Dear Beloved Readers,
I’m taking a break from my regular column to write something different: an apology.
For years, as your food critic and guide, I’ve sent you across the city in search of the best cuisine. I’ve pulled no punches when assessing polenta. I’ve damned delis. I’ve praised pierogis. I’ve sworn at steak. I’ve scuttled scampi. I’ve celebrated Caesar salad.
But I haven’t been honest with you.
It has been my job and duty to inform you of the city’s best and worst. My professional obligation is to report the facts of various feasts. I feel that responsibility deep in my marrow. I owe it to each person in this city to highlight the best of the best and to call out the mediocre. Every person in this city deserves good food, but not everybody can make it.
I draw your attention to an article I wrote on March 18, 2006, titled “Cookin’ in Brooklyn: Ms. Sally’s Unsinkable Seafood”. I wrote this article following up on a tip from a reader who frequented an establishment in Flatbush named “Ms. Sally’s”. Without rehashing the entire article, I enjoyed the best variety of Caribbean-style seafood anyone has ever put on a plate. It was immediately clear that Ms. Sally’s was long overdue for a modicum of recognition. Upon the article’s publication, lines began forming in front of the door to Ms. Sally’s. While they didn’t take reservations, enterprising youngsters would provide a warm body to stand in line for you for $35 an hour. I did not do the cooking, but I do believe that I lit a fire for Ms. Sally’s.
This brings me back to the previous paragraph. I have a duty to inform the readers of this distinguished publication when I have found a gem. A place that deserves its due. I have found such a place. To be more truthful, I found such a place two years ago. Whilst out with friends, I stumbled across a shop selling empanadas. It is no exaggeration to say that I was near death from starvation. I could not imagine spending the next three hours at a book dedication without something to eat. So, I ordered two empanadas: Beef Picadillo and Black Bean with Plantain.
Dearest reader, even a seasoned food critic such as myself must look to a new set of adjectives to describe this culinary experience. I will do my best here to be descriptive and brief:
The empanada pastry was fried firm, but the inside had a tenderness that flaked into the filling. The unctuousness of the beef picadillo hit me with waves of umami, spice, and what I can only describe as what beef should taste like. Finely diced peppers and onions added a vegetal and sweet perfume to the meat. The black beans were creamy but still had a filling bite. Plantains added starch that coated the mouth with flavors of the divine.
Put simply, this was the best food I have ever experienced.
I found myself returning time and time again to this hole in the wall to sample every variety of empanada. At times, I ate empanadas for lunch every day of the week. At one point, I became concerned that my sophisticated tastes were waning. That I was a victim of what we call “Palette Fatigue” in the industry. This condition has put several of my fellow writers out of business. Some will continue to write, filling the page with lies and assumptions. All the worst for them when they are eventually found out.
To test this, I took my partner to a classic Italian dinner. A known spot. I would order a known meal. Somewhere that was a good control for my taste buds. We went to il Pomodoro on Tenth Avenue. I ordered a Pasta al Limon with a side of stuffed artichoke. I can report that the meal was good as expected. I was not suffering from Palette Fatigue.
However, I did begin to suffer from an even worse condition: selfishness. I began to think of what happened to Ms. Sally’s. If I reported on my new haunt, I would likely lose easy access. People would line up in droves for the food, locking me out from the existential experience of these empanadas. So I made the craven decision to keep it a secret.
Every time I entered the shop, it pained me to look Marta and her kitchen in the eyes. Every time they welcomed me by name, it became an indictment against my soul. I could bring more business to this establishment than they have ever seen. But I wanted the empanadas to myself.
Valued reader, I broke the most important ethical standard of being a food reporter: I hid good food from you. For this, I shall hang my head in shame throughout the rest of my career. I hope you stay with me as I dig my way from this hole, one risotto at a time.
Tortas de Ponce: East 12th and Greene
Humbly,
Gareth Pelcher
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