At first glance, it wouldn’t seem right to think of ZuZu Ramen as a neighborhood spot. With prices similar to those of ramen houses on more expensive real estate in the East Village and a menu soaked in the flavors of fusion cooking, the relatively young ZuZu is a pointed and stylish entry into the world of noodles.

Luckily, the line where style ends and substance begins is refreshing. ZuZu’s clean, wooded atmosphere is as much function as it is form – I’ve never enjoyed sitting in a wooden stool as much as in their softly grooved thrones – creating an elegant dining experience without the cost of stuffy atmosphere or tacked-on Japanese tropes. Like that of Minca Ramen Factory, this low-key ambience stakes everything on food, allowing comfort to follow as a natural fact.

ZuZu’s eponymous bowl of ramen, which features a slightly smoky and surprisingly sweet dashi broth, is easy to savor. The noodles, while not house-made, are firm and hearty. The generous portion of char-siu offers a texture ranging from creamy to seared. The green vegetables are lush, and the pickled vegetables have the right amount of crunch. The soft-boiled egg slipped into the bowl benefits from the most delicate of preparations, its orange yolk glistening through a sheen of barely-cooked white. Although this is clearly not best bowl of ramen in the city, it states just as clearly that being best is beside the point: Zuzu is not here to master the art or send ramen to the moon, but to offer its own take on the simple-yet-sophisticated feel that every new ramen house would like to capture.

ZuZu’s green curry miso ramen exemplifies this approach, trading in intensity for something more direct. Chef Akihiro Moroto’s curry/miso broth, probably the most polarizing item on Zuzu’s menu, is neither Japanese nor Thai. Having expected a rich, clunky mixture of curry, miso and coconut milk, I was pleased to slurp up a soup that breaks down its influences to basic sensations and serves them up in a clean-yet-hearty solution of salt and spice. Rather than harp on the exotic, Zuzu’s green curry miso ramen fuses its influences along the lines of pure comfort.

Not every menu item hits the mark as well. Zuzu’s hot-and-sour ramen, a more overt tribute to Thai and Chinese influences, ultimately falls into the trap that the house’s other broths avoid: novelty. While I find it hard to speak ill of its vibrant and playful broth, I find it hard even harder to order it again on repeat visits. Zuzu’s other menu items, including its delicious beef curry over rice, edge too far into gourmet territory for me to shell out the $14+ required to pay their tab. As with the entire appetizer menu, these specialties demand too much of my pocketbook to capture my admittedly parochial noodle-based interests.

Zuzu’s lunch special, a $9 steal, corrects for all flaws with pure and tasty economy. The lunch menu offers three choices of broth – green curry miso, garlic shoyu and double chicken – and fills a large bowl of your selection with thin, springy wonton noodles that seem meant to make you question whether or not top ramen is an essential life experience. The usual ramen accoutrement are present in full force, and in place of char-siu sits a terribly flavorful hunk of pork shoulder, richly marinaded in soy sauce and braised to its delightful melting point.

ZuZu’s double chicken broth, a lunch-only affair, is mild, sweet and savory in the most satisfying way. The accompanying sampling of gyoza – in case you’re confused, you should choose pork – are the perfect primer for your meal. And the bowl of rice on the side, begging to be splashed with broth, serves no better purpose than to be the final resting place of a fragile, soft-boiled egg yolk.

I’ve heard detractors contrast ZuZu with Momofuku (supposedly a better example of culinary fusion) and with Ippudo (supposedly a more pious practitioner of ramen religion) to get their points across, but neither comparison is fair. Ambitious and inventive without stealing the naturally subtle show that is a bowl of soup, ZuZu at its best (and most affordable) is what it is: everything I want in a neighborhood noodle stop.

Now, if only that American Chinese joint around the corner were a hand-pulled noodle stall…

ZuZu Ramen
173 4th Ave.
Brooklyn, NY 11217
718.398.9898

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My first encounter with Christie’s Jamaican Patties Etc. in Prospect Heights made me wonder why it had taken me this long to enjoy the obvious. The Jamaican patty, a savory turnover traditionally shortened with suet and filled with meats minced to the consistency of a fine, spiced mash, guards the price-to-power ratio of the world’s best street foods with a distinctly Caribbean vigor. Like tamales, shao bing you tiao and other street eats that don’t always obey the laws of starch separation, the entire pastry is commonly offered as the filling for a sweet hunk of coco bread, forming a $3.00 sandwich to make New York delis shudder.

The meat-based options – described only as “chicken” and “beef” – make for wonderful standards. The pastry itself is tender, flaky and beautifully formed. The fillings, graced by hints of allspice, scotch bonnet, vinegar and other flavors, deliver a comforting blend of sweet, savory and tangy and finish with a nice, soft burn. Spice can be boosted with the house’s scotch bonnet sauce, but the balance of flavors is wonderful as is. The same goes for texture: Both fillings are incredibly moist, and their generous apportionment lends each patty a plump heft that is nothing if not satisfying.

Christie’s vegetable patties are given their own treatment, possibly made without the use of animal fat and filled with a seasoned mix of cabbage, corn and other veggies that are serviceable if not very exciting. I say this not as an omnivore but as someone who’s had some wonderful curtido, which can put almost any country’s cabbage-based offerings to shame. That said, the vegetarian option is a benefit, but I wouldn’t recommend it to anyone who would be just as hungry for a meat-filled option.

Those actually seeking wonderful meat at Christies would be wise to stick to patties. While this New York Times review praised the house’s jerk chicken as a less intense alternative to the genuine, barrel-smoked artifact, Christie’s chicken seems to have suffered a precipitous decline since 2006. Soggy-skinned, marginally moist and mostly bland, the birds here are now little more than abysmal steam table fare. The looks of Christie’s jerk pork, curried goat and barbecue chicken doesn’t inspire much hope for a saving grace.

Fortunately, jerk chicken has found new wings just a few steps away, at a charming bakery called Little Miss Muffin N Her Stuffin. Here, Jamaican patties feature several types of meat-based filling, all of which are packed with much more flavor than their more classical counterparts at Christie’s. Little Miss Muffin’s jerk chicken patty sings with allspice and pepper, and their popular BBQ chicken patty abandons minced texture altogether for heavily glazed chunks of white and dark meat. It may not seem very traditional, but it’s finger-licking proof that meat-filled pastry can rarely do wrong.

I’ve had trouble confirming what exactly is used to shorten Little Miss Muffin’s pastry crust; while a roster of extremely hospitable women take their turns representing the bakery’s namesake at the counter, I’ve been told that three Jamaican dudes bake all of the patties. In any case, the pastry is just as flaky, if not always as tender, as the pastry at Christie’s – and the richer, bolder fillings within make Miss Muffin’s patties a distinct go-to when I have a patty craving.

Any visit to Miss Muffin’s bakery also begs a sampling of cookies, which are sold by the pound (roughly 3 for $2). Cranberry orange oatmeal and chocolate chip pecan are standouts – dense, crusty, chewy and moist, they provide a nice end to a lunch that really shouldn’t have consisted of meat-stuffed, lard-baked pastries. Then again, when it comes to classic handheld treats, walking away with a balanced meal is rarely as easy as pie.

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I direct much more pertinent questions to my past self: How did I manage to ever live in a neighborhood without an honest sushi bar? On how many of those nights at Lucky Dog did I really feel at ease with my beer? All meals considered, should I have actually considered myself a commuting resident of Greenpoint?

Most importantly: How did I get by for almost two years without access to a truly great neighborhood slice?

This question is the soundtrack backing my walk down 5th Ave. to Luigi’s Pizza, a pizzeria of South Slope’s old school. Serving since 1973, Luigi’s is a true New York classic and home to one of the best slices of pizza in the city – and on June 1, 2010, it became my slice of Brooklyn.

The joint itself can be described as a quintessential den of pizza. Inside, a single counter surface is warmed by faded and dated overhead lamps, which shine just enough light on the cramped, unadorned back dining room to offer customers the most subdued setting for a slice imaginable. Breaching the border of Luigi’s on a weekend day brings me face to face with a rat pack of teenage employees, the most fortunate of whom are learning the art of the New York slice under the supervision of Giovanni, the joint’s owner. Business is gruff but warm (Gio’s enthusiasm and readiness to educate his customers make him a local legend), and it seems like someone from the neighborhood is always lounging with the staff as I look over the rightfully limited choices of pie on display.

Luigi’s plain slice – which, along with every other cheese slice here, sells for less than $3 – is an edible definition of New York pizza. Luigi’s plain crust is crunchy and chewy from end to end, forming a beautifully rolling landscape of dough with a porous, fluffy topside. The tastes and texture of sauce and cheese coat this crust in perfect balance, blended into one delicate layer and crowned by a layer of grease that doesn’t overstay its welcome.

Gio’s “momma” slice, a powerful rendition of the grandma, sneaks hints of fresh mozz beneath a layer of sauce, herbs and crushed garlic. The swirling mixture sits atop what seems like Luigi’s toughest crust: a thin and hefty square layer with burnt edges and a bubbly underside. It’s probably the pizzeria’s weak link, as the strength of the crust borders on difficult; still, the overall chew is a worthy experience, and flavor is nigh in every crunchy bite.

Luigi’s Sicilian improves upon the grandma by allowing that pie’s hearty edge to blossom into a full-blown bed of fluffy, chewy dough. Topped by a layer of the joint’s heartiest tomato sauce and dressed in the golden brown tones of an expertly burnt sheet of mozzarella, this slice is a construction as delicate as it is strong.

The fact that most of Luigi’s pies are as enjoyable as its star, the fresh mozzarella slice, is a testament to the quality of this pizzeria. Still, the fresh mozz comes out on top with pocket change to spare. As with the plain slice, the crust of Luigi’s number one is perfectly taut, its crunchy, uneven bottom yielding to a springy, doughy upper layer and encircled by a crisp, air-pocketed edge. Unlike many of its rivals, Luigi’s slice drapes a full blanket of tender, fresh mozzarella across a generous coating of sauce. Each thick dollop of cheese melts into the next, and all are sprinkled with a homemade basil-based pesto, lending the final product an extra note of flavor and a beautiful splash of color.

It’s a slice worth a cross-borough journey, but what makes this pizza enduring is the fact that it can be it mine for a thirty-minute walk and less cash than it takes to fill the washing machine. Peering into the windows of neighborhood spots – old and new – along the way, knowing that I don’t have to wait in a line for some of New York’s finest, is a heartening start to my tenure in west Brooklyn and a gratifying kiss goodbye to Bedford Ave.

Luigi’s Pizza
686 5th Ave.
Brooklyn, NY 11215
718.499.3857

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The only phrase I’ve heard Jeff utter more often? “I am in.” Preceded by explorers of the edible like Joe DiStefano and Dave Cook, he is a stubborn loyalist to the experience of food, exposing his readers not only to his meals but to the spirit of exploration behind them. His blog, Jeffrey Tastes, reads as an open invitation to the uninitiated, making few assumptions and offering an opportunity to get up and eat something new with every post. In Jeff’s world certain types of restaurants are categorically irrelevant. The source of food goes beyond that which is bought and sold, and the best bites are wrapped in histories both local and far-flung. Conversations gravitate away form what is best and towards what is, what has been and what can be.

It makes perfect sense that Jeff would hold the final meeting of his richest project, the Jackson Heights Food Group, at a nondescript Mexican restaurant in the relatively glamor-less neighborhood of Corona. Avoiding the clean, proven, English-speaking services of Corona’s superstar restaurant, Tortilleria Nixtamal, he welcomed twenty or so adventurous eaters to El Globo (formerly known as La Nueva Espiga), Nixtamal’s grittier, grimier cousin.

This decision was par for the course. The Jackson Heights Food Group, as a rule, was more about bringing people together than bringing them to an unforgettable meal. Most of all, it was about reviving the connection between people and the neighborhoods they inhabit, rejecting cosmopolitan consumerism in favor of something closer to the ground.

Jackson Heights Food Group meetings, which bore absolutely no likeness to the supper clubs and tweetups that too often erase the line between social gathering and a pool of self-promoting sharks, were remarkable for their diversity of age, ethnicity and experience. When was the last time you showed up to a food event to be schooled by a 70-something Swedish woman in the ways of Burmese food and 2-liter jugs of white wine? If you lived in Jeff Orlick’s Jackson Heights, you’d have a happy answer.

The path to El Globo began at the 7 train stop facing Queens’ most regal Pollo Campero, crossed a Colombian street celebration, a handful of taquerias and two Mexican bakeries before setting us upon the boldest of carnitas tacos. Chopped from pork shoulders that were apparently braised in a massive metal wok at the front of the restaurant, they were a juicy, savory and soft combination of carnitas and chicharrones.

Instead of frying their pig skin (or was it simply a layer of pork fat?) to a crisp or serving it in tough, rubbery, slices, El Globo cooked it to a state of fatty creaminess and chopped it into their carnitas in a 1:1 ratio. The extremely rich result was the most interesting form of carnitas I’ve had the chance to try, but they left me wondering how incredible they would be if El Globo threw them on the grill or in a pan full of oil.

El Globo’s other tacos, priced at $2.25 each, were just as enjoyable, thanks in large part to the delicate texture of the joint’s homemade tortillas. Pastor, dark and greasy, was a solid choice. Barbacoa de chivo (roasted goat meat) seemed especially dense and fatty, and was not for the faint of heart. My favorite of the day was the taco arabe, a rolled taco made with a fluffy flour tortilla, peppery bits of grilled beef and a tangy red dressing that resembled barbecue sauce more than the yogurt that supposedly accompanies this traditional form of Middle Eastern/Mexican fusion. To the credit of the Food Group, El Globo’s was my first taco arabe, and hopefully it was but the first in a long line.

Even better were El Globo’s quesadillas, which wrapped thick, freshly grilled corn tortillas around a variety of fillings and queso blanco. Chorizo con papas (spicy ground sausage and potatoes) was a no-brainer, and the vegetarian flor de calabaza (squash flower) made for a delightfully mild blend of sweet, savory, soft and chewy.

More intense but not as recommendable was the super cemita, stuffed with an overwhelming pile of queso blanco and stacked with milanesa de res, jamon and carnitas, but lacking papalo and chipotle. Enchiladas mole, which I tried on a repeat visit, were similarly average. El Globo’s gritty mole poblano is dominated by earthy chocolate flavors and could stand to be more refined; however, when used to soak the restaurant’s chicken enchiladas, it gets the job done.

As diners began to drift out of El Globo, those who remained strolled through the Italian part of Corona to Spaghetti Park, where we closed out the Jackson Heights Food Group with the ceremonial beating of a Mexican piñata. Summer rainfall drove us into the shelter of Timmy O’s for a tasty Corona custard, and once everyone had cooled off we made our way back to Roosevelt Ave. In a rarity of my New York life, I enjoyed the breeze of a lazy Sunday afternoon.

Moments later, the doors of the 7 train slid shut, and it was over. With taste buds inspired by my first trip to Corona, I realized that I would have to write this story before I could really begin exploring my new Brooklyn backyards. The Jackson Heights Food Group may have outlived its original purpose, but the mission it represented is no less vital – and though I am not a resident of Queens, I am most certainly in.

El Globo Restaurant (La Nueva Espiga)
42-13 102 Street
Corona, NY 11368
718.779.7898

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Until then, a preview of the meals I’ve enjoyed as a newly anointed resident of the North Slope in central Brooklyn:

Christie’s Jamaican Patties – Prospect Heights

Bark – Park Slope

Tochimilco – Sunset Park

Zuzu Ramen – Park Slope

Taro Sushi – Park Slope

New Yorkers: What else should I explore as I continue my journeys into the entirety of Brooklyn? I’m looking forward to eating my way through Sunset Park and the old neighborhoods of South Brooklyn once I really get my appetite in gear.

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My newest piece for Serious Eats focuses on one of barbecue’s greatest challenges: the pursuit of a beautiful beef brisket. Click to read!

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Then again, I didn’t plan on a half-hour date with Shake Shack’s seasonal concrete, the Standing Order, in the midst of this afternoon. I definitely didn’t plan on poring over the Wikipedia entry for ice cream and live footage of The Specials on YouTube in post-custard euphoria. Every time I’ve made it to Shake Shack, the thought of a rich and creamy dessert on top of my usual burger-and-fries order ends up being tabled for a time when my stomach can actually handle it. As I passed Madison Square Park, the sight of the Shack’s B-line and the relaxed mugginess of a mild summer day convinced me that it was time for me to bring frozen custard back to the floor.

When Shake Shack comes up in food talk, it often makes way for an unnecessary conversation on who’s got the best burger in the city or how the Shack burger could never compare to In-n-Out’s double double. What isn’t said enough is that, thanks to Shake Shack’s superb menu and instinctive, aesthetically calming arrangement, Madison Square Park is simply one of the most pleasant places to eat in all of Manhattan.

The voluptuous pleasures of the Standing Order certainly help shape the moment; its soft combination of flavors and textures is perfect for anyone who wants to cool off without diving spoon first into the intensely chocolate-bound landscape of Shake Shack’s other concrete specials. Sitting on a bench at the side of the park and watching a middle-aged couple share an ice cream while I savored my own, frozen vanilla custard melting at just the right pace around slices of fresh strawberry and sweet ribbons of orange-and-poppyseed caramel, I couldn’t have been happier to forget about the plans I was failing to fulfill.

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I spent all of last weekend covering the annual Big Apple BBQ Block Party for Serious Eats.
My column focuses on the diversity of American barbecue represented at this event – if you haven’t already read it, click on Ed Mitchell’s belly to check out the story!

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My favorite restaurant is a place where the cook knows his customers, where diners are met with as many expectations as appeasements, and where nothing is hidden behind swinging kitchen doors. Joints like Jodie’s in the East Bay, Colima Burgers in my hometown and Stage Restaurant in the East Village don’t always come up with the best dish or merit the best tip, but they all prove that flavor goes further than food on the table.

This is the logic that allows me to deem Nhà Tôi (translation: “My House”) my favorite restaurant in Williamsburg. This Vietnamese hole in the wall two blocks from my old building has been on its feet for just over a year, but by the time I made my move to Park Slope, I had been stopping by for lunch once per week. Standing near the corner of Havemeyer and S. 2nd St., just inside the border of South Williamsburg’s Puerto Rican enclave, Nhà Tôi doesn’t just serve good food – it also gives good food a home.

That home is the domain of Fred, Nhà Tôi’s owner, executive chef and only waiter. A transplant from San Jose who has lived in Bushwick for seven years, Fred is anything but polished. Blunt, bold and self-determined, he started building his chops when he was offered a line cook gig at Alphabet City’s Bao 111. Deciding that he was tired of selling women’s shoes at Bloomingdale’s, he accepted, and has since been fired from similar positions in Polish, French and Japanese restaurants – including the trendy Morimoto, where he was never allowed to slice a piece of raw fish.

Fred’s losses turned out to be Williamsburg’s gain. Since opening Nhà Tôi in 2009, he’s built up a genuine neighborhood spot, attracting the full gamut of residents without the aid of new media branding and without stepping too hard on the toes of those who could easily see his business as a foot in the door of their own displacement. His stalwart demeanor and eagerness to discuss the politics of food and food service may rub some diners the wrong way, but forces of honesty run very close to the surface here, making every meal a refresher course in eating out.

The first time I stepped into Nhà Tôi, I asked for a bowl of pho without onions. Rather than accept that the customer is always right, Fred half-shouted, “NO ONIONS? WHAT KIND OF ASIAN ARE YOU?” and laughed as he filled my order.

The second time I walked through the door and asked Fred to hold the onions, he half-shouted, “NO ONIONS? WHAT KIND OF ASIAN ARE YOU?” and swaggered into his kitchen. Three minutes later, when he set my bowl of soup – raw onion free – on the table, he chuckled and jabbed, “You know, I’m going to say that exact same thing every time you come in here.” I was completely ready to appreciate the sentiment, but these days I’m greeted more often with a strong handshake and the day’s specials.

While Fred’s pho is nothing amazing, it – along with everything else in his house – is served with a sense of clarity and pride. His pho is comfort food, and its clean, simple flavors (offered in the forms of beef, pork and chicken broth and served with pickled Vietnamese peppers on the side) have made it my go-to when I crave nothing more than honest bowl of noodles.

Nhà Tôi’s playful side begins to show itself in the various fresh and fried rolls it offers on a daily basis. Ranging from the traditional (pork skin and vermicelli) to the eccentric (rice, lamb sausage, dates, cilantro and scallion), Fred’s rolls offer the same clean approach he takes with his soup, while allowing him more room to experiment with whatever ingredients he happens upon. Many of his most interesting flavor combinations can be found scribbled onto the constantly shifting spread of specials pinned just below the window.

Ultimately, the highlight of eating at Nhà Tôi is Fred’s gallery of sandwiches. While one member of said gallery is a fairly traditional Vietnamese banh mi, every other sandwich assumes a different outlet of the cook’s creativity. Averaging $7 $6 in price and sometimes involving over a day’s worth of labor and preparation, they are devoted yet breezy tributes to adaptive cooking, a trait Fred sees as dominant in Asian culinary cultures – particularly the Chinese, Thai and Vietnamese. Most of their ingredients are sourced in Chinatown, and their hero rolls, which land quite far from the crackling French baguettes typically used to make Vietnamese sandwiches, are baked in the neighborhood.

Hardcore banh mi loyalists might see this as a flaw – or even worse, as a short-sighted blunder – but the use of cheap neighborhood bread fits nicely into Nhà Tôi’s unassuming tastes. Although Fred searched for a more traditional source and even pleaded with nearby bakers to try baking rolls with rice flour, he ultimately decided to make do with the most accessible option. Cutting through the falsehoods of fusion cooking with a fitting directness, the banh mi menu, hero rolls and all, embodies his culinary motto: “I’ll just eat whatever’s fuckin’ around me, and make the best of it.”

It works. The standout of Nha Toi’s sandwich roster is the pho banh mi, which starts with a fat cut of brisket that’s been braised all day. The virtually stewed meat, tender, succulent and robust in flavor, is placed into the toasted hero with cooked bean sprouts, cucumber, thai basil, spicy mayo and hoisin. Brilliantly conceived and charmingly executed, this can only be described as happiness in a hero. Its sister sandwich, Fred’s braised beef banh mi, is equally tasty.

I’ve found the other options just as delicious, depending on my mood. The bun bo hue banh mi, another Vietnamese noodle soup de-constructed into a handheld meal, needs more work to rival its predecessor, but the meaty, juicy pork belly at its center – seared, then braised for hours – can certainly do no wrong. Two of Nhà Tôi’s mainstays, lemongrass pork and lemongrass chicken, are always tender and flavorful. One of Fred’s newest specials, the fried cheese banh mi, trades in meat for a deep fried brick of smooth and salty Dominican queso blanco, making this sandwich just as substantial as its meat-based menu mates.

Another favorite sandwich of mine at Nhà Tôi is the basa fish. A filet of Vietnamese cat fish, milder in flavor than its American kin, is seared on order, then thrown into the banh mi mix. The outside of the filet is golden brown, the inside of the filet is fall-apart flaky, and the end product is a subtle tip of Fred’s hat to the Southern po’ boy.

Among the other specials at Nhà Tôi are Saigon seaweed salad, springs rolls with braised oxtail and potato, papaya salad, and one hell of a homemade soda, made with lime juice and lemon grass syrup. During fall and winter, Fred plans on breaking out rice dishes and other warmer concoctions to accompany his pho and banh mi.

In the haze of a summer day, though, he’s most concerned with taking a look outside his window at the aged Puerto Rican men loitering outside, trading quips and keeping an eye on the corner. Without a doubt that this is his favorite place to be, Fred talks about the eight years left on his lease as a test of whether he deserves to join their ranks.

“It’s a beautiful thing right there – they’re just fuckin’ wasting their time,” he notes with a wistful grin. “I’m gonna be them someday, wearin’ a Hawaiian shirt, grow out my Fu Manchu. Just hold down the block!”

Nha Toi
160 Havemeyer St.
Brooklyn, NY 11211
718.599.1820

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What good would it do to suggest that eaters not pursue a dining experience? The blogosphere works best on the principle of ongoing conversation, especially when it comes to the ever-changing world of food. In pinning my own talking points to the meals worth revisiting, the best I can hope to do is inspire hunger – not just for food, but for going to new neighborhoods for a taste of something different. Questions like “where is the best burrito in New York?” ought to be punishable by catapult but rewarded with directions to Sunset Park.

Recent meals I’ve had at Pam Real Thai Food in Hell’s Kitchen exemplify the reward of risk in eating out. I’ve had just as much in the way of disappointment here as I have in the way of deliciousness, but I’d still recommend it to anyone.

Part of my rationale is personal. Having come to terms with flavor in the Thai-infused San Francisco Bay Area, I’ve been generally bored by New York’s Thai joints, which seem to falter when it comes to the fresh ingredients and sense of balance that made me fall in love with Thai food on the west coast. I swear to Ong Bak that Thai curry convinced me that vegetables are incredible, but you wouldn’t know it by the thin margins of produce that frame many Thai menus in this city. The same goes for depth in flavor; even an epic meal at Queens’ much heralded Sripraphai felt somewhat tame in comparison to similar feasts at Lotus of Siam or Orange County’s Thai Nakorn, places where the simplest curry takes on entirely new life in the care of an uncompromising cook.

Anything but consistent, Pam Real Thai Food has made me rethink this conclusion, along with my own makeshift knowledge of Thai food’s incredible diversity (after all, I’ve never even been to Thailand). Built on the slogan, “Bangkok memories. Recreated,” Pam’s offers a sprawling selection of dishes from every region of Thailand, many of which are touched by Pam Panyasiri’s homegrown sense of taste. The results, which several Chowhounders have declared the downhill slide of a once-great restaurant, are sometimes terrible, sometimes incredible and always interesting.

Whenever I encounter khao soi, a northern Thai curry soup with noodles two ways, I must try it. As Danny, one of my food bloggers in arms, will attest, Pam’s is among the best that I’ve had. A curry-and-coconut-milk broth – thin but rich in spicy, savory flavor – is filled with egg noodles, chili paste, fresh and pickled vegetables and slices of meat, then crowned with a heap of deep-fried egg noodles, lime juice and fresh cilantro. Just before eating, the fried noodles are folded into the curry to maximize textural joy. Lesser attempts at khao soi allow coconut milk to dominate or skimp on the spice; at Pam’s, the bowl fires on all cylinders with every bite.

Proof that Pam is capable not only of raising the bar but also of doing a hefty culinary pull-up on it for our amusement, the nearly hidden menu choice of anchovy rice achieves the same effect from an entirely different direction. The pungent odor of anchovy paste gave me pause when this plate hit the table, but the taste turned out to be an addictive blend of sweet, savory, smoky and fishy, all subtly woven into cleanly stir-fried jasmine rice – after one bite, Danny noted that he would have been happy if the rice had been served alone. The accompanying pork, dried shrimp, scrambled egg and freshly cut mango, once mixed with in, sent our taste buds soaring through a flavor rainbow I had never expected to appear over Thai fried rice.

A current special, Pam long rua spicy fried rice takes the same basic approach, then sets anchovy rice ablaze with the addition of Thai chili. The final product is stunning. Whereas American Thai fried rice is usually sweet and greasy, Pam’s spicy anchovy fried rice delivers clean bolts of spicy and savory flavors, relying only on fresh mango, lime and cucumber to temper its boldness.

The restaurant’s assurance that its cooks won’t trespass into the territory of weak, sweet and slimy, Pam’s catfish pad ped – chunks of on-the-bone catfish sauteed with red curry, egg plant, basil and lime leaves – holds the menu’s only five-chili ranking. Seeing how a four-chili ranking doesn’t exist (the next hottest rating was three chilis), this one was a no-brainer. The fish is seared hard in a brutal red curry-and-chili paste, coming close to deep-fried in texture, then plated with a singular strain of eggplant, whose texture and flavor is a cross between certain varieties of Japanese eggplant, green tomato and bell pepper. Discarding all possibility of mush, this is a power lunch to the last bite.

Nam prik ong, a northern Thai analog to Bolognese sauce, consists of minced pork, tomato and spices. While the sweetness of Pam’s nam prik aoung struck me as unpleasant, it also reminded me of how much regional Thai food I have yet to try. If this dish had been served with sticky rice, it would have been more enjoyable.

Pam’s misses, ostensibly taking the form of overpriced American Thai staples, are not worth too much negativity; a note of caution, however, is wise when looking at the curry options. Red curry with crispy duck and green curry vegetable were both underwhelming when I tried them: While sweetness isn’t a problem, a strangely salty taste was more prominent than any other in these sparse, runny concoctions. The meat in run-of-the-mill dishes here has also been consistently rubbery, tough and otherwise unpleasant, as if the cooks have it in for unadventurous customers.

Providing the foundation for this conspiracy theory is Pam’s pad thai, a bewildering wreck of a dish that is the only plate of Thai food I have failed to finish. If Pam’s curries can be criticized as tame, her pad thai embodies the fear that wells up in Thai food enthusiasts whenever one of their friends starts to gush over how much they love the new Thai cafe around the corner from work. The noodles were sticky and rubbery. The beef was tough and flavorless. The sauce seemed to derive almost entirely from Heinz ketchup, and the bean sprouts on top… well, I’m still not sure how it’s possible to tarnish a bean sprout, but anything is possible in New York City. I recommend that you try it.

Pam’s “real Thai food” begs questions of authenticity, the answers to which are rightfully complicated. Though I haven’t enjoyed everything I’ve eaten here, I’ve relished every meal, and by focusing on what makes this restaurant what it is rather than what I had thought it should be, I’ve learned a little more about what it takes to judge food. Food reviews, especially those on food blogs, are rarely a true reflection of the subject, but the best of them do offer a true perspective, with compelling reasons to try, if not to love, what the author has tasted.

To me, that’s about as real as it gets.

Pam Real Thai Food
404 W. 49th St.
New York, NY
212.333.7500

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