food stories.

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Artichoke, East Village We had been on a mission up until this point. A mission to compare as many New York City pizzas as we can and pick our favorite. We were dealing with the normal stuff, the classics: your cheeses, your pepperonis, your sausages…run of the mill (but delicious) pizza stuff. Artichoke pizza threw our plan off. It turned our plan on it’s head, and beat it to the ground. And kicked it in the crotch. I’m not saying it’s BETTER than everything else. I’m saying it’s so different than anything I’ve ever had that to compare it to other pizza would be unfair and illogical. Maybe it’s the fact that they took two of the most sinfully delicious and calorically rich foods out there - well-made pizza and spinach and artichoke dip - and made them do the nasty with eachother. Maybe it’s because each slice is as big as two of my faces (and I have a relatively large head, for my body size.) Maybe it’s the ingredients or an art they have honed in making it or maybe they put illegal substances in their pizza. All I know is my mind was blown. I’ve had artichoke spinach pizzas before … I think. Possibly at BJ’s or something. Can’t remember. No other artichoke pizza matters. It’s a small place with no indoor seating, and minimal outdoor seating. (We’re talking one backless bench kind of seating.) Another one of those places where the line is out the door and then some when the drunkies come out. Even during the day it was pretty busy. I decided to deviate from conformity and order the crab pizza. Actually it was part of my scheme to get the best of both worlds, since everyone else I was with got the artichoke, and I was sure I could steal a bite or two. They didn’t have cold drinks. Maybe their fridge was broken but they were all room temperature. Almost as if to say “eff you. We make effing artichoke pizza. Get your cold water somewhere else.” There really isn’t anything to say. Imagine spinach and artichoke dip baked on crispysoft pizza dough. Imagine how good that would be…and multiply by 10. I hate myself a little for saying this, but there is such a thing as overkill when it comes to these. Angel and I ordered a pie to take home, and when we were eating them for days, it was too much. I am only just getting to the point where I could have another, and it’s been weeks. But writing about it has made me yearn for it once again. I think I may revisit the crab though. It’s not as heavy and was also delicious. And I hear the Sicilian is the bomb too. Le sigh. So much to eat, so little time.

Artichoke, East Village

We had been on a mission up until this point. A mission to compare as many New York City pizzas as we can and pick our favorite. We were dealing with the normal stuff, the classics: your cheeses, your pepperonis, your sausages…run of the mill (but delicious) pizza stuff. Artichoke pizza threw our plan off. It turned our plan on it’s head, and beat it to the ground. And kicked it in the crotch.

I’m not saying it’s BETTER than everything else. I’m saying it’s so different than anything I’ve ever had that to compare it to other pizza would be unfair and illogical.

Maybe it’s the fact that they took two of the most sinfully delicious and calorically rich foods out there - well-made pizza and spinach and artichoke dip - and made them do the nasty with eachother. Maybe it’s because each slice is as big as two of my faces (and I have a relatively large head, for my body size.) Maybe it’s the ingredients or an art they have honed in making it or maybe they put illegal substances in their pizza. All I know is my mind was blown.

I’ve had artichoke spinach pizzas before … I think. Possibly at BJ’s or something. Can’t remember. No other artichoke pizza matters.

It’s a small place with no indoor seating, and minimal outdoor seating. (We’re talking one backless bench kind of seating.) Another one of those places where the line is out the door and then some when the drunkies come out. Even during the day it was pretty busy. I decided to deviate from conformity and order the crab pizza. Actually it was part of my scheme to get the best of both worlds, since everyone else I was with got the artichoke, and I was sure I could steal a bite or two. They didn’t have cold drinks. Maybe their fridge was broken but they were all room temperature. Almost as if to say “eff you. We make effing artichoke pizza. Get your cold water somewhere else.”

There really isn’t anything to say. Imagine spinach and artichoke dip baked on crispysoft pizza dough. Imagine how good that would be…and multiply by 10.

I hate myself a little for saying this, but there is such a thing as overkill when it comes to these. Angel and I ordered a pie to take home, and when we were eating them for days, it was too much. I am only just getting to the point where I could have another, and it’s been weeks. But writing about it has made me yearn for it once again. I think I may revisit the crab though. It’s not as heavy and was also delicious. And I hear the Sicilian is the bomb too.

Le sigh. So much to eat, so little time.

Baoguette, East Village This story is long overdue. I’ve already been four times, which officially makes it my most repeated offense. If loving this banh mi is wrong, I don’t wanna be right. On my first visit, I ordered the “very spicy.” My motto is the hotter the better. It’s a bit of a pride thing. Growing up Indonesian, the inability to handle spice was seen as weakness. And honestly I hadn’t really met anything outside of Asia that was too spicy for me. My friend, Thai-born and Indonesian-raised Angel, coming from two cultures with some of the most spicy food on the planet, ordered “medium spicy,” prompting me to think that she maybe knew something I didn’t know. But seeing as it was also her first time, I brushed off my suspicions. Our number ones came and I took a bite. The complexity and contrast of flavors and textures was a wildly sense-heightening experience. The crisp of the radish, carrots, cilantro, cucumber and crust of the bread contrasted with the soft middle of the bread, and the juicy medley of pork. Similarly, the coolness of the veggies soothed the pleasurable pain from the jalapenos and sriracha. I was definitely feeling the heat, but it wasn’t too much, I thought it was perfect. “Wow, ‘very spicy’…they weren’t kidding,” I said as I turned to Angel, only to see that she had tears in her eyes, and was sniffling furiously, as she said “I think they switched ours” in between desperate gasps for cool air. Turns out they did switch them, and that the “very spicy” comes smothered with tiny Thai chilis. Just one of those little guys packs more heat than all the dudes in “The Departed” combined. It’s crazy hot. I ended up claiming what was rightfully mine and correcting our mismatched sandwiches. I ate my “very spicy” banh mi, and cried all the way through. Partly from the heat, partly from how delicious it was. Even through all that spice, the other ingredients harmoniously shone through. I’ve since learned that I can enjoy the unique punch of the Thai chilis without dying by ordering them on the side and then adding them to each bite at a leisurely pace. At the end with your bill, if you’re lucky, you get a tiny complimentary dollop of pandan ice cream, a nice little palette cleanser. My 4th time at Baoguette, I reluctantly strayed from my usual in the name of broadening my horizons and ordered the Sloppy Bao, which Grub Street named one of the top 101 sandwiches in NYC. Instead of the sumptous pork-party, it is filled with spicy ground beef, mango, and Thai basil, among other things. Not the worst thing I’ve ever had, but a huge disappointment. Stick to the classic. Trust me.

Baoguette, East Village

This story is long overdue. I’ve already been four times, which officially makes it my most repeated offense. If loving this banh mi is wrong, I don’t wanna be right.

On my first visit, I ordered the “very spicy.” My motto is the hotter the better. It’s a bit of a pride thing. Growing up Indonesian, the inability to handle spice was seen as weakness. And honestly I hadn’t really met anything outside of Asia that was too spicy for me. My friend, Thai-born and Indonesian-raised Angel, coming from two cultures with some of the most spicy food on the planet, ordered “medium spicy,” prompting me to think that she maybe knew something I didn’t know. But seeing as it was also her first time, I brushed off my suspicions.

Our number ones came and I took a bite. The complexity and contrast of flavors and textures was a wildly sense-heightening experience. The crisp of the radish, carrots, cilantro, cucumber and crust of the bread contrasted with the soft middle of the bread, and the juicy medley of pork. Similarly, the coolness of the veggies soothed the pleasurable pain from the jalapenos and sriracha. I was definitely feeling the heat, but it wasn’t too much, I thought it was perfect. “Wow, ‘very spicy’…they weren’t kidding,” I said as I turned to Angel, only to see that she had tears in her eyes, and was sniffling furiously, as she said “I think they switched ours” in between desperate gasps for cool air.

Turns out they did switch them, and that the “very spicy” comes smothered with tiny Thai chilis. Just one of those little guys packs more heat than all the dudes in “The Departed” combined. It’s crazy hot. I ended up claiming what was rightfully mine and correcting our mismatched sandwiches. I ate my “very spicy” banh mi, and cried all the way through. Partly from the heat, partly from how delicious it was. Even through all that spice, the other ingredients harmoniously shone through.

I’ve since learned that I can enjoy the unique punch of the Thai chilis without dying by ordering them on the side and then adding them to each bite at a leisurely pace.

At the end with your bill, if you’re lucky, you get a tiny complimentary dollop of pandan ice cream, a nice little palette cleanser.

My 4th time at Baoguette, I reluctantly strayed from my usual in the name of broadening my horizons and ordered the Sloppy Bao, which Grub Street named one of the top 101 sandwiches in NYC. Instead of the sumptous pork-party, it is filled with spicy ground beef, mango, and Thai basil, among other things. Not the worst thing I’ve ever had, but a huge disappointment. Stick to the classic. Trust me.

Cha-An, East Village Everything Japanese is so pretty. The people, the food, the multi-functional intelligent lavatories (which they happen to have at this particular teahouse) - it all shows attention to detail without over-complication. The ambiance of the place is such that I would want to come here on a Sunday afternoon, and sit alone at a corner table, with but the company of my journal and a calligraphy pen, philosophizing and sipping tea. That is, if I was a person who was inclined to do that sort of thing. Real talk, I am more likely to come here with some friends and share the black sesame crème brulee. It’s a dessert that looks more like a small sculpture from a museum of ancient history that you’re not allowed to touch, but you’ll want to attack it as soon as it hits the table. The good stuff is at the bottom - the brulee - but atop are the perfect complements to the custard: a cool scoop of black sesame ice cream and a crisp black sesame cookie. The difference between this and a traditional crème brulee is similar to that between a Japanese game show and its U.S. adaptation: for some reason, the Japanese version just works better.

Cha-An, East Village


Everything Japanese is so pretty. The people, the food, the multi-functional intelligent lavatories (which they happen to have at this particular teahouse) - it all shows attention to detail without over-complication.

The ambiance of the place is such that I would want to come here on a Sunday afternoon, and sit alone at a corner table, with but the company of my journal and a calligraphy pen, philosophizing and sipping tea. That is, if I was a person who was inclined to do that sort of thing.

Real talk, I am more likely to come here with some friends and share the black sesame crème brulee. It’s a dessert that looks more like a small sculpture from a museum of ancient history that you’re not allowed to touch, but you’ll want to attack it as soon as it hits the table. The good stuff is at the bottom - the brulee - but atop are the perfect complements to the custard: a cool scoop of black sesame ice cream and a crisp black sesame cookie. The difference between this and a traditional crème brulee is similar to that between a Japanese game show and its U.S. adaptation: for some reason, the Japanese version just works better.

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