NB: My involvement with the organization this season is the primary reason that this blog has fallen by the wayside of late.  Only so many hours in a day…

The gritty edge of Long Island City is not the typical venue for these types of fundraising events, but given the haute barnyard vibe, it felt appropriate somehow.  The rain, which had fallen steadily through most of the afternoon, cleared out in time for our evening at the “beach.”  As we checked in, I was tickled to be presented with a selection of flip-flops — pink for me! — more suitable than my office pumps for traipsing around on the still-wet sand.

The event, dubbed “Let Us Eat Local“, began with an awards presentation honoring local leaders and farms.  M and I hardly heard the announcements, perhaps because we were happily distracted by the ice cream and Long Island winery tables, which the organizers had positioned in the outer tents, farthest from the podium. (Later, Adrienne Young and her band would provide the musical entertainment from the same stage.) Over two dozen restaurants and purveyors were represented here in all — each offering tastes of their wares, emphasizing local, organic ingredients.  All presented with biodegradable servingware and utensils, of course.

We quickly assessed that it would not be possible for us to sample everything.  Highlights included the offerings from Cleaver Co. & The Green Table, Candle 79, and Craft.  Chef Tom Colicchio, though, was nowhere to be found; perhaps he was otherwise engaged with the new Top Cheftestants in town.

Egg salad on chive biscuit from Tiny’s Giant Sandwich Shop on Rivington:

Both the Telepan and Jean Georges tables ran out of food by the time we made our way their direction towards the end of the evening — we’d heard their dishes were delicious — but we did manage to get to the smokey homemade kielbasa from Gramercy Tavern, artfully presented on skewers, while chatting up their three-starred chef Michael Anthony.

After all the unique gourmet bites presented to us — tasty all — M and I agreed that the most satisfying of all was the humble Harry Hawk burger.  After all, very few things can compare to the simple pleasures of a great burger.

Check out the rest of the photos on Flickr.  And for more inspiration, read the New York Times profile on Will Allen — urban farmer and genius!

At the corner of Prince Street and Roosevelt Avenue sits Sifu Chio, an unassuming restaurant which my parents introduced to me as one of the best places in town to get a bowl of authentic Hong Kong-style wonton noodles – a simple thing, done very well. (Chowhounds like the dumplings.)  The restaurant isn’t quite a dive, but the aesthetic is rather plain and utilitarian: open kitchen, florescent lights overhead, menus on the table under glass and every dish served in disposable plasticware. We were the only ones in the shop this evening, probably owing in no small part to the river of wretched rainwater coursing along the sidewalk in front.

What had started out as an order of a few bowls of wonton noodles expanded to include a side of Chinese beef brisket, a dish of Chinese broccoli, a bowl of noodles and fish balls, and a bowl of shrimp watercress dumplings.  As the driving rain pounded against the darkened windows, we eagerly scarfed down every bite.

Hard to pinpoint precisely what sets these noodles apart from the hundreds of other bowls I’ve eaten over the years. Dumplings made to order — delicate, tender skins with deliciously fresh filling — are certainly one factor.  Mostly, I think, it’s the perfectly textured noodles. In Cantonese, the word to describe them is “song,” a wonderful adjective which has no true English equivalent. Song can be used to describe a bitingly crisp wedge of fruit, a firm yet succulent shrimp, or here, snappy, springy noodles.  Al dente in this context comes close, I suppose, but doesn’t quite get to the heart of the irresistibly pleasurable sensation: of tooth meeting initial resistance, then bursting through to tender, juicy center.  “Toothsome” (definition 2) is the best general English translation, though I find it lacking in the poetry of “song“.

Later that night, the second annual Sunnyside Shorts Film Festival, which had been scheduled to take place at The Sunnyside Gardens Park, was driven indoors to the newly inaugurated Sunnyside Senior Center at Sunnyside Community Services  (Note to self: 39th Street — not the same as 39th Place. A girl raised in Queens should know this. I plead temporary rain-blindness.)

We sat at round formica-topped tables to watch the 16 submissions by filmmakers hailing predominantly from New York — among them a few Sunnyside locals — with contributions from Europe and South America.  Several of the short films were set in New York City, and covered an array of genres: animation, documentaries, comedic skits, one painfully earnest teen film student exercise, a sock puppet music video…

Quality varied widely. My favorite was Yolanda Pividal’s 16-minute “Two Dollar Dance” — a poignant examination of the Latino clubs dotted along Roosevelt Avenue in Jackson Heights where a clientele of immigrant men, isolated from mainstream society, gather in the evening to pay for female companionship, if only for the duration of a song — an update of the “dime a dance” girls of the taxi-dance halls of the 20s and 30s. (Unsurprisingly, the workers at these places are often exploited.)

But as credits rolled on the experimental “interpretive dance” short (oof), I discreetly slipped out with SH and AP, in search of the less challenging pleasures of frozen yogurt: green tea and blood orange for me.

Turns out that they were members of The NYC Decom Team, promoting NYC Decompression 2007 — the city’s official Burning Man offshoot. Like that annual eight-day long art event that draws tens of thousands to a remote lake bed in the Nevada desert, the Decompression Party was intended to draw creative-types to Flushing Meadows Corona Park–a place so chosen (according to the downloadable survival guide) as “like the Black Rock Desert… a location that may deter the casually curious but pique the interest of [the] genuinely committed.”

Count me among the “casually curious” then. I snapped these photos and continued on my way.

Located just a block east of the 69th Street stop on the 7 train, Ihawan offers a broad range of Filipino dishes, with heavy emphasis on the pig parts, for which the restaurant received the dubious distinction on the Village Voice’s “Best of NYC” list (2000) of having the “Most Extensive Organ Meat Selection” in the city. One scan of the extensive menu and I do not doubt it.

I’d never before sampled Filipino food, which is far less widely available than other Southeast Asian cuisines–more on this when I get around to blogging the “Found In Translation” panel discussion I attended at NYU on November 13. The dishes are a mix of Chinese, Spanish, Mexican, Malay and American influences, reflecting a blend of cuisines with which the country has interacted throughout the centuries. There is a distinct preference for sour and salty flavors, and several traditional dishes still retain their foreign names, such as the perennial favorite “lechón” (Spanish for suckling pig.)

We had heard that this place is immensely popular with Filipino families, so we decided upon the off-peak time of Saturday at 3:00 PM to ensure that our group of 8 could be accommodated. The strategy worked, but only barely: almost every table in the modest, second floor dining room was filled.

In the week leading up to our visit, JL tempted us via email with hints of good things to come: as Chowhound star “bigjeff,” he waxed rhapsodic over the Avocado Con Hielo (avocado with milk and crushed ice–outrageous!), among other Filipino specialties unfamiliar to the uninitiated. That afternoon, we left the ordering in his and and fellow regular RL’s capable hands. Vegetarians not welcome.

Naturally, we kicked things off with Ihawan’s specialty barbecue: a couple of bamboo sticks of smoky, slightly charred, flat-cut pork, glazed in a sweet sauce. Also a couple orders of their “weekend special” Lumpiang Sariwa–a pair of light flour crepes rolled with assorted vegetables and topped with a crunchy peanut sauce. For contrast, we added an order of the fried version as well: the Lumpiang Shanghai–a dozen crunchy (i.e., deep fried) pieces of finger-sized wrapped rolls filled with minced pork and shrimp.

From there, it was back on to the meat, and combinations of deep fried–sometimes unidentifiable–organs. Plates of hot, fragrant food began to hit the table at a dizzying pace.

Chicharon Bulaklak–a tasty delicacy described on the menu as “deep fried crispy ruffle fat.” What is ruffle fat, you may ask? I didn’t know it at the time, but it’s the incongruously dainty name for the part of the pig known as the greater omentum: a thin fat-filled membranous sac that hangs down from the stomach, over the top of the small intestine. (Hey, the descriptions can only improve from here.)

Lechón Kawali–deep fried crispy pork, served with a small bowl of vinegary liver sauce… which perhaps sounds vaguely heinous, but is actually rather good. So good that SC reserved one final, fatty bite next to her plate, for post-dessert. (Hmm, what’s that tingling sensation running down my left arm?)

The pièce de résistance: Crispy Pata–deep fried pork knuckles. This incarnation of crunchy, gooey fried goodness–plates of which appeared before almost every group of diners–was accompanied by a chili vinegar to help cut through some of the fat. I find it hard to believe, though, that anything short of an angioplasty would be effective in that regard. But at least the pig feet keep you young-looking.

The rest of the spread: Inihaw Na Langonisa (grilled pork sausage), Pansit Bihon (sauteed rice noodles with shrimp, chicken, chinese sausage and vegetables), Kare-Kare (oxtail, tripe, eggplant and bok choy stew stewed in a thick peanut sauce), fan favorite Dinuguan (pork stewed in pork blood gravy, sometimes known by the Westernized euphemism “chocolate meat“)… There may have been more, but after a while, as the blood chugged laboriously through my veins, I lost track.

And yet, there’s always room for dessert. Here, the Halo-Halo (mixed tropical fruits, red & white beans with crushed ice and milk), topped with a delicate chunk of flan.

I regret that I had but one stomach to devote to this cause.