News & Happenings
the hunt is on
Down in south Texas over the Christmas Holiday, Jori and I did some shooting. I learned a bit about what one can or should shoot versus what one should not. At least, I learned the south Texas ranch live or let die policy. You may see a big, strapping 10 or 12 point buck saunter out of the woods to nibble on some of the feed you’ve strategically laid, but, just because you’ve got him perfectly sighted –a clean shot to the heart– doesn’t mean you should pull the trigger. You see, the folks who own or lease these ranch properties (we were on a modest 4000 acre parcel) are making an investment in their wildlife population. It’s a hybrid of farming and hunting. That big 12 pointer, hoovering all the corn I laid out for it was not for me to touch, tickle or shoot. He was a good looking buck, but young. Young enough to spread his seed among the more fertile doe population and, hopefully, spawn more 12 point kings of the mesquite wood forest. No, I was looking for an old buck, or a sad, scrawny 6 pointer whose unfortunate genetics were to be weeded out by us men with guns.
It was, however, pointed out to me that there was an alternative to bagging the antlered beast, and that was to shoot a mature doe. One who had birthed a few fawns in her day, one who was healthy, but aging, one with some fat and meat on the bones. Well, in the absence of an elder buck, this is exactly what I was instructed to do, and did. One shot. Through the heart.
After she was lifted into the the little ranger go-cart style vehicle we used to tour this vast acreage, we drove back to camp. Using the rudimentary blades of the hunter (the aptly named “buck” knife and Jim Bowie knife) I skinned and butchered the deer to eat that day.
As I was busy break the hind legs into their individual muscle groups, Jori was out, in the dark, quietly waiting for her prey. The boys, Allen and Glen, had thrown some mesquite wood into a giant fire pit while I drank margaritas and bloodied my hands in the desert sold of southern Texas. Just as the back-straps were coming off the mesquite grill, Jori and her sister rolled in with an 8 point big boy that put my doe to shame. Well, always one to swallow my pride, I joined in a tequila toast and served up a dinner of mesquite grilled doe, grilled potatoes and a serrano, radish and cilantro salad.
It was at this point that the group confirmed doe meat is more tasty than buck, but that in no way makes buck less of a prize! That night, in a tequila haze, I brined the rest of the doe in whatever one can find in a deer camp, booze certainly made a good showing!
The next morning we slept in. I needed it, I was breathing heavy just from lacing up my boots as we went out to find some firewood for the smoker. An old school circa 1950s double barrel smoker was in residence and I was fixin’ to slow cook the rest of my doe in that corroded hunk of steel. We sawed a few downed limbs of mesquite and post oak and stoked the fire. Ribs, neck and shoulder all went in. And, as I had suspected, regulating the temperature was tougher than a flash grilled venison shank. We kept the fire low and let it go all day.
Meanwhile, we butchered Jori’s giant buck and saved the neck to cook out at ‘Cue upon opening. The remainder of the meat we had ground for ‘Cue venny sausages and smoked venny nam prik! Hours later, we learned that, thanks to a little fat cap, doe ribs were fuckin’ delicious! We’ll see if we can find somehting similar up here in NY to throw into ‘Cue’s smoker.
Anyhow, the mounts, well, they just very well may end up as a little “his and “hers” on the wall at ‘Cue, forever reminding me who the big buck shooting mama really is.
Happy New Year All!
Not Just any other Tuesday…
A Tuesday unlike many, not any, other Tuesday just passed us by. First off, a very Fatty Wine Tasting accompanied by a variety of cured, smoked and braised treats was happening at Fatty uptown early in the evening. Colin Camac selected some of the finest wines on our list, which he and a few of our dedicated wine reps poured for a lucky group of folks who were on the ball enough to make a reservation IN ADVANCE. Corwin was playing in the kitchen slicing up pig face sausage, cured and smoked duck breast, cold smoked sea trout and, of course, some pork belly. Smells like holiday season in Fatty Land! Look out for more of these little wine and dine extravaganzas in the future.
On Monday, Andrew, Robbie, Adam and Steve were busy filming videos (http://vimeo.com/8092688) at Fatty ‘Cue (no it’s not open yet) and smoking some goats. These were a few beautiful goats. Raised in Millerton, NY on mama’s milk…the way it should be. Andrew surely had his fingers in some cincalok and that started to get Steve the Greek a little horny, but that’s another story. 2 of those goat-y beauties had been rubbed in a red curry paste a couple days earlier and they were smoked to a tender red roasty deliciousness.
On Tuesday, they were returned to uptown Fatty Crab where we shredded them. The boys poured some lamb stock over the smoky goat bones and let that simmer away while more red curry paste was sauteed, filling the air with smells of spicy love. Goat, curry and stock came together in an orgy of soulful flavor. I mounted, to temper the heat, the curried meat with local goat yogurt and fresh herbs and then Jori and I whisked it off to Saveur’s headquarters for one helluva a pot-luck holiday celebration. Merri-Lee and Jizzy Jazzer James put together a great crew of cooks who brought warming holiday dishes and lots of cheer. Sanchez was in town and in top comedic form…I was lucky enough to be hanging out in the far corner of the kitchen next to Marco’s rabbit stew, mmmm…Schuttenberg made tamales and infected the crowd with his good-natured bellows and belly laughs…that hunk of a man, Scotty C, graced us with his presence – such a dazzling smile, that boy…Gavin got us drunker with his dark and mysterious Glogg…Seamus was there later than me, so, well, that says something…Michael L, the consummate professional and his exacting egg custard never fails to impress…The big Dilucci had the press Hoovering platefuls of truffled mac and cheese…Alexandra, that blossoming TV star made Cranberry pie, the spirit of the holidays…Telepan, jehovah bless him, made kielbasa and stewed in sauerkraut, stimulating the Polack in me and compelling me to serve multiple rounds of Adam’s ‘Cue shot (overproof rum, smoked pineapple, yuzu and pernod). This, of course, led to hours on end of reckless behavior of which I will not say any words other than this: Good Fucking Job Ladies and Gentlemen!
Happy Holidays! Be Good! Be Good!
Hiatus High
Our apologies for not streaming content over the previous month…but…just because there wasn’t a new note on the news and happenings page in no way means we haven’t been getting into a whole bunch of mischief over here, down there and working on it over the river.
A few things:
1) Corwin and Andrew introduced the “ode to fatty ‘cue” – the sickest hunk of rib known to man… and republicans. Patrick Martins, Josh Applestone and Jake Dickson have been hooking up the finest pork and this new cut, well, it conquers all. A spare that runs all the way to the mid belly. It’s the big daddy rib, but I’ve seen the dainty take it all the way down. yeah.
2) Dr. Katz, master of mixology, has brought in our own, custom aged bourbon from the boys at Buffalo Trace. It’s all over his menu and in the well, so drink it straight. Fatty Barrel is in town and it’s better than good…doesn’t hurt to back it with the Rogue Sidestepper Ale. Two times is better than one.
3) Check out the photo gallery page. Fatty’s guerilla marketing campaign was in full effect and the City Meals on Wheels event a couple of weeks ago. You’ve been crabbed! Btw, thanks to all the organizers of that event, one of the best we’ve been to in a long time here in NYC.
4) Soft Shells are still happening! I don’t think there’s a better way to eat them than the Fatty way: crispy fried with pickled chili, curry sauce and short grain rice . Of course, some may think I’m biased. I’ll just go on thinking I’m right.
5) check out Colin’s picture in Eater’s gatekeeper. That’s good stuff.
6) Oh, yeah, Nancy MacNamara’s (honey locust farmhouse) strawberries with chili-sugar-salt are sure to give the tropical climate dwellers pause…Corwin’s running them as a special. Catch ‘em while you can.
dig it.
This just in…
…fatty crab does funny things to people
Heritage Radio Network lives…
…in a shipping container in back of Roberta’s Pizza. One drunk night over live shrimp and salted ham Patrick Martins announced his plans for Heritage Radio to Jori and I. In the midst of our enthusiasm for his project and a brainstorming session that took us well into the night I believe we agreed to host a show because a few weeks ago I got a call from Patrick who, with a slightly apprehensive tone, asked me, “are you ready for radio?”. I am almost certain he expected me to back out, shit, I expected me to back out claiming that I’m too busy. But no, we’re doing it…and it’s a lot of fun…it forces Jori and I to make time to have conversations with people we respect and in whom we are interested. Normally, we never seem to have the time to look deeper into all the cool things people are doing in this town.
The format for our show, however, was not our first choice. The best idea came around 2am on that night of drunken reverie when Jori decided she would produce a show of “the sounds of animals fucking”. This idea piqued my interest as I imagined not only the shrieks of ecstasy from these lower species, but the scratching of hooves on the ground, of bodies slamming. Alas, like most booze induced late night epiphanies, this too faded…hopefully to be revived as a segment on our otherwise entertaining show URBAN FORAGERS. Jori and I rummage around the city and beyond finding people who are doing interesting things with, to or for food and drink and then we have them in the studio. We air every Thursday at 3pm and the show is archived at www.heritageradionetwork.com.
Afterward, we get to eat and drink and hang out with our friends at Roberta’s on moore street in Bushwick. Those guys rock. They have really created the most utopian environment possible for an urban restaurant. Not to mention their dry-aged cote de boeuf for 2 is only forty-two fucking dollars!! That’s it, I’m moving to Bushwick.
postcard #2
Dearest Melchior,
Thy mustard seed awaits.
In the mornings parrots shriek at us while we bath with the suckling pig in the lagoon. Far gone are the ideals of yesterday. We look forward to the shrieking parrots of fatty crab bay.
–we love our customers!
Eating With Your Hands
Aphorism #1
The Malaysians say:
Eating with utensils is like having sex without touching.
Learn to speaky Singlish
In researching Malaysian translation we came across this article. Now you can “talk cock” too
TIME
JULY 29, 2002 / VOL. 160 NO. 3
Letter from Singapore
A War of Words Over ‘Singlish’
Singapore’s government wants its citizens to speak good English, but they would much rather be ‘talking cock’
A couple of months ago, Singaporean officials unintentionally made cinematic history. They slapped an NC-17 rating on a film – which means children under 17 cannot see it – not because of sex or violence or profanity, but because of bad grammar. Despite its apparently naughty title, Talking Cock: The Movie is actually an innocuous comedy comprising four skits about the lives of ordinary Singaporeans. The censors also banned a 15-second TV spot promoting the flick. All this because of what the authorities deemed “excessive use of Singlish.”
Given the tough crackdown, you would expect Singlish to be a harmful substance that might corrupt our youth, like heroin or pornography. But it’s one of Singapore’s best-loved quirks, used daily by everyone from cabbies to CEOs. Singlish is simply Singaporean slang, whereby English follows Chinese grammar and is liberally sprinkled with words from the local Chinese, Malay and Indian dialects. Take jiat gentang, which combines the Hokkien word for “eat” (jiat), with the Malay word for “potato” (gentang). Jiat gentang describes someone who speaks with a pretentious Western accent (since potatoes are considered a European food), as in “He went to Oxford to study, now he come back to Singapore, only know how to jiat gentang.” As for “talking cock,” the phrase means to spout nonsense.
I like to talk cock, and I like to speak Singlish. It’s inventive, witty and colorful. If a Singaporean gets frustrated at your stupidity, he can scold you for being blur as sotong (clueless as a squid). At work, I’ve often been reprimanded for having an “itchy backside,” meaning I enjoy disrupting things when I’m bored. When I don’t understand what’s going on, I say, “Sorry, but I catch no ball, man,” which stems from the Hokkien liah boh kiew. There’s an exhaustive lexicon of such Singlish gems at talkingcock.com, a hugely popular, satirical website that inspired the movie. Its director, Colin Goh, has also published the Coxford Singlish Dictionary, which lovingly chronicles all the comic eccentricities of Singapore’s argot. Since its April release, the book has sold over 20,000 copies – an extraordinary feat given that just 1,000 copies will get you on Singapore’s Top 10 list. Singlish is especially fashionable these days among Generation Y, in part because it gives uptight Singapore a chance to laugh – at itself.
But the government is not amused. It doesn’t like Singlish because it thinks it is bad language and bad for Singapore’s sober image as a commercial and financial center. For more than two years now, it has been waging a war of words spearheaded by the Speak Good English Movement (SGEM), which organizes everything from creative writing to Scrabble contests in order to encourage standard English. “Poor English reflects badly on us,” said Prime Minister Goh Chok Tong at sgem’s launch, “and makes us seem less intelligent or competent.”
In the past, the government would impose strict rules and hefty fines to shape social behavior – don’t spit, don’t litter, don’t sell gum. But this time, because it knows Singlish is trendy, it’s using the soft sell. Naturally, much of this has to do with semantics. Says SGEM head David Wong: “SGEM is not a campaign, it’s a movement. In Singapore, you associate campaigns with the message that if you trespass, we’re going to punish you. A movement is different. We want to adopt a more lighthearted approach.” This lighthearted approach spawned the recent SGEM Festival, a hapless exercise in unintended comic surrealism. Driving home from work, I would hear ‘NSync-style pop jingles on the radio telling me to “speak clearly.” On the cartoonish http://www.time.com/time/asia/magazine/article/www.sgem.com website, I took a test to “Have Fun with Good English.” I didn’t – I failed the test because I wasn’t sure whether it was more proper to say: (a) “Please come with me, I will take you to the airport” or (b) “Please come with me, I will send you to the airport.” (According to the website, the right answer is a.)
Blur as sotong responses like mine won’t dampen Wong’s zeal for promoting good English. He dislikes Singlish because he thinks it’s crude. “If my son came back from school and told my wife that she was talking cock,” he says, “I would slap him.” He would have to. Otherwise, how would Cambridge-educated Wong’s son learn to jiat gentang?
Singlish is crude precisely because it’s rooted in Singapore’s unglamorous past. This is a nation built from the sweat of uncultured immigrants who arrived 100 years ago to bust their asses in the boisterous port. Our language grew out of the hardships of these ancestors. And Singlish is a key ingredient in the unique melting pot that is Singapore. This is a city where skyscraping banks tower over junk boats; a city where vendors hawk steaming pig intestines next to bistros that serve haute cuisine. The SGEM’s brand of good English is as bland as boiled potatoes. If the government has its way, Singapore will become a dish devoid of flavor. And I’m not talking cock.
fatty design… the gift of giving
So, it’s been decided. April is give a gift to fatty month. Both downtown and uptown. As those of you who have visited one of the locations in the past know, we accumulate chatchkes. To say “collect” would imply some kind of method, discrimination or even premeditation. I guess, if one were to call us collectors of chatchkes such a claim would be the result of witnessing one of our reactive newspaper “cut-outs” pasted to the bar or thereabouts. Who can resist a good headline that coincidentally pertains to a crew member or one of our finer Ironic Fatty Philosophies. Typically, folks dump stuff on our doorstep and, in our Dickensian fashion, we grab and hoard…however, being in showbiz, we often place our serendipitous acquisitions in plain view. The significance of the item always up for interpretation.
Getting to the point: friend or foe, bring a chatchke to fatty up or down and, at the end of the month, we’ll run a fun post giving props to the people and items they have left behind…only the good ones…so no fucking burger king crowns or lame shit…unless the crown is covered in paint or gold leaf…something moderately (or more so) thoughtful.
If it’s really really cool, we’ll buy you a drink…or even take you on a date!!!
Cheers.
Postcards…
At fatty we present the check clipped to one of our postcards. Some people do nothing with them, some people take the card with them (to most likely do nothing with it somewhere else) and, on occasion customers will leave us a note. We love getting notes. Particularly creative, lewd, suggestive notes that expound on the virtues of fatty crab and the staff. This seems to be the perfect forum to begin to share some of the notes that customers leave behind…a far better present than the dude we caught peeing in between the two bathrooms left for us…in summary: some people are cool and some people are just flat out nuts!
Postcard comment #1
Dear Dingus,
I long for your crabs. The feast of all feasts has ended and I’m on my way. Soon we will be together.
Love
Zeke
