I spent 91 hours in Mamdanistan, AKA the largest of malus domestica, blew through all my money on food, and I would do it all again.
It was about time I visited my beloved’s roots, and spring break was the perfect time to jump on the opportunity.
I took the ghost train Wednesday morning, and as the sun rose, I munched on a homemade granola bar and a Milligan’s Pantry beef stick. The granola bar consisted of instant oatmeal, sun butter, and dates, and was surprisingly good despite haphazard ingredient measuring, but the beef stick made me realize the next time I take an 8 hour train, I should pack more savory snacks.
The Editor-in-Chief, Marcus Ramos, properly cheesed to be at his favorite diner. (Devin Hogan)
Between poorly timed cafe car visits and being afraid of committing chemical warfare on my fellow passengers to unleash my tinned tuna salad snack pack, by the time of my arrival at Moynihan, I boasted an appetite so eager the horse should be terrified. Brunch was in order, and Marcus had the perfect place in mind: The Atlantic Diner, his go-to for his favorite: the notorious chili omelet.
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We split a short stack of banana pancakes, he got his (admittedly quite yummy) abomlettination, and I, a creature of habit, elected for a Greek omelet.
Rejuvenated from good grub, we walked around Richmond Hill for a bit of sightseeing and reminiscing until we made plans to meet up with an old friend that I hadn’t seen in about 3 years in Tompkins Square Park. I had signed up for a comedy open mic down the road, so it was the perfect rendezvous.
The pigeons, though originally exciting to me, quickly felt suffocating. So we made quick friends with the bartender at Niagara across the street, and soon after picking my friend David up off the ground during our hug, we set off to find something to eat.
Katz’s Deli had a big line and an hour wait–that’s the Big Apple, baby–but we found a burrito spot called Son del North around the corner.
Marcus Ramos, David Hanson, and yours truly enjoying Son Del North burritos and each other’s company. (Devin Hogan)
(Side note: when this happened again the following day, David hit us with sage wisdom: “The great thing about the city is when Plan A is booked, there’s always a spot around the corner, and it’s almost always better.”)
Better is an understatement with these burritos. The bros got shrimp, I got steak, and you couldn’t go wrong with anything on the menu.
Absolutely cheesed to be here. (Devin Hogan)
I was offered a spot at a different mic the following day, so we structured our brunch plans to coincide. Initially in secret to David, I was enticed by an horchata and elote at La Comadre, but I admitted to the aperitif almost immediately out of guilt. He feigned heartbreak, as he had passed up his aunt making him breakfast, but forgave me soon after.
The aforementioned restaurant congestion led us from breakfast to a quick lunch at One More Thai a few doors down. Jerry Springer was playing on the big TV. I felt homesick for 2007, where my relative’s elbow wrinkles were an inquisiting novelty, as compared to a stark, indelible reminder of time passing.
We were promptly sat, and started poring over the menu. David got a squid based dish and some crab rangoons, Marcus got chicken fried rice and gyoza, and I had to assert my individuality and dominance by getting the Tom Kha soup and roast duck with tamarind sauce. The soup was milk-white, nutty and perfectly tangy, with perfect bites of mushroom and tofu bobbing in the broth.
The duck was beautifully crisp and comforting, and the sauce was equal parts smoky, sour, and semi-sweet, with a familiar but distant flavor profile. I am reminded of my grandfather telling me about climbing the tamarind tree in his back yard in Cuba, and wondered to myself, “if family trauma can be passed down on a cellular level, feasibly, family taste buds could too.”
An attempt at an aesthetic photo of the roast duck with tamarind sauce at One More Thai in NYC. (Devin Hogan)
After an overstimulating visit to the Met, we all sat down for an intimate open mic of four comics at The Comic Strip, yours truly included. I was told by one of the comedians that I was very deep, and he could see me on SNL one day, which made my inner child who wanted to write for the show one day and had a morbid curiosity about Chris Farley’s life, pleased as punch.
David and I used our drink tickets to have a quick libation to comedy (and my subsequent desecration of the form every time I smeared onto the stage) then set out for dinner. A Vietnamese spot named Ly Ly had just reopened across the street, and I am a Pho-natic by trade, so we grabbed a table.
Editor-in-Chief Marcus Ramos action shot. (Devin Hogan)
My photos don’t do justice to how delicious this meal was, but I’ve never been a braggadocio in my food photojournalism skills. The broth was clear and flavorful, the meat was tender, the noodles kept slipping out of my spoon–but that’s more of a personal skill issue than a metric of quality–and was some of the best Pho I’ve ever had. David ordered wings for the table, and I’m sorry if any bonafide Buffalonians read this, but this unsuspecting place on Second Ave on the East Side of NYC had the best wing I’ve tasted in my lifetime.
The next morning involved a wonderful breakfast burrito by the woman my boyfriend and I were staying with to help fuel us for the long train ride to visit some of my family. You could tell by the warmed tortilla it was made with love and sazón (same difference!)
We stopped by his sister’s in the Bronx and grabbed sandwiches from a deli next door for lunch. The city has a style of deli meat that I haven’t often found this side of the Hudson, but by far clears the average honey ham: the salsalito turkey, which is coated with dried jalapeno, onion, tomato, and cilantro. It is pleasantly spicy and perfect on a hero roll with everything on it (plus onions in my case, because I love to have a leperous breath).
We traversed the J to the 4 to the Long Island Railroad, and finally landed at Huntington Beach, an impressive suburbia with a main street that parallels Webster’s in car speed and quaint shops. We stopped at Sapsuckers, an almost violent name for such an ambient spot.
Pierogi, stage center, and Buffalo sprouts and cauliflower. (Devin Hogan)
I come from a family that loves to have funky drinks and order pragmatically off the menu to share. Grilled homemade pierogi and Buffalo-tossed cauliflower and sprouts felt like getting a love letter from home.
Entrees included a pot pie, a Cubano (well technically, this sandwich included, three Cubanos were involved in this dinner), birria tacos, and a parmesan-stuffed braciole. I ordered the latter, and found out five minutes later my uncle is sensitive to strong smells. My fate as a leperously-breath’d something-or-other was sealed once again by my penchant for strong flavors.
We all split a flourless chocolate torte and a caramel bread pudding. More hedonism commenced with a night of decadent liver abuse and soulful instrumental renditions of songs we loved, or vehemently loathed but could palette due to the genre swap choice.
Part of this trip centered around visiting my grandfather, Andres, whom I haven’t seen in about two years. I’ve known him my whole life, but this visit was the first time I really noticed his eye color, partially because I have a proclivity to stare at the floor, coupled with how he used to wear thick glasses that seemed to always catch a reflection just enough to occlude the hue. They are baby blue, like the skies of Havana on a mostly cloudless day–that’s the glaucoma–and this visit cemented where I get my expressive eyes from.
It’s interesting to see the mind, once crisp as fresh printer paper, try to heave and churn, gummed up from the decades of memories and shucked myelin now stuck in the teeth of the gears. He didn’t remember me, but wisps of emotion tied to moments shared together would cross his face as I sat with him, held his clear-coat manicured hand, and played music for him.
Said sodden Caesar wrap. (Devin Hogan)
We shared deli sandwiches, his being a ham with Swiss, dry, mine a Caesar wrap, sodden.
The train back to Queens was a melancholic one, but the sunshine on my face in the window seat uplifted my spirits. We packed up and headed back to the Bronx where we’d have our last evening in the city.
I had the honor and privilege of being able to make a meal with Marcus’ mother, Noemi. I relearned how to make tostones, a side dish I would make with my own mom as often as I could when I was younger. The last time I made them was for my 20th birthday during COVID, and telling myself constantly I should find the time to make them, and when in Riverdale, and when plantains go for 2 bucks a bunch, there was no time like the present.
Noemi made salmón y arroz while I was on tostones duty, but if we’re being real, she did most-all the work, watching and flipping based on feel. “Mom hands” were in full force, mostly flipping the plantains in the hot oil with her fingertips, or by mimicking the flipping motion briefly before taking over.
I paired the dish with a stemmed diet Dr. Pepper on the rocks. It felt fitting.
Noemi’s delicious salmón y arroz. (Devin Hogan)
We awoke at 4am Sunday to make it to the station before the 7:03am train to Buffalo. We cashed in rewards points to get breakfast in the Amtrak lounge, only to realize the lounge opened three minutes before our departure on the weekends. I had a watery $10 Bahn Mi on the train for lunch. Not much there beyond ennui to write home about.
I should probably cut it there.
Thanks for reading about my travels and existentialism with the inevitable mortal coil winding in upon itself. Eat good food. Hug your family. Talk soon. Promise.