Of All the Halal Carts

Now that winter is gone (fingers crossed),  I am out of hibernation.  I pass by Rocky the Musical.  Someone has to really love Rocky. The theme song plays in my head while I wonder if a clause is in contract about gulping raw eggs: how many per show, what farm source, etc.  And was there an understudy if the lead developed Salmonella?

I move onto the MOMA.  Featuring Guaguin's girls.  I wish I could wear a large billowy muu-muu with only one worry in life:  what flower should I tuck behind my ear?  I was born in the wrong time. 

And then I spot something quite spectacular.  The lines of people wrapped around the block of the CBS building was endless.  From young to old, from hipsters to bankers,  from natives to tourists, the line was insane.   Was it a bread line?  Holy cow!  It's come to this.  Our food's being rationed.

The last time I waited on any outrageous line was back in the 90's.  That was when I had never been to a night club before.  The wait was one hour in front of a barn that had turned into something Mormons would call Hell on Earth.   Finally, the impossibly gorgeous drag queen deemed my friends and I passable, took our $20's, and ushered us inside.

The noise was deafening.  I shouted to friends, "It's way too noisy.  My inner cochlea's taking a beating and I just can't think.  I'm sorry, we are going to get out of here but don't worry, I'll get our money back."  They all rolled their eyes.  I politely explained to the drag queen who was probably more gorgeous than any supermodel of the day.

"Excuse me.  I'm sorry, but it's a bit too loud in there."  She looked me over, and said in the huskiest voice,  "Honey, it's a club."  Nevertheless, she returned our cover charge and my friends didn't speak to me for weeks.

I was grateful because I was so intimidated by her beauty and her je ne sais quois - the quois being a chameleonesque, uber-survivor skillset that can only come from being bred in places like Nebraska, Wyoming, or Idaho.  They are bred for immunity to la vida loca.  I always said the best New Yorkers were from the Mid-West.

But back to the present longest line I would see today.   The line was for the largest Halal cart operation ever seen.  I changed my mind. Maybe the best New Yorkers come from Halal country.  Because lo and behold, this crazy operation is so efficient and effective, I am blown away.  It's The Halal Guys. 

I was not going to wait on the line, but I was curious enough to ask these lovely girls how they enjoyed their meal.  They liked it just fine.  They were actually traveling from London and made sure to pay a visit.  But how did you know where they were?  "Oh, we found them on Facebook."

I look at The Halal Guys' cart and had to laugh.  The "f" for Facebook is placed in the most inconspicuous place - really not at eye level.  "The Halal" signage is covered by Reynolds wrap.  "Guys" is all that's left.  This is incredible.  There are just as many Halal carts as there are Starbucks, but this is the one that's branded, drawing just about every omnivore / carnivore  on the planet.  From postal clerks to Consulates,  each waited his turn patiently.  They looked more docile than a lamb over rice.

If this was Casablanca and Rick owned the operation, Ingrid Bergman would quietly take her place behind a man wearing too much cologne.  Soon behind, a cell phone chatterbox would queue up behind her. Frayed with nerves, she would doubt if she could wait it out - not even knowing who owned the place.

Rick spots her and sighs, "Of all the Halal joints in the world, she has to stand in line for mine".  The nice sucker that he is, he'd put her into a cab, tell the driver to pass the queue and pull up closer to 53rd and 6th.  The cabbie gives the magic password to "Guys" that spares her the indignities of waiting on a really long line.

Finally, Rick leans toward her open window and says how they'll always have Paris.  She forgot Paris years ago and her eyes glaze over.  But her ears perk up at his last words, "...And Ilsa, you must remember this - don't forget to ask for the red and white sauce."  He then instructs cabbie to take Ilsa straight home after she gets her grub.  And all the way to Stamford Connecticut, Ilsa devours her gyro while Victor re-heats some day-old lasagna.

If you must play it safe like Ilsa, only go to food carts that have really long lines.  Happy Spring! ~e

A Fish Named Sushi: Charlie gets Canned

Sushi had become a sensation.  From the margins of every river, she splashed up silv'ry sprays onto the silver screen.  She became Esther Williams.  Her Hollywood debut, My Slippery Dove was a hit.  And her memoir - Not So Easy to Love was a New York Times bestseller.  She toured constantly. 

She had a brief fling with Charlie and decided he couldn't be her agent any longer.  Forget the ethics, the incestuousness, the sturm und drang of dating another big fish in a scummy glorified pond.  He was a chronic hypochondriac.  She was sick of it, sick from it, and had to announce the split.

He didn't take it too well.  "Do you know I made you?!"  Human League's Don't You Want Me was playing in Charlie's tricked-out audio, strobe lights and all.

"Do you know who you're dealing with?!" He was relentless.

Sushi rolled her dry eyeballs.  "Yes, yes, you're Charlie, the big Tin-Tuna."

Charlie's own eyeballs bugged out of their sockets.  "Are you mocking me because I was from a can?"

Sushi sighed.  "No.  I said Tin as in Tinseltown.  How'd you get can?"

Charlie went into a line of expletives.  "You flippin', flip, flip, flip."

In fish speak, he had dropped the f-bomb.  Sushi was incredulous.  "Did you just use the word f-l-i-p?!"

"Oh grow up Sushi.  You can't even say it."

Sushi lost it.  "That's it!  You just got canned.  I am of-fish-ially firing you and breaking up with you at the same time!  And I can find a better agent.  You're nothing but a common canned piece of tuna.  So long Charlie, the party's over.  SO OVERRR!"

Poor Charlie.  But it's true.  With so many fancy varieties at the fishmongers', who really wants chicken of the seas?  There is, however, one dish I can't resist made with this throw-back.  A friend's mother used to make it for those easy after-school snacks and I marveled at the no-fuss value.  She called it the tuni-rooni as in tuna with macaroni.  I thought it was the most ingenious thing back as a child.  As soon as she was done, she'd open up a can of TaB, settle in the den, and indulge in one of her Harlequin romance novels.  This simpleness of her was quite nice.

The Tuni-rooni

You will need:

2 cans or 2 packs of StarKist tuna

A box of macaroni (brown rice brands if you need gluten-free)

Finely chopped purple onion  (this is the real star of the whole recipe so use by taste - please don't tell Charlie or Sushi)

Hellmann's mayonnaise (sorry, no other brand will do; you could go all out and make your own, but it really defeats the facile factor of this dish)

A little ground pepper to suit your taste

A little salt  (personally love the taste of Himalayan pink salt but be very careful with this one - a little really goes a long way)

Directions:

1)  Prepare the macaroni so it's al dente

2)  Mash up the tuna with enough mayo as if you were making a tunafish sandwich

3)  Add the macaroni - aim for a 1:1 ratio with the tuna/mayo compound

4)  Add the tiny pieces of purple onion and taste as you add slowly.  Too much can make it a spicy, acrimonious mess;  too little makes it boring   (treat it like a third marriage)

5)  Add the pepper and salt

Now,  round up the kiddies and tell them it's a farewell party for Charlie, the StarKist legend.  ~e