Little India in NYC

At the behest of, well, just about everyone, S and I finally made a trip to Jackson Heights to see what all the fuss was about. Verdict? Not much.

Sure, Patel Brothers is great. We got lots of spices and made aloo mattar last night, which we mopped up with some precooked aloo parathas, since I am categorically unable to get the hang of traditional breads. And there are lots of stores glistening with ostentatious jewels of all kinds, and there are curry-a-minute shacks a grotty as those found in the back lanes of Old Delhi, but for some reason, some how, it just doesn't ring true.

In Chicago, when I went to Devon, it felt like I was stepping back into the insane traffic of the subconty; it felt like an outpost of civilization in a otherwise upturned world. In New York? I spent hours gazing at the RED palak paneer (red? since when is spinach RED?!) waiting for the buffet-hungry consumer in its ubiquitous chafing plate, feeling outside, outside, always outside. I know that yes, I'm technically not Indian, and yes, maybe I should feel like an outsider, but ... I can't put my finger on it; something just felt wrong to me there.

Any suggestions? Places to go for a delicious, authentic slice of South Asia? Or am I just being fussy, projecting my suspicions that Little Italy is really a tourist's playground, onto other supposedly "ethnic" (a term I don't particularly want to employ here, but so be it) neighborhoods?

Salivating in anticipation

I love burritos, I love crepes, I love manicotti, so it's no surprise that I love another log-shaped delight, this one South Asian: puttu, a cylinder of steamed, compressed rice sprinkled with flakes of coconut and usually served alongside kadala, a spicy chickpea stew.

I've only had the dish in Kerala, but apparently, it's popular in Tamil Nadu and Sri Lanka -- or so holds The Village Voice, which tipped me off to a must-visit venue: Bownies, 143-05 45th Ave., in Flushing, Queens; they note, "Sri Lankan food in Queens at this luncheonette, serving the broding, spice-laced 'black curries' (pick lamb); mellow, coconut-laced fish curries (pick kingfish); and breads like appams (weekends only) and outsize rotis that make Ceylonese cooking delightfully unique."

... I think I know where I'm headed this weekend. Smell ya later, Colombian bakeries of Sunnyside! I need a little spice in my life!

The importance of being on trend

Not only is it necessary to flaunt Louis Vuitton bags and Chanel shades -- now, even your snack food can be your ticket to a better life.

Or so seems to be the message from SM Foods, the makers of such classy nips as Peppy Cheese Balls and Simba Chipniks ("Rrroaring with taste!"). When it comes to their tortilla chips, the company's Web site boasts, "Senor Pepito range is very popular with the teenagers, the young and happening crowd and the beer guzzlers. More importantly, Tortilla Chips are very trendy and considered a status symbol."

That's pretty big talk for packaging that has a cartoon sombrero on it. Unless the secret of their nacho cheese flavoring is a light dusting of gold (24 karat, natch), I think I'll pass.

Open, mix, and eat!

I saw this new product -- Haldiram's Bhel Puri, in an"one-the-move pack" -- and, despite skepticism, decided to take it for a trial run.

I suppose it tastes OK, but that's not the point. Bhel puri is a pretty quintessential street snackie, and this sanitized, hygenic, festooned-with-yellow-flowers form simply does nothing for me -- or for thousands (millions, billions?) of others weaned on the gritty mix of puffed rice, peanuts, imli chutney, chopped onions, tomatoes, spices of various persuasions, and, of course, the all-important green chillis.

The ingredients the bhel puri-wallah doesn't list, and which Haldiram's CERTAINLY would not look too kindly upon, are heaping helpings of dust, oil that's been seasoned, sizzled, and reused as various component parts are fried in preparation for the mix, dirt, and other detritus. It's the unwritten list that makes other expats shiver in anticipation of contracting cholera, but even those that have had a bout or two of Delhi belly know that sometimes, the greasiest, grottiest street food is worth a day in bed. When I was in Kila Raipur, for instance, after a few hours of shooting, I suggested we get a drink; S pointed at a man making fresh OJ, and I immediately knew that I would be sick for the rest of the day (which may have been intuition, or it might have been the fact that the man grinding kinoos had a wracking cough). I drank a glass, its rim thoughtfully wiped clean after the man before me finished his quaff, sat down for a few minutes, and spent the rest of the day vomiting. Que sera sera.

So thanks, Haldirams, for giving us this option, but I prefer my street food from, well, the street.