Dear Tastebuds: Duck and Cover

Just so we're all clear, I can be a bit of a braggart. I love to proclaim loudly to whoever will listen that I grew up eating just about anything that was placed in front of me. This is mostly true. But there have been a few hold-outs in my life. It took me a fairly solid two decades to appreciate a runny yolk, a tuna fish sandwich, and now, the star of today's show: anchovies.

I have ALWAYS wanted to like anchovies. When, as they will in any reputable establishment, a server asked if I'd like anchovies in my Caesar salad, I'd always boldly say yes. And, without fail, I'd end up pushing the leathery little monsters around my plate like refugees. Fishy is still a flavor profile that I'm working on having the utmost enthusiasm for. Let's just say that Anchovy Canapes I made me feel particularly enthusiastic.

An Open Letter to New York City

Dear New York City,

Hello. I hope this letter finds you well. I'll be direct, because I know you're busy: we get it. It's fucking hard to live in you sometimes. But please, for the sake of the sanity of all of us, warm. UP.

The problem is that you gave us one glorious weekend of sunshine and spring temperatures and then took it away. This, above all things, really, really hurt our feelings. It's lucky for you there is an indoor farmer's market near to me on Sundays. Otherwise, I might go crazy and start threatening to move to the south. For now, I'll occupy myself by roasting pork. But, this is a mere diversion, so please get your shit together. XOXO: Rebecca.

Now, about that pork.

The Flavor is Unusual

I always say I could never be a vegetarian. But honestly? If there were enough mushrooms, cheese and Shanghai mock duck involved, I probably could be. When my Sidekick and I first started dating, I asked him - as every one of his predecessors had been asked - if there were any foods he didn't like to eat. And I mean, let's be honest, this is a trick question. This question only gets asked so that I can force you to try your worst gustatory enemies in a way that will make you forgive them. My Sidekick's answer: beets, mushrooms, Jello. Since that day, he has declared beets to be one of his favorite foods, never balks at a mushroom and still despises Jello. We're getting there.

How to Pretend Gourmet Still Exists

If, like for me, losing Gourmet magazine really stung you in all the meanest places, I'm here to help.

And so is this fantastic broad.

Tastebuds: "What a great weekend!"

Moving to a new city can be so stressful. You start over in so many ways. How to arrange the apartment, which spices to start re-filling cabinets with first, how on earth you'll ever find a job, which neighborhood spots are worth becoming a regular at... The possibilities are truly endless. Now move to Brooklyn and multiply those possibilities by 5,000.

We moved in on Saturday and everyone kept saying, 'How excited are YOU?'. And for some reason, I just couldn't muster up more than a half-honest, 'Soooo excited'. We found a great apartment, with an even better roommate, in an amazing part of Brooklyn that's convenient to everything, and I couldn't even find the energy to elaborate? To be honest, I was overwhelmed. I've wanted to live in New York since I was old enough to decide such things, which my sidekick and I determined last week was... about five or six.

It's like Chanukah (insert Christmas, Goyem); I'd wait and wait and wait for one specific present EVERY year, let's call it 'Hot Shots Basketball'. And every year I'd tear through my presents hoping for that ONE present to be unveiled. But every year my parents saved it till last, hidden away under their bed or something, just to see me squirm. They'd bring it out in this triumphant 'We got you' moment at the very end of the night, but by then I'd worked up so much agita about not getting it that I was exhausted! This is kind of how I felt about New York last week.

Now, let me be clear, this is not New York's fault. New York is wonderful and I love her. It's not you, New York, it's me. But don't worry, I don't want to break up. I still believe in us. Even more after this weekend. And New York, you and I have my tastebuds to thank for this...

Well, to be more specific, New York, my tastebuds and my loyal and supportive sidekick have another person to thank. Her name is Kathy.

Kathy writes a blog called 'A Passion for Food', which I was introduced to by a certain benevolent-food-and-booze-appreciating uncle, and I'm beginning to suspect that Kathy's tastebuds and my tastebuds have an awful lot in common.



This is a bowl of beef noodle soup. The beef, probably neck-meat, but 'parts' to be sure. The soup, a salty, murky, oily broth of dubious origin that achieves that perfect, blissful state of umami. But the noodles are the real star.

They're hand pulled.

The phrase itself really doesn't do the process justice. Here's what happens: When you walk into Lan Zhou Handmade Noodles at 144 E. Broadway -- if you are lucky enough to have someone clue you in on what this magical address holds -- you are greeted with the distinct feeling that you don't belong here unless you speak Chinese. Ignore that. It's a stupid reflex that will keep you from enjoying heaven on earth for your tastebuds.

There is a very short English menu, a noticeably larger Chinese version, an array of condiments unfamiliar to most and, in the back of the room, a man beating the truth out of a long glutinous strand of dough. When you order, this man in the back of the room interrogates the dough, slamming it down on a metal table like it owes him money. Twisting, adding flour, adding water, slamming, twisting... and then suddenly, out of absolutely nowhere, the dough confesses, falling into perfectly uniform strands between this artist's hands.

My friends, we call these NOODLES.




And we call this: BLISS.

And this: SIDEKICK BLISS.

But Lan Zhou isn't quite done with us yet. There are DUMPLINGS. Doused with my new condiment of choice: Chinkiang Vinegar. Or black vinegar. Or... I don't know, mother's milk. I threatened to drink it off the plate with a straw. It sounds silly, but LOOK at the plate:



It's blurry, Mitch, I know, but you can only take so many pictures before things get cold. And that's just not in my nature. These things are piping hot, crispy and tender on the outside and filled with exactly the right ratio of pork : chive. Trust me on this, I've investigated, there's no other word for this but SEXY.

Now here's what happens when you leave the noodle bar on East Broadway: You know a secret. A very delicious, very cheap (noodle bowls max out at $4.50, I think), very share-able secret that will make people who love you only love you more. And if you're a recent New York transplant struggling with your ability to enjoy your favorite city in the world, you walk out of the noodle bar feeling warm from the soup and ready for anything. Because if you've found a place like this and enjoyed it, then my friends, you get it. You win. Your tastebuds, and possibly your sense of life-purpose will thank you. Don't thank me for this.

Thank Kathy.

It was all her idea.

Coming up next: Kathy's next contribution to my tastebuds, Parisian macarons a la Mitzy of Itzy Bitzy Patisserie. I'll let 'A Passion for Food' introduce you, as she introduced me, and in a few days, after I've devoured all dozen of them, I'll report back.


Lan Zhou Hand Made Noodles
144 East Broadway
New York, NY 10002
(212) 566-6933