Rich Mintz  

I’m at Fairway Cafe stuffing an egg salad sandwich on whole grain bread into my maw with the hunger of a just-unfrozen caveman after 10,000 years in a block of ice. And I’m reflecting on how lucky we all are that the owners’ plans to close it have apparently been shelved for now, thanks in part to a successful neighborhood grassroots effort. Just goes to show you: you can mess with the subway, you can mess with the streetscape, you can mess with legendary institutions — but don’t mess with our food. Or something.

My English friend Matthew and I found ourselves in Boston at the same time last week (he visiting from London, I from New York) and made plans for dinner, and Matthew (for his own reasons, as a lover of all things American) suggested the Cheesecake Factory, an experience he’d never had before. (Obligatory Wikipedia link here, in case any Martian archaeologists are reading this; surely nobody alive in America in 2010 will need to click it.)

As a devotee of The Big Bang Theory, Matthew was curious about the Cheesecake Factory. As someone who’s game for anything, I agreed, and (bracing ourselves for the ridicule of our mutual friends, which did indeed forthwith rain down upon us), we met in front of the Prudential Center branch of America’s favorite sitdown gorgefest about 8:30 the other night.

The last time I set foot in a Cheesecake Factory was about 7 years ago for lunch at the Sherman Oaks Galleria, and the last time I ate in one for dinner was, what, 20 years ago? I hail from that suburban-escapee American social stratum in which the people over 60 (and a few of the younger set who never quite grew up and broke away) enjoy the Factory non-ironically, and the people under 60 sneer at it ceaselessly and set foot in it only when invited by an elderly relative. But I might have to change my tune.

Commercialized? Sure. My cocktail was watery. The menu was too long, covered in advertising, and a bit pretentious for what they’re serving (which you might call “large-portioned high-middlebrow American festival cuisine”). But I’m afraid that with those, I’ve now exhausted my complaints.

I ordered corn fritters, and a chicken cutlet dish with a fake Italian name that came with a football of mashed potatoes and a garden’s worth of asparagus. Matthew had the hibachi steak — which came with a like portion of potatoes — and a ten-pound vegtable salad. And I must say that everything was delicious. The portions were gargantuan, with enough chicken and potatoes on my plate to feed three hungry adults. The corn fritters were absolutely perfectly done, light and fluffy — the sort of dish I’d try and fail to duplicate at home. The chicken cutlets were pan-fried light and floated on an unimpressive but inoffensive sauce. In fact, there was nothing served to either of us that I wouldn’t consider ordering again, which is actually pretty rare when you think about it. In fact, typing this right now, I’m getting hungry.

Incidentally, we skipped the cheesecake, having each consumed about 2,000 calories by the time the dessert menus came. So I guess I’ll have to go back.

Here’s this week’s bread:

It got a six-hour rising, and consequently is soft and crumby despite being heavier on the whole wheat (proportions roughly 2 cups King Arthur whole wheat flour, 1/2 cup cornmeal, 1/2 cup toasted buckwheat groats [kasha], 3 cups King Arthur white bread flour). I wasn’t sure what the kasha would do — in the dough, it was a little lumpy, and I was afraid it would interfere with the rise — but it’s fine; it gives the bread a nutty overtone without hurting it at all.

The Boon Companion (who is the one who deserves the credit for “groaty to the max”) said “this bread tastes really… er… healthy… and that’s sort of a compliment” — but I’m happy with it. And if I do this 50 more weeks in a row, I’ll be a master of flavors and textures.

I’m sitting in the office listening to the kind of review (from a colleague) of the newly reopened Pies ‘n’ Thighs, in Williamsburg, that makes me want to take the rest of the day off and go get two chicken biscuits (“hot sauce,” “honey,” “mountain of fried chicken,” “best biscuit of my life”), eat them, then sit on the Brooklyn waterfront all day and watch the boats go by. This after reading this salivation-inducing review yesterday. So I’m making plans for dinner in Williamsburg next week…

Had to be in the office unconscionably early this morning, but, as I’ve noted previously, blueberries make everything better. This morning’s haul, from the fruit seller at Fulton and Broadway, are Naturipe Farms blueberries from Georgia; they’re firm and sweet, and I got them at the peak-summer NYC street price of $2 a box.

NYC fruit stand prices seem like the punch line of an old “make it up in volume” joke. Given that supermarkets sell the very same thing for $3.49 — and this is not second-quality merchandise — how does this guy manage at $2? Obviously his overhead equation is different, but still, his inventory begins to rot (especially on a day like today — we’re approaching 80 degrees at 8 in the morning) the moment he sets it out. Margins for a fruit seller on New York streets must be exceedingly thin.

Via Jonathan Chait, I learned that in 2008 Frito-Lay, a division of Pepsi, took an ownership stake in Sabra, the manufacturer of the best industrial hummus available in America. Who knew?

Had another Montreal smoked meat sandwich from Mile End, and this time I was thoughtful enough to snap a photo before I gobbled the thing down in four minutes. (Half-sour by Ba-Tampte; plate by Fishs Eddy.) A perfect sandwich.

Now that I’m a Busy New Yorker with Places to Go, I have much more respect than I used to for efficiency in the customer experience.

When I first arrived here, and realized that it was very common to be served coffee with the milk already added, my reaction was, “ew! What if they put in too much milk? Or too little?”

But I got over myself, after realizing that (1) once you’ve decided to add milk in the first place, coffee is equally delicious with milk added in a pretty wide range of amounts, (2) people who add milk to coffee for a living know how much to put in, and (3) who gives a crap?

If you’re on the way to work and you stop at a coffee cart to grab a cup, the guy in the cart knows what to do. It’s fine — let him put in the milk. And the same for sugar. I know how much sugar I like when I’m preparing my coffee myself. Sometimes the cart guy puts in too little; sometimes he puts in too much. But it’s fine. The coffee always seems to come out somewhere in the “drinkable” range. And it’s nice to save that extra time and effort.

Now, after a few years of doing it the New York way, I can’t stand being forced to adulterate my own beverages, and when you’re outside New York, you almost always do. And increasingly I’m finding New York is just like the rest of the world. This is presented as a convenience — “make it your way” — but, really, at 8:45 in the morning, when my briefcase is over my shoulder and the newspaper is under my arm and I’ve got a CVS bag in one hand and my wallet in the other, really, I have to walk over there, put everything down, take the lid off, and add my own milk?

Even worse is “we’ll add the milk, but you have to add your own sugar.” Really? I’m talking to you, Wichcraft 20th Street, and you, Zaro’s Penn Station. Penn Station! All day long people come in there with bags and luggage slung over their shoulder, hot and sweaty, their hands full. You’re adding the milk already. You can’t add the sugar? There’s nothing as generic and fungible as a spoonful of industrial sugar. I don’t care if it’s Domino’s Golden Crystals or Sysco sugar — it’s sugar! Get yourself one of those metal bins like the coffee cart guy has, and add my damn sugar.

Thank you for your consideration.

This brioche cinnamon roll from Wichcraft is worth more than 140 characters of comment. And I’ve only had one bite!

Perfect consistency, fresh and doughy inside with just a little crunch on the outside, a little glaze (on the top, not on the sides) but not too much, glaze has a slightly candied consistency (chewy). And the thing is not so big that you want to go to sleep afterwards. Bravo!

It is $2.50, which I wouldn’t spend every morning, but I don’t mind paying a $1 happiness tax to get something so perfect.

I also have something grumpy to say about Wichcraft, but I’ll save that for another post, so I don’t pollute the beauty of this moment.

I found myself in Boerum Hill about 9pm Sunday and decided to walk 2 blocks to check out the famed Mile End, which has allegedly brought Montreal-style smoked meat to New York. I’ve had this clipping stuck up on my refrigerator for 6 months, so it’s about time.

Amazingly, 5 nights a week Mile End is open until 10, and they dispense take-out sandwiches right out a window onto the street. I took one home. The claims are true: the slow-smoked, peppery slices, thin and a little fatty, are almost buttery in their smoothness, infused with the smoke flavor you only ever find in the products of barbecue joints in the middle of nowhere, piled onto good rye bread with mustard. Best eaten with a half-sour or two contributed from your refrigerator, and maybe a seltzer. Sorry, no photos of the sandwich, it didn’t last.