Smart Girls

"Help Wanted" signs aren't especially common these days, so when Deshi Biryani posted one a few months ago, I took it as a positive economic indicator.

However, the restaurant didn't find the smart girl they were looking for, as evidenced by this sign a few weeks later:

Last month a new sign went up, this one searching for a "Nepalese girl." Then the management announced the restaurant is closing for repairs.

Could the smart girls have saved the place? Or are they too busy solving other problems? I hope they show up soon. Other restaurants in Jackson Heights serve biryani, but Deshi knew how to make it with the right mix of spice, vegetables, and protein. And what smart girl wouldn't like that?

Deshi Biryani

7518 37th Avenue • Jackson Heights

photos by Kate and Adeet Deshmukh

Sharing the Love

The streets of Manhattan are crowded with gourmet food trucks. Cupcakes, Belgian waffles, artisanal ice cream, even schnitzel—whatever your craving, chances are you can get it from a mobile vendor. Not surprisingly, many of the old-school kebab and hot dog vendors feel these newcomers are encroaching on their territory. But instead of engaging in turf wars, these nouveau vendeurs should look past the East River. Some trucks do pull over in Brooklyn, but where are the fancy food trucks in Queens?

I don't wish to appear ungrateful for the food vendors we do have. Adeet and I still enjoy weekly dinners from Sammy's gyro cart, and Roosevelt Avenue is lined with tempting taco and torta stands. But why should Manhattanites get all the haute dogs?

Recently La Gamin truck decided to share the love at the Jackson Heights Greenmarket. Le Gamin serves classic bistro fare—merguez sandwiches, croque monsieurs, pommes frites, and crepes, bien sur. As Adeet and I read the menu, we felt we'd won the food truck lottery since French cuisine is missing from our international neighborhood's dining scene.

Then a woman in front of us started meddling with the French truck mojo. She demanded to know why they were serving Nutella crepes. Didn't they know Nutella contained hydrogenated oils, a clear violation of NYC's trans fat ban? The cheery woman taking orders smiled, "Why, no, I didn't know that." The anti-Nutella woman continued to protest and finally the French chef suavely held aloft a jar of Nutella and read the label. "No, no trans fat in Nutella," he declared.

Adeet and I had grown nervous during this exchange. What if the woman annoyed the chef so much he decided he didn't want to come back to Jackson Heights? However, he appeared more amused than irked and even teased the woman, who had blushingly backed down.

We gratefully placed our order, relieved that the truck hadn't sped off in a Gallic huff, crushing our dreams of Sunday mornings filled with crepes and cafe au lait. Adeet got the merguez sandwich—spicy lamb sausage, melted Swiss cheese, and onions on a baguette. I had the lamb dog, the same merguez sausage and onions, but served on a hot dog bun. We split an order of pommes frites. We ate at the truck's narrow metal counter and savored every bite of our lunch. The sausage had the right amount of spice, enough to please our well-seasoned palates, but not so much as to make my soon-to-be-born baby kick in protest. The frites were cooked perfectly, and it distressed me that I couldn't finish them all.

I wanted a crepe but didn't have room, so we walked across the street to the Greenmarket and shopped for dinner. After buying peaches, cherries, lettuce, and quiche, we decided we had worked off enough calories for dessert. We returned to the truck and ordered a lemon and sugar crepe, but not before telling the chef how glad we are the truck came to Jackson Heights. We don't want to go back to our crepeless days!

The thin crepe, dusted with powdered sugar, didn't disappoint. But next time I'm getting mine with Nutella.

Le Gamin food truck

Jackson Heights Greenmarket • 34th Avenue and 78th Street

Sundays, from around 9:30 am to 4:00 pm

photos by Adeet Deshmukh

Y Tu Mamá También

As the days get hotter, I find myself walking more and more slowly. I may be burning fewer calories, but now I have time to read the numerous handwritten signs taped to shop doors and windows. This evening, as Adeet and I crept along Roosevelt Avenue, I stopped in front of a graphic "Before" and "After" photo display. And then I read the copy:

Why, Mother has the skin of a schoolgirl, thank you very much. If I did look older than Mom, I might pass for sixteen. I can only imagine how haggard you must appear, Miss Flawless Program, since your mother's complexion surely resembles a pair of rattlesnake cowboy boots.

When this heat wave breaks, I'll pick up my pace again. But I'll be sure to look out for any particularly impertinent signs. You don't expect me to let them talk about my mother that way, do you?

No Kulfi Allowed

On one of my daily walks down 37th Avenue, I noticed a sign on a shop window at JMD Mall declaring: No Food, No Drinks, No Kulfi.

Kulfi is a frozen Indian dessert, denser than Western ice cream and often flavored with saffron or cardamom. I wondered why it didn't fall under the broad "Food" category. And why had it been singled out among all other frozen treats? A Mister Softee truck often parked down the street, but no one had specifically banned his cones. Would salespeople overlook Popsicles? Perhaps I could saunter into a sari shop and slurp a snow cone with impunity, while my kulfi-licking neighbors were escorted off the premises.

Today I saw another sign with an anti-kulfi bias. Khan Electronics has taken the additional step of prohibiting gum chewing, but kulfi is at the top of their "No" list. Shopkeepers might soon lobby the mayor, and we'll find groups of kulfi eaters huddled outside storefronts, furtively lapping up their dessert before running errands. We'll sigh as we recall a New York that wasn't afraid of people dripping on the carpet and reminisce about the days when you could have your kulfi and eat it too.

photo by Adeet Deshmukh

Inti Raymi: Shifting Our Culinary Compass

Our Jackson Heights’ compass normally points west of our apartment, toward the vicinity of 74th Street’s Little India. Last night, however, we ventured east and ended up at Inti Raymi, a Peruvian restaurant.

We stayed on the first page of the menu and ordered only entradas (appetizers). Often when I order an appetizer as an entrée, I’m left hungry and cursing my attempt at thriftiness. However, my ceviche entrada came with generous sides: two types of hominy—cancha (large, toasted corn kernels) and mote (boiled corn) —as well as a white potato and a sweet potato. I enjoyed the slightly sweet mote, and the crunchy, parched cancha could make its way into my regular snack rotation. Already full of starch, I left the potatoes.

My ceviche mixto arrived blanketed under so many onions that I wondered if I had misread ceviche as cebolla ("onion"). But underneath this purple layer was a liberal serving of fish, calamari, octopus, and shrimp. The seafood had a clean, fresh taste, accented by a lime marinade, which was also served on the side. It is one of the best ceviches I’ve had in New York and reminded me that we really are near the ocean.



Adeet ordered a tamal wrapped in a banana leaf. It didn’t come with any sides, but it proved filling on its own. As he discovered chicken, boiled egg, and olives in the corn masa, he commented that each bite was like a treasure hunt.


We’d also ordered a serving of fried sweet plantains and gamely dipped them in a fiery rocoto sauce, which our waiter cautioned us would be hot. We tend to react smugly when people warn us about heat, since we consider our taste buds well tempered by Indian spices. We discovered, though, that our tongues aren’t ready for Peruvian chilies.

Inti Raymi has been in Jackson Heights since 1976, and I doubt the décor has changed since opening day. The stucco walls are decorated with quaint paintings of village scenes, and a large, metal Incan god dominates the front window. The place has a homey feel, and the number of diners there on a Monday night attested to its welcoming nature. Customers sang along with a strolling, serenading guitarist and people clapped after each number. We joined in the applause. After all, we'd learned we could find good food on both ends of the neighborhood map.

Inti Raymi

8614 37th Ave. • Jackson Heights, NY

photos by Adeet Deshmukh

Bombay, American-Style

Today I had Bombay flashbacks, perhaps induced by the heat. The temperature in NYC hit 97 ° F (36° C to the rest of the world), and my own unscientific calculations put the humidity at 98%. As I walked down 74th Street in Jackson Heights, women in salvar kameez hurried by me. I passed shops selling bangles (expensive gold ones and cheap flashy ones) and wedding saris, while speakers from a Bollywood music store blared into the street, providing my own filmi soundtrack. Stacks of mango boxes towered near the entrance to Patel Brothers' supermarket, and a row of sidewalk vendors sat behind tables piled with copies of the Qur’an, belts, vegetables, and flashing, whirring toys.

Since Adeet and I were feeling kitchen-shy from the heat, we decided to stop for chaat (snacks) at Rajbhog, my favorite place for Bombay-style food in New York.

I walked in expecting a 20-degree drop in temperature, but the a/c must have been overtaxed. Several fans were set up around the restaurant, and the women behind the counter looked deflated. They normally have at least a slight smile for us (especially when Adeet orders in Hindi), but now their faces showed nothing but suffering.

We ordered quickly: sev puri and khandvi.

Sev puri is the perfect combination of hot and cool, crunchy and creamy. I’m sure there are as many variations of this snack as there are chaat vendors in Bombay. This particular recipe included crispy puris the size of small, round tortilla chips, boiled potatoes, raw onion, tamarind chutney, and masala mixed with yogurt and sprinkled with sev, crispy vermicelli noodles. It is the culinary equivalent of jumping into cold water on a scorching day—heat and relief; you can't truly appreciate one without the other.

Khandvi resembles pasta. The noodles are made with chickpea flour, then rolled and garnished with mustard seeds and parsley. It is mild and soothing, but after finishing the sev puri, the khandvi was almost neglected. Almost.


We sat by a fan and as we ate, the room began to feel more comfortable. Perhaps the a/c had started to cooperate, or maybe it was a chaat-induced miracle. Soon Adeet even considered ordering chai, forgetting that hot liquids might not be the best thirst quencher. Instead he drank Limca, the Indian soft drink with which it is fair to say he is obsessed. I had a mango lassi (similar to a yogurt smoothie) that possessed Goldilock proportions: not too thick or too thin, too small or too big. Just right.


One of the guilty pleasures of eating at Rajbhog is the chance to watch a continuous loop of Bollywood music videos on a flat-screen television. We were slightly dazed by the sight of Sanjay Dutt dressed like a hip hop gangster but felt compelled to watch. It provided our empty calories for the evening.

When we left the restaurant, I heard people speaking Spanish and English, not only Hindi and Bengali. An Eastern European family strolled down the sidewalk, followed by a young Hispanic girl cruising in her "Power Wheel" mini SUV. On the walk home, we passed a Colombian restaurant, a Polish deli, and a Korean stationery shop. This may have burst my Bombay bubble, but it's why I love this particular New York City neighborhood. And Bombay is still in the picture. It soon started thundering and pouring rain, and I remembered—it's monsoon season.

Rajbhog
72-27 37th Ave. • Jackson Heights, NY

photos by Adeet Deshmukh

Gyro Night

Some people order their days by meetings and appointments—status reports on Tuesdays, therapy on Thursdays. Our week is marked by Gyro Night.

Last winter Adeet declared that every Wednesday should be Gyro Night. This doesn’t mean making gyros ourselves or picking them up from any random vendor. It requires getting lamb sandwiches from Sammy’s Halal cart on 73rd Street in Jackson Heights.

Sammy’s is well-known in the street-food scene, having won the 2006 “Vendy Award.” According to a plaque on Sammy’s cart, his victory appeared not only in the New York papers but on CNN, the BBC, and Japan TV. The fame is justified. He serves chicken and lamb over rice, but it is the $3 lamb sandwich that gives purpose to our workweek. The meat is well-seasoned and tender and is topped with grilled onions, and gloriously, with cilantro (upon request). You can have your sandwich streaked with a tricolor of sauces: red, green, and white. The red, of course, is spicy and the white is mild, but it’s the mysterious green (cilantro?) that is the most flavorful.

We’ve become friendly with Zaman, the Bangladeshi gyrowallah who works every Wednesday. While cooking he looks intently serious, but when he sees us, a smile engulfs his face. It may be time to reconsider our calendar: why limit ourselves to Wednesdays?

Sammy's Halal Cart

73rd St. at Broadway • Jackson Heights, NY

photos by Adeet Deshmukh

Queens for a Day

The annual Queens LGBT Pride Parade marched down 37th Avenue in Jackson Heights this afternoon. Adeet and I watched most of the parade from our corner, joined by a number of children, parents, and senior citizens. I overheard women chatting in Spanish, mentioning that they'd just come from Mass, and a little girl exclaiming over a rainbow made of balloons. Although Vegas-style show“girls” provided plenty of camp, it never crossed the PG-13 line. This was family-friendly flamboyance.

Activists waved placards thanking Governor Patterson for his recent order to recognize same-sex marriages performed outside of New York, and many people chanted for marriage rights. Several marchers held signs equating immigration and gay rights. That message should resonate in Jackson Heights, one of the NYC neighborhoods with the highest number of immigrants (per 2000 census data). It makes sense to me that immigrants struggling for housing, employment, and voting rights might be sympathetic to the gay community's campaign for fair health care and family rights. However, the crowd seemed most taken by the parade’s elaborately dressed drag queens; looking glamorous and female may prove to be a greater outreach tool than political statements.


Latinos made up the majority of the parade population—both as participants and spectators. A group dancing to a recording of Mexican pop star Thalia's "Amor a La Mexicana" grew loud applause, as did a troupe of "Aztec" dancers. Even the parade's sole South Asian group slipped in some español, perhaps capitalizing on a linguistic coincidence. Their acronym, SALGA (South Asian Lesbian and Gay Association), can mean "come out" in Spanish.


The rest of Jackson Heights' diverse demographic did join in the party, especially closer to 74th Street's "Little India." We saw women wearing hijab taking pictures of befeathered drag queens and men in kufis craning to get a glimpse of the divas. Today, at least, we were all Queens.

photos by Adeet Deshmukh