nyc
Flushing Mall’s Improbable Statue
There are some things in life that can only be elegantly described as “WTF?”
This statue (with me hamming it up on the left to convey scale) was found in Queens’ Flushing Mall en route to the Flushing Mall Food Court. Photographer Robyn Lee was equally perplexed.
Yes. WTF indeed.
How to eat Flushing, Queens
Don’t miss my most recent post for Serious Eats, a monster roundup of Golden Shopping Mall’s first floor. Yeah, I did all the graphics. Because I’m obsessive and like twiddling bits on Photoshop for hours and hours.
My roundup of the basement is tomorrow, and there will be a Flushing Mall food court post as well! Finally, I’m working on a video to accompany these posts where I’m the genial, marrow-eating host who interviews chefs in Chinese. Exciting!
M&T Restaurant in Flushing, NY: a Tsingtao in Qingdao
While in Beijing, I briefly fantasized about taking the train to Qingdao. I knew little about the area, except that it is the home of the eponymous TsingTao beer. (Same name, different romanization system.) There was a beer festival going on, and for some reason, I imagined a malt-hued scene of splendor: TsingTao-branded palaces, wheat-colored fountains, doe-eyed promo models.
A tall, cold one. (all photos by Sam)
I never made it onto the train, opting for lazy afternoons of shopping in the tourist trap of Beijing’s Ya Xiu market. I dropped thousands of RMB thanks to ineffectual bargaining while my culture-shocked nerves were worn down to an irritable jelly. Thankfully, my second chance at travel — a stateside jaunt to Qingdao in the form of a meal at M&T in Flushing — was more pleasant.
My fellow food-loving friend Sam (who wrote about Chinese food and photographed a Seattle food tour) did his Flushing research, so we set off on a heatstroked Sunday to M&T (44-09 Kissena Blvd, (718) 539-4100) for some good eats. As we trekked past Main Street – way past Main Street – my strappy platform espadrilles cut into the lumps of battered flesh called feet.
I wished I were a 5 year old in a carseat. “Are we there yet?” I asked.
“Almost!” Sam replied, in his perpetually cheery kind of way.
We were greeted by the friendly proprietoress who, impressed by Sam’s ability to speak fluent Chinese (no one is ever impressed by my Chinese), helpfully suggested “比较传统青岛菜” (rather traditional Qingdao dishes).
Sam’s awesome pics of our meal after the jump.
Eating at Motorino East Village (NYC)
Brussel sprouts and pancetta pizza at Motorino in East Village
I’m a pizza kind of girl. I’ll politely eat burgers (if placed in front of me) and occasionally bow to burritos (mostly if they’re free), but the cheesy, bubbly slice is my cheap eat staple of choice.
Ever since the New York Times’ Sam Sifton declared Motorino “[NYC's] best pizza,” I knew I had to give them a try. I took the subway downtown, transferred to the L, then took it to 1st Ave, luggage clattering behind me as I walked into the fabled land of pizza. The restaurant was small, maybe 30, 40 seats, the walls papered in green and white stripes. Brussels sprouts and pancetta pie ($15) came highly recommended.
Motorino’s pizzas are visually arresting creations. They come like jewel-toned paintings, framed in dough and splashed with vibrant colors of basil, buffalo mozzarella, or maybe clams in their shells. I liked the crust on my pie, which was remarkably light, with just the right amount of chew and char. However, it didn’t quite hold up to heavy toppings – it ended up a bit soggy on the underside with oil by the end. Still, it was a delicious creation, and unlikely ingredients were wholly appropriate for spring, nothing like the waxy buttons I’d imagined. Maybe I’d go for a simpler cheese pie next time. Or their lunch special – just $12 for a pie and salad or dessert. Pairing this baby with a cold beer would be awfully nice.
Beautiful women, ramen, and roast pork buns at Ippudo, NYC
It’s funny how it happens: I met photographer Michael Donnelly at the end of a different friendship. I happened to be at the friend of that friend’s apartment, and when I learned that his father had photographed Ruth Reichl, culinary goddess and editor of Gourmet, I knew I had to meet him. He walked out of his room wrapped in a white bathrobe and spoke with a rarefied South African accent. We chatted about chefs, cooking, and Ruth, and the next day, I googled him and sent a thank you email.
We finally ended up meeting again recently at a Japanese ramen restaurant called Ippudo (65 4th Avenue, NYC) at his suggestion. (It was recently reviewed by Frank Bruni in the NY Times. Bruni, sadly, recently resigned as the Times restaurant critic.) Ippudo is the kind of restaurant that subscribes to the entire experience. I had to fight my way through a heavy red drape to make it to the bar, where he was waiting. A slender, long-necked Asian barmaid with ruler-straight bangs handed him his receipt. As we followed our hostess (a butterfly tattoo pinned down by a spaghetti strap across her left shoulder), two waiters cried welcomes in enthused Japanese.
“They have fantastic roast pork buns,” he told me as we sat down. We both got a bowl of ramen with berkshire pork. In the background, servers served up screams with their sake bombs.
I immediately photographed the roast pork buns (lip smackingly fatty and perfectly spicy). Throughout the meal, he proved to be one of the most photograph-supportive meal partners I’d ever had. Rather than being intimidating (after all, he’d shot for Vogue and Elle), he offered nothing but praise and support. He even failed to offer constructive criticism at my prompting, and just encouraged me to continue shooting.
Our ramen came, a sunburst of a halved hardboiled egg floating amidst the dramatic mottling of oil on its surface. I fished out the fatty bits of pork first for a taste. We talked a bit about my summer plans, then about racism in the modeling industry. He talked about the honor and intimacy in photography, about beauty (its power, personality, and transience), and also his experiences shooting Claudia Schiffer (a bombshell) and Brooke Shields (who looked pretty but not spectacular in person, but unexpectedly stunned on film). He loved Isabella Rosselini, who was “mousy” in person but fantastic in front of the camera.
“The best girls,” he said, “are a little off. They have to really try.”
I was glad I took a look at the dessert menu. It came as a tiny red book, smaller than my palm, with each dessert presented as a low-fi picture and facing title. I decided on the matcha brulee, which turned out to be a green tea creme brulee topped by a scoop of green tea ice cream and crown with a paper-thin slice of dessicated strawberry.
He told me about the incredible, short career of Alexa Singer, who shot ten covers of Vogue in one year.
The waitress came with mugs of tea.
He showed me mockups of the book he was working on, about how chefs communicate through cooking, and pointed out photos of Jean Georges, and Lydia Shire, and the beautiful image he’d taken of Ruth Reichl in a wide-brimmed black hat sitting in a room bathed in light.
“I think I’ll have her write the introduction,” he mused.