any ethnic restaurant dominated by customers of that ethnicity is a good sign. The window was virtually wall papered with glowing reviews from reputable sources such as the New York Times, which called it one of the 10 best inexpensive restaurants of 2011. Trying it out was necessary, and I was not disappointed.

I have eaten Indian cuisine for decades but did not recognize the words Thelewala, Nizami, or many of the entrees. I learned that Thelewala is a street cart vendor in India, so, as I suspected, this food offering was a departure from standard Indian fare that I was acquainted with. From the New York Times:

This is street food at its brightest and most fresh. Thelewala is nominally a restaurant — it has a counter, a few stools — but the menu is short (six rolls, three platters, four chaats, no desserts) and cheap (the most expensive item is $8). According to the owner, Shiva Natarajan, whose portfolio of restaurants includes Dhaba and Bhojan, it’s the kind of late-night fare that vendors hawk to idling cars in his native Kolkata (formerly Calcutta).

Like everything at Thelewala, the chaats are painstakingly made to order. There is no holding pattern here, no steam tables or heat lamps. Order a Thelewala chicken roll ($4.50), and strips of hormone-free chicken are pulled out of a marinade of green chile, cilantro, ginger and garlic, and cooked on the griddle. It’s what you’d expect in the middle of the day; it’s dazzling to find such care and craft at 4 a.m.

The food is delicious, and without consultation or the vote of my friends, I have added Thelewala to The List 🙂