WRITING CULTURE 2012: Film, Food & Beyond

Being a typical New Yorker and having suffered many of Mayor Bloomberg’s “natural disaster scares” that have gotten me all riled in anticipation for something very impacting and awful only to be greeted with laughable wind currents and a snow storm that gives me the shivers, I was not expecting any of this to happen. The day before the subways were meant to be shutdown in lieu of Sandy’s rage, I was in Albany partying it up for Halloween not worrying a single bit about what will happen. My sister calls me the following morning telling me to go home early because the Subways were going to be shut down at 7pm and too be careful. Of course, I brush her off and give her a unamused “yeah okay got it” expecting nothing but a little rain fall and some mild to heavy gusts. Boy was I wrong. Big time.

Thankfully, I’m alive and well. Worst damage done to m home was just some minor roof damage but I’ll take it happily. I have no words to describe what happened. It was just a shock. Never in my lifetime I would have expected a hurricane of that caliber to hit Brooklyn the way it did. My heart goes out to the many of those who lost their homes, cars and loved ones during this tragic event. Just being without power for a day completely disables New York. Driving to work those couple of days afterwards felt like I was going through some post apocalypse city and some Resident Evil creature was going to jump out at me and eat my head off. It was pitch black. Never have I seen New York in such a paralyzed state and I was heart breaking.

For now, I am grateful. I feel New York did an outstanding job handling this unfortunate situation the best it could have. When Mother Nature strikes, the best thing to do is just keep on because you can place the blame on anyone. Here, a couple weeks after the matter, we are still trying to recover and go back to things being normal. Although it’s hard, we just have to be strong and keep on. We just don’t value our well beings and our city as much as we should. We take things for granted and assume the best. After the dozens of cries from the Mayor in previous years of similar situations, it’s not baffling why New Yorkers didn’t evacuate when they were told to and why people were still on the streets when they were told not to be. It’s New York. The best city in the world. The same city that people who want to go see the World Trade Center don’t because they can always go see it next weekend or next year and assume nothing bad will ever happen.

No matter who you are or where you are, unless you’re some sort of bread hater, you can never go wrong with a good ol’ fashioned hot and toasted sandwich hot off the grill or toaster oven or whatever tickles your fancy. If you’re looking for a place that serves sandwiches of all kinds, from your typical BLT and Tuna to more acquired tasting sandwiches made of Hot Ox Tongue, Eisenberg’s Sandwich Shop, located on 5th Avenue between 23rd and 22nd Street, is a good place to go.

Not the catchiest of slogans if I do say so myself, proclaiming to be “raising New York’s cholesterol since 1929”. Maybe it was appealing back in 1920’s but for modern day New York, this may actually be a trigger for potential customers to head down the block and grab a burger at Shake Shack on Madison Park. Once you get passed the poorly thought out slogan, Eisenberg’s does have a nifty method of trying to make up for it by trying to grab the attention of pedestrians walking by. Right on the window of the shop, there is a collage of photos with the restaurant owner, Josh Konecky, and various celebrities that appeal to all sorts of people such as Jeff Goldblum from Jurrasic Park, Nick Jonas of the Jonas Brothers Band and Kenan Thompson from the popular 90’s television series “Kenan and Kel“. So maybe if you want to get a little taste of what the stars are tasting themselves, you might want to head on over.

Already, before even looking at the food, a potential customer can either be driven away by the small sandwich shop or drawn to it, you know, if a high cholesterol is kind of their thing. Nonetheless, once you go inside you might get a much unanticipated vibe. To me at least. Giving off a very neighborhood diner vibe with a bar where people can sit and enjoy the food right in front of the kitchen or tables for a more private and solitary experience, the shop makes you feel comfortable and right at home. Pretty bizarre for a restaurant smack dab in Midtown Manhattan on 5th Avenue to give off such a pleasant aura. Once seated, you get a nice look at the menu and being a sandwich place, it is no surprise that the majority of the menu’s entrees are sandwiches. However, there are many other choices as it has sections dedicated to burgers, platters, cold plates, sides, and desserts. Being of Latin origin I was very intrigued as to how the Cuban sandwich tasted so I ordered myself one with a side of onion rings. I have had all sorts of Cuban sandwiches since I was a boy, from a nearby shop in Washington Heights when I was four called “El Barrio Deli” up until now in college when I satisfy my Cuban sandwich desires at a place called ‘Sophie’s”. I am a full-time lover of Cuban sandwiches and who knows? Maybe Eisenberg’s can top the list of my favorite Cuban sandwiches.

The preparation was key to making this meal. All Cuban sandwiches consist of the main ingredients: ham, pork, cheese, pickles and mustard. Just these five in between two warm toasted slices of bread is good enough but good enough isn’t what I’m looking for. There’s a fine line separating a good Cuban sandwich and a bad one and that line can be crossed if the meat is not prepared right. In the places that I’ve enjoyed the Cuban sandwiches the most, chefs like to marinate the pork in a special olive oil based sauce called “mojo”. This sauce makes the pork feel moist and tender to the human tongue and tastes fantastic. If they did not marinate the pork in mojo, that might spell “Shake Shack” for the next time I’m in the area looking for some grub. However, to my pleasure, I found out they did marinate their mojo and my taste buds were going to be happy that night. To wash down my delicious Caribbean style meal, I decided to get myself a malted drink and I tell you it was the best malted I have ever tasted. Well it was the only malted I have ever tasted. For those of you that don’t know, a malted is a type of crazy ice cream soda milkshake combination. I had a taste of both the vanilla and chocolate malted drinks and they were delectable. It’s like drinking ice cream except not that kind of ice cream drink you get when your ice cream is all melted in your cone and you’re forced to sip away at it on the bottom of it. This one is a lot better.

Not bad for a Kosher spot located in the middle of New York City. The sandwich was great, the onion rings were crisp and the malted drink was A plus. For a grand total of $18.50, I wouldn’t mind stopping by again every day for lunch for the rest of my life. Until, you know, all the cholesterol gives me a heart attack. Good food, good service. Would recommend to anyone who is not looking forward to lose weight in the next ten years.

Sunday Morning we began making calls again. The DHH gave me the name of the same nursing home in Carnarsie. I called and they said he was not there but at a different building a few blocks away where they have adult-day programs. They transferred me and the receptionist said he wasn’t there, but she would check to see if he was at the shelter in basement. He was there.
Minutes after speaking with the DHH a nurse called to tell me where my father was, what a coincidence.
When I heard the word “shelter” images from Katrina flashed before my eyes and I wanted to get him out of there. I planned to take him from the shelter to the respite center but when I arrived, I was surprised how pleasant the place was.
A receptionist walked me past the dining room full of adorable seniors slow-dancing to live music. This was one of the fanciest adult centers I have seen. Most are non-profits that have to fight for the small amount of funding they receive every year.
When he saw me he shot straight up in his chair, his eyes got huge. He can’t talk but he laughs. His eyes and his mouth were wide open. I gave him a big hug and he just stared at me, he speaks with his eyes. He always was a nice guy but this illness has made him less inhibited, and more of what he already was.
A lot of people say their dad is the best, but mine really is. The nurses always say he is their favorite resident. Most likely they say that to everyone, but he really is that sweet and lovable so I believe them.
Since he has been in a nursing home he has had countless girlfriends. He loves music, especially country and a beautiful ballad could bring him to tears. He often hums along hitting all the high notes. His memory isn’t what it used to be, but he remembers songs like a living jukebox.
Two caregivers from his nursing home were there and I asked what happened. One woman said the water on the first floor came up to her chest and that the ocean and the bay overflowed and became one body of water. The entire Rockaway peninsula was underwater. The first-floor generators failed because they were submerged. She covered her mouth with her hand and eyes filled with tears when she told me she is living in a shelter with her family. She is taking care of people in a shelter and living in a shelter. I’ve watched these women take care of my father for two years and I want to help them but I don’t know what I can do. The nurses believe everyone will be going back to Rockaway next week when they get the power back.
I had planned to take my father with me and asked about discharging him. I spoke to the manager from the nursing home and she said they did try to call me but couldn’t get through. The week of the storm, my cell phone service was terrible. I’m sure they tried to call. He was taken to Brooklyn Tech, never John Adams. If I chose to discharge him I would have to wait until Tuesday to get approval and new prescriptions. There is a risk that if I take him out, they may not take him back.
Nursing homes don’t want people like my father because he is too young and active, and has dementia. Most are at full capacity and have an evaluation process before they accept a new resident. Two previous nursing homes sent him to the emergency room in an ambulance and made it clear they did not want him back. Once he was so over medicated he had to be placed on a breathing machine. This is the first place where he has had no issues and is well cared for. I decided it wasn’t worth the risk of moving him.
No one could have anticipated how devastating Sandy would be and I’m glad everyone from his residence is safe. I still believe the city did an excellent job considering the circumstances.
I just wish my father could tell me what happened.

This was supposed to be a love story about how proud I am of New York City in the wake of Hurricane Sandy, but as days go by, the devastation continues to grow.
New York City has faced horrific tragedies in the past, but Sandy has affected so many people directly in inconceivable ways, everyone feels it. Sandy continues to claim more victims like struggling businesses, the New York City Marathon and Halloween. People have lost power, homes, income and in some cases even loved ones.

I was in midtown Manhattan when Sandy hit so I thought I escaped unscathed, and reveled in my good luck. For me, the preparation and waiting for the storm felt worse than the storm. As folk’s downtown suffered with no power, I enjoyed spending time with friends. I had slumber parties every night with people I hardly see as we were now stuck in my apartment because they didn’t want to go home to the dark.
Like migrant workers we slept in shifts and on air mattresses on the floor. I quickly ran out of towels and empty sockets to charge things. We watched movies, we ate and we waited.
We didn’t know anything. I didn’t know if I had class the next day. We worried if stores would get groceries. I wondered how long everyone would be staying in our apt. I calculated how much income I was losing. It was impossible to think of anything else. We anxiously awaited every press conference or any news that life would be back to normal soon.
I visited the East Village and took photos. Most people evacuated and there were few people on the streets. I knew of people that were the only ones who stayed in their building. Others were afraid to leave their apartment at night, and not only because of the dark.
It was strange to see empty sidewalks and stores closed during the day. A friends East Village railroad apt was completely dark during the day from lack of windows. I struggled to find the toilet in total darkness except for the dim candle burning on the sink.

Sidewalk vendors sold batteries. Somehow pizzerias sold pizza. People stood in line for an hour to buy coffee from a truck. A nail salon was doing candlelight pedicures. The guy with the corner kabob cart praised god for his good fortune.
The usual cab traffic was replaced by bike traffic. There were no traffic lights. No one had seen or heard from the Red Cross or the National Guard. The only sound was the growl of generators and traffic from hundreds of workers heading to the sight of the Con-Ed explosion. It was still daylight, but the East Village was dark and desolate.
I had seen enough and wanted to go home before it was any later, or darker. I stood with a group of about 30 people and waited and waited as overcrowded buses passed us by. It was completely dark by the time I squeezed onto a bus. If not for headlights there would have been no light at all. As the bus passed 34th St it was incredible to go from eerie darkness to bright lights.
Somehow through this, I felt a sense of strength in the powerless East Village. People were calm. They seemed to shrug and just go about their business of finding food or finding a place to plug in their phone. They sat quietly in coffee shops, plugged into power strips and staring at tiny screens. I thought soon enough the light would return and life would go back to normal.
On Friday night, my friends had power again and went home. Their suffering was done, but my mine had only begin.
The news was now paying more attention to Far Rockaway. I developed a relationship with the area since I moved my 67 year-old father to a nursing home one block from the boardwalk. Over the summer I loved making day trips to visit my dad and walk on the boardwalk wishing he could be there on the beach with me. At age 62, he was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease and after two years taking care of him, I realized he needed more care than I alone could provide.
Before Sandy, the nursing home called me to let me know that they were not evacuating. They reassured me they were well-prepared, as they were last year for Hurricane Irene. The residents are on high floors and the facility has their own generators. I trusted their judgment.
In the days that followed, I heard nothing. There still is no phone or electric service in Far Rockaway. I figured he was fine and they just couldn’t call me for some reason or if something happened they would have called me. They call me when he stubs a toe, so I assumed that he was ok and in a day or two trains and phone service would be restored, or I could get over to see him.
I worried more every day. I didn’t recognize the Far Rockaway I saw on the news. The nor’easter was coming and I heard rumors nursing homes were evacuating. I started making phone calls. One place would give me the number for another and when I called they would tell me to call the first place that I had just called, if any one answered the phone at all.
A friend I met while caring for my dad manages a nursing home and she said they would not take him to a shelter in his condition and they should have his information somewhere accessible. She said no matter what, they should have called me, but they didnt.
A story in the Huffington Post said it was the city that gave five nursing homes in zone A in FarRockaway orders not to evacuate. On Saturday, The New York Times ran a similar story about nursing homes in FarRockaway.
The only resource I had to call was 311. No one answered anyplace they told me to call I. I was told you just have to keep calling and that sometimes you have to call a hundred times before someone answerers, no one did.
On Saturday, I finally got answers from the evacuation centers. They said everyone was gone but they didn’t know where they had gone. They told me to contact the Department of Health and Hygiene (DHH) and they would be able to tell me where my father is.
After several dropped calls and getting disconnected, I finally got someone on the phone. At this point, they don’t even ask for his name, just where he was evacuated from. They told me he is in a high school in Ozone Park. I was shocked, a high school. I start calling anyone I knew with a car that could take me there.
My dad has dementia but is relatively strong and healthy, but the faces of others on his floor flashed through my mind. I can’t see them lasting long in an environment outside a medical facility. I called my friend from the Ridgewood/Bushwick Senior Center to ask if she knew of anyplace he can stay after I picked him up. More calls back and forth trying to find a place with a “bed.” Unfortunately, many elderly people have been displaced, she is in crisis mode, yet somehow she finds a bed for my dad. Great! All I have to do is get to Ozone Park.
A friend will take me there since this is an emergency, but he is concerned about getting more gas. So to save gas I ride my bike to Brooklyn. Pedaling down Second Ave, through traffic on Bowery and up and over the Williamsburg Bridge the damp cold air stings my lungs, but I’m elated. I finally found him and have a safe place for him to go. I can’t wait to see him freshly showered, in his jammies and tucked into a cozy bed. My father can no longer speak. He wears diapers and eats liquefied food. I know he recognizes me and understands some of what I say, but he would not understand a crisis situation. I hate to think what he’s been through and just want to see him comfortable and safe.
I coast down the bridge full-speed and at the end I toss my bike in the back of the waiting van. I curse the open draw-bridge on Metropolitan Ave for slowing us down. We pass long gas lines that cause even more traffic. We’re almost there and I move the passenger seat back so he has more room. I can’t wait to see him and the look on his face when he sees me.
We arrive at the John Adams High School on Rockaway Blvd and all the gates are locked. I walk around the entire building looking for signs or some other entrance. Nothing.
I start asking people on the street as I dial DHH again. Someone tells me the evacuees are gone but to try the Red Cross tent-city a few blocks closer to Far Rockaway.
The closer we get to the water the worst it gets. Fallen trees, missing roofs and piles of debris line the street. It’s unimaginable what the storm must have felt like in Far Rockaway if Ozone Park looks this bad over a week later.
At a casino parking lot on Rockaway Parkway you can’t miss the Red Cross. There are dozens of police vehicles, tracker-trailers, and tents with kitchens inside of them. Moving vans have Red Crosses taped to them. The last thing on my mind was taking pictures but I wish I did because I never seen anything like it, and hope I never will again.
A police officer stops us and I tell her I’m desperately searching for my father. She says she hasn’t heard anything about evacuees but sees I’m not leaving until I speak to someone. She brings over a supervisor from the Red Cross. I tell him what happened and seeing the tears in my eyes, he hands me a bottle of water. He tells me to call evacuation centers I already called and no one knows anything. As a final attempt to help, he gives me the cellphone number of another Red Cross worker, who gives me the number to the DHH. At least I got some water.
At this point, both of our cellphones are almost dead. I text on one and make calls on the other. A smart phone isn’t very smart when you’re on hold for the Red Cross and your battery is dying. I make a mental note to buy a military issue cellphone, a wind up USB charger with a radio and a tracking device to attach to my dad.
I speak to the cop again and she tells me to call the precinct if I can’t find him, which I do. The precinct says the evacuation centers are closed and the patients from nursing homes were sent someplace else, but the police department keeps no records of where people are sent.
My friend wants to go home. We don’t know where else to go. The streets are clogged with emergency vehicles and we start to drive back toward Brooklyn. I would drive around to each possible place, but it’s not my car, and we can’t get gas.
How can this happen? I call 311 again, I call the DHH again. The DHH takes my name, my father’s name and actually returns my call. I’m shocked when they say they located him and he is in a nursing home back on Rockaway Blvd. I call immediately and they tell me he is not there but they know the place where he definitely is. I call the next place and they tell me he is not there but to call another place where he must be, he’s not there.
I call DHH again, but now their office is closed. I call 311 again and they tell me to wait until tomorrow or file a missing person report. There is nothing they can do. Defeated, I take my bike home on the subway. I’m too tired to ride.
I think about Sandy’s aftermath and its consequences. My business is out of business because of the gas situation. I’m behind on homework. I just wasted an entire day for nothing. I don’t understand how this could happen. I hope I find him tomorrow, if DHH is open tomorrow, or Monday.
As I write this post, I watch the phone and twitter. Other people’s dads are missing too. Check out @rockawayhelp on Twitter
If this “post” wasn’t already 2000 words long I would go on to rant about how the government neglects seniors or what we can do to better prepare for disasters, or how to stop global warming but honestly I’m tired.
I can think of many examples of how awesome New York City handled Hurricane Sandy but this is not one of them, nor is this the post I planned to write.
So many have suffered and lost so much more than me. I feel my rant is just whining and complaining but it’s not about me, it’s about someone I am responsible for and am helpless to help.

http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2012/10/31/rockaway-beach-nursing-homes_n_2051580.html

I didn’t really know what I was getting myself into by going to Emperor Japanese Tapas Shabu Restaurant, so before I took the plunge I did what any person who prides herself in being a millennial would do…I googled. I was pleased with what I found.  

I was comforted by the fact that the Japanese restaurant had a website because it made one thing painstakingly clear, this was not like the small Asian take out restaurant in my neighborhood. I was relieved. As good as my delivered Chinese food always tastes, I don’t look forward to having a sit-down meal there.

Shabu restaurant on 96 Bowery is a sight for the eyes, in addition to my taste buds . Once you walk in you’re completely mesmerized by the decor. The restaurant is bright and well lighted, accentuating the open space and making it all the more homey.   Plus, just going through the images on the site made me hungry; definitely a good sign. 

Nonetheless, full disclosure in mentioning I am a finicky eater when it comes to certain kinds of food. Attribute this to the fact that my family is Ecuadorian and ceviche is a traditional dish. Ceviche is awesome, once I got over how it was cooked.

Shabu Restaurant has a lot in common with ceviche. One is the family, sharing atmosphere it promotes. Cooking at the table over a hot pot invites sharing, laughs, and a whole lot of different tastes being combined. Shabu Restaurant emphasizes the ability to cook the food yourself over a hot pot, it’s part of their charm. In my family making ceviche was always intergenerational, one appreciated over time, because at first cooking raw fish in lemon is really not appealing.

Yet, the taste of pieces of fish, lemon juice, and all kinds of seasoning is enthralling. The same way the beef in the Chinese cilantro broth is unusual but in the best way. I liked the taste of the broth because it was rich and way more of an explosion on my taste buds than I expected it would be. Just through the smell of the food you can almost instantly taste the strong cilantro taste in the broth. As good as the broth was, adding pork maybe wasn’t the best option for me. I didn’t like the pork itself, it was too chewy, and its texture just did not complement the broth like I thought it would.

Overall, I loved the experience of having the Shabu Shabu All You Can Eat Menu because it took me back to Sunday lunches with my family. The ambience of the restaurant was bright and inviting, you wanted to sit and eat there. The same way I always couldn’t wait to sit and eat with my family.  I loved it.  Ceviche was usually our central dish, like the broth was here.

My favorite part is that one dish can bring a family together over one common denominator, while also encouraging making the meal your own.

Still having an issue with the photo sizes, will upload when I can

Bamiyan Afghani Restaurant satisfies the desire for an exotic experience but unlike some restaurants that manage to provide a festive atmosphere without sacrificing the quality of dining fare, Bamiyan does not.

As a result of war, the mention of Afghanistan conjures images of poppy fields, political unrest, violence and death – not of a delicious exotic cuisine. These are powerful images to push aside prior to a dining experience. Reluctantly, I set out with a group of colleagues to Bamiyan at 358 Third Avenue. Immediately upon entering, the city’s grayness was replaced with bright pink walls and maroon velvet draperies. We were seated immediately by our friendly waitress at table by a wall of windows. Decorative ceramic tiles, small statues, artwork and soft music transported us to faraway lands.

We were the only diners at the time, but at night Bimiyan accommodates large parties and tables socialize with one another. This is a far cry from my prior apprehension that our table would end up discussing world politics.

Afghan cuisine is a fusion of ancient dishes influenced by the multi-cultural major cities such as Kabul. It reminds me of a mixture of Moroccan and Indian dishes. Exotic spices, mint, coriander, saffron, cilantro and cardamom are ground directly onto braised meats (kebabs) or cooked into stews and casseroles. similarites are all over the table. Bread (Naan) is similar to Indian breads and yogurt and sour cottage cheese made from sheep or goats’ milk. Nuts and dried fruit find their way into the rich sauces much like Indian and Moroccan dishes.

My favorite part of the meal was an appetizer, Fesenjan ($7.95), tender pieces of chicken cooked with walnuts and pomegranate juice. This dish is difficult to describe since I have never tasted anything like it. The Fesenjan was served with flakey homemade bread which we completely devoured.

My main entrée was Quorma Baunjaun with Lamb ($16.95), too-small pieces of lamb with stewed eggplant, onions and tomatoes buried deep in a creamy spiced yogurt sauce. Both dishes were tasty but disappointing in the ratio of meat to sauce. We each were served a huge plate of white rice with our entrees which we covered with the overflowing sauces.

I found the Bareh (lamb kabobs $16.95) a bit dry but I enjoyed a pasta dish with meat called Asheh Gooshti ($11.95). It was sweet and tangy but the pasta was overcooked, and again the dish was swimming in sauce. My waning enthusiasm was restored by the yummy coconut cream coffee ($3.50) I had instead of dessert.

Bamiyan provides a memorable dining room to enjoy unexceptional food.

(Pic:Steve McCurry)

On the corner of an indistinct street, tucked away behind the food trucks and bodegas that thrive off the cash strapped hustle and bustle of Baruch student life is Bamiyan, Murray Hill’s own little piece of Persia. The restaurant named after an area in northern Afghanistan famous for its large limestone cliff Buddhas opened in 1993 and is currently run by two brothers, one a former Afghan Supreme Court judge.

On the day we visited, it was 4.30 and unsurprisingly almost empty. Despite the decorative iron décor that surrounds the façade and the mosaic laden entrance as you head in through the front entrance, the place is an un intrusive vision amongst its bland neighbors.

Once inside, we are immediately greeted by the sole waitress who showed us cheerily towards our table by the window. The relaxing sounds of south Asian music, providing the perfect aural back drop to the myriad of Afghani maps, Persian rugs and art work that adorn the exposed brick and wood paneling. The vibe could be described as rustic. It’s as homely and authentic as I can imagine (having never been to Afghanistan) but the cracked paint on the walls suggest there may have been more profitable days in its almost twenty year history.

Bamiyan serves what is describes as ‘traditional Afghan cooking’ which if like me you are unfamiliar with what that is, translates to; lots of subtly spiced meat choices that come with rice, in particular chicken, minced beef and lamb, an excellent range of vegetarian dishes, several curries (lamb, chicken, seasonal fish and shrimp) and kebabs (kebobs), plus a choice of 9 teas including one with the customary Afghan blend of milk, sugar, cardomon and rose petals called Shir-Chay.

I chose to start by cleansing my palette with some green tea with ginger at $3.95 This delicious and comforting drink came piping hot in a beautiful silver pot for one within minutes.

As an appetizer, the table ordered the Fesenjan $8.95, a type of thick Persian stew made with tender boneless chicken and an appealing sweet and sour flavor, thanks to the presence of walnuts and pomegranate juice. As unimpressive as stews often are to the eye, the unique combination of ingredients in this dish were a delight to savor and easily shared amongst the table, helped along by a generous portion of fresh bread that we used to scoop up the satisfying sauce.

For the entre I chose Kabuli Palow with lamb $16.95. A rather uninspired decision on my part as there was no sauce at all and besides the rice (I opted to have the white basmati rice instead of the usual brown baked rice topped with shredded carrots and raisons) the dish simply came with a liberal pinch of onion on the side.

The lamb chunks didn’t disappoint however and were as juicy, succulent and expertly prepared as the chicken had been but there was no hiding from how safe and yes, boring it was. I suspect the local gyro food truck nearby could possibly have given this dish a superior run for half the money but the Mantoo, a lasagne-looking steamed beef dumpling topped with yogurt and meat sauce ($14.95), was being eagerly enjoyed by my dinner dates.

None of the four desserts including a baklava, home made vanilla ice cream (Malai e) fried dough (Elephants ear) or rice-flour pudding, really took our fancy, so we ended the lunch there, each of us vowing to return to try some of the more unusual items on the menu.

If there is any silver lining about a natural disaster, it’s that they can often bring out the best in folks. For many people the frankenstorm was devastating, but for me in my little corner of Bed Stuy, it reminded me that I still have many people who watch my back, despite being thousands of miles and an ocean away from home.

As news of the impending storm began to reach the UK, emails from close friends started to come in “are you getting prepared?” was a common question asked, and “let me know that you are ok” became a frequent tweet. I was touched, they remembered I was here, potentially alone. I made sure to reply back straight away, and to heed their advice, I added a few vanilla scented candles from Foodtown and a couple of free boxes of matches from Duane Read to my weekly shop as a precaution.

By late Sunday night and early Monday afternoon the emails from close friends had been replaced by new ones from former work colleagues and industry acquaintances I hadn’t heard from in months. “Hey Emmy, the news is making it look apocalyptic out there, have you survived?” I had obviously, but again I was moved. I prepared for the worst by cooking up my chicken sausages and keeping the laptop and phone on permanent charge, in case of a power cut.

Whilst TV news teams throughout Tuesday and Wednesday updated the world on the rising death tolls, the flooding and Obama flying in to survey the damage, I stayed indoors. By now I was on full update duty, the initial trickle of emails had grown into a full flood of communication which spanned the breadth and depth of my address book and I jokingly told my girlfriend it was becoming a full time job just to make sure I replied to any and everyone who inquired about my well being.

Work made sure I knew not to come in, classmates frantically re arranged study sessions so that our projects could be completed on time and old, potentially new, and sometimes forgotten boyfriends popped up to either reconnect, check in, offer to wait out the storm with me or remind me of who they were before asking about my situation. In between answering emails, tweets, Skype and Facetime messages, I kept informed of all the travel news and weather reports. “You are loved” my girlfriend said, and I felt it.

Like to indulge your tongue in spice? When my three friends choose to have chicken tikka masala, chicken saag and shrimp curry, I dare to go for chicken vindaloo at the Chote Nawab restaurant. It is a Goan special chicken curry with red chilies and vinegar that makes the curry really spicy and juicy. While I order the chicken vindaloo ($9.00) from the lunch menu, the host alarms me about the dangerous level of spice. As a Bengali, raised on spicy food, I think that I will be able to handle the spice. After the first bite of the creamy chicken vindaloo, my tongue and eyes are burning with saliva and tears. However, I could not resist eating the scrumptious chicken vindaloo because of its authentic Indian flavor and piquant aroma.

The main course, chicken vindaloo, is served with small pots of snowy basmati rice, thick brown dal, and freshly made hot garlic naan. When the waiters serve the vindaloo curry in a pot, I know it is going to be a spicy rock star from its red color. Light steam from the dish is flying all over the table and the smell takes me away to Kolkata, India where I visited last summer. Curios to explore the Indian culture, I went to Kolkata, and had the opportunity to taste a spicy chicken dish similar to the vindaloo. The small chicken pieces of vindaloo are so softly hugged by the red chili pastes that the pieces blush. It is the perfect curry during the cold to make you feel warm much like a hot cup of coffee on a gloomy rainy day.

Besides the vindaloo, the four month old Chote Nawab is a great place for lunch. When all the Indian restaurants in the Curry Hill area on Lexington Avenue are packed during lunch hour, mostly Nepali waitresses are ready to open the door with big smiles on their faces for the guests at Chote Nawab. They are ready to serve its delectable food within 15 minutes after the order is placed. After sitting at the corner table and feeling thirsty, I notice that glasses full of water are already on the table.

While you are waiting for your food to come, you will not be bored by looking at the decor and paintings in the restaurants. Traditional Indian touches in the paintings make the atmosphere of the Chote Nawab really connected to its root. Chote meaning young child and Nawab meaning prince, the name of the restaurant represents a young or last prince of a kingdom.  The large and multi-colored wall paintings introduce the ancient Indian king’s rule. Eventually, I explained the theme of the paintings to my friends and this is what I love about Indian restaurants.  They like to create a traditional touch in their décor to reflect the culture. I feel even more special when the owner of the restaurant comes to me and talks in Bengali, because he is from Kolkata, where people speak in Bengali as well. He approaches me in a friendly way to find out how we like the food.

Although ninety percent of American customers may not understand the Bollywood music that is playing in the background, however, you will not feel disturbed by its soft melody. If you would like to enjoy the traditional Indian Tempe experience, Chote Nawab will be a perfect place to visit, with reasonable prices.

Growing up in South Florida, I have seen many a hurricane. Some bad, some not so much, and a lot of time spent indoors waiting out the storm. Hurricane Sandy, however, interrupted life in a more irritating and destructive manner.

Coming in on my birthday, which of course is a petty complaint, and then sticking around for a few day, I was fortunate enough to be in a location where power blipped off for a few seconds only to resume and stay on for the remainder of my forced hurrication. A crane precariously dangled above 57th street just half an avenue away forcing most of nearby blocks to evacuate. Imagine, not being forced to evacuate by the actual storm, but because a building where apartments are selling for $90 million dollars neglected to secure their equipment.

I would love to say I see redeeming qualities about the storm; maybe that it is now bringing people together to help those who lost everything, but, it should not take disaster to do this. So with just these few things, I sufficiently loathe Hurricane Sandy.