Richard Kriheli

I like to eat. Who doesn’t, right? In case you haven’t noticed how spoiled I am (see: my wife’s food blog) I share a very particular fascination of tasty food with her. But sometimes we are so damn busy with rockin’ shirts and websites, that we are forced to eat out. A lot of my food preferences are pretty low-brow being that there’s little I love eating more than Popeyes Fried Chicken or the standard NYC Pizza. So please rest assured, you won’t be getting a stuffy food-snob/nazi perspective here. For the purposes of this blog, I will choose to recognize nine individual restaurants that literally have me salivating as I type (in no order of preference, as part of my ongoing series of 9′s):

Chao Thai – Elmhurst, Queens [ map ]
Being that my wife is from Thailand, and I get to eat authentic Thai food regularly, I am biased and a bit reluctant to include a Thai place on my list. But this place really makes it difficult for me not to. With so many wack Thai restaurants that litter NYC, this is one of few that do it right. Chao Thai is tiny and full of Thai locals (a good sign). Until recently, the menu wasn’t even in English. The food is superb even by my wife’s picky standards and lives up to the hype that it is currently generating. A-roi!
Order: Som Tam, BBQ Pork.

Jackson Diner – Jackson Heights, Queens [ map ]
Those that spend time with me know that I am crazy about Indian food. This place is the mecca of Indian food in NYC. I have been eating here for almost 15 years now and I learned that my wife was a regular too, well before we met (when she used to live in Jackson Heights) – chalk up one score for fate. Not the cleanest place in the world, but the food and selection is fantastic. Prime time to drop in is during the all-you-can-eat buffet daily from 11:30a-4p. Prepare to leave with food coma.
Order: Tandoori Chicken, Chana Masala

Sirtaj – Chelsea, Manhattan [ map ]
Like I said, I am crazy about Indian food. Unlike Jackson Diner, this IndoPak hole-in-the-wall is a typical busy greasy spoon takeout joint in the heart of Chelsea. But this place is by far, my favorite. Sirtaj is tucked away from the rows of mediocre Indian eateries dotting Lexington Ave in an inauspicious locale west of Broadway. The Tikka Masala is unlike any I’ve ever had, perhaps lending to more Pakistani influence with a vibrant reddish tint. Not for everyone, but the people who dig Sirtaj all seem as addicted as I am.
Order: Chicken Tikka Masala, Navaratan Curry

Menkui Tei – Midtown, Manhattan [ map ]
If you’re hitting the sake bars of Midtown east, I suggest you hit up Menkui Tei to coat your stomach prior to the evening’s debauchery. Admittedly, it is a difficult task to pick a single ramen place that stands out in the city – but the friendly waitstaff and awfully creative & incredibly hearty inclusion of a curry pork ramen soup on the menu seals the deal and distinguishes the establishment for my tastebuds. My wife is nuts about the leek & chicken liver dish as well, making us regulars there.
Order: Curry Ramen, Gyoza

Spicy & Tasty – Flushing, Queens [ map ]
My buddy Clayton had been raving about this restaurant for years. In the past year, my wife and I finally accompanied him during one of his visits and were instantly reeled in. Not for the faint-type as the dishes featuring assorted animal organs look daunting to say the least. However, the taste of the food quickly flushes the intimidation away. This restaurant truly and literally lives up to it’s name.
Order: Cold Spicy Noodles, Double Cooked Pork, Chili Lamb

Pho Bac – Elmhurst, Queens [ map ]
The service is indifferent and sometimes piss poor. The decor won’t make you want to impress your friends or date. But, somehow, some way – it draws me back in – over and over. Maybe it’s a ‘cheap-eats’ paradise where most of the best dishes are still going in the sub $8 range. Maybe it’s the generous portions for said price range. Or maybe, the food is just damn good. Either way, this place is pho-bulous, pho sure and definitely gets my endorsement.
Order: Pho! and the Grilled Pork w/Angel Hair Noodles

Ichi Umi – Koreatown, Manhattan [ map ]
At around $30+ a head to start, the restaurant formerly known as Todai is not on the cheapie end. On the flip side, it is one of the biggest buffets I have ever seen – bigger than those obnoxious 50/head Vegas buffets. The selections are a sushi-lover’s promised land. I’m not big on sushi myself (being only a recent convert over to the raw-side of the force) but it is only half the story here. An assortment of meats, veggies and seafood makes for a very fulfilling journey for virtually anyone’s palate. Crepes and mini dessert bar with red-bean and green tea ice cream are big plusses.
Order: Anything

Nonna – Upper West Side, Manhattan [ map ]
There are about 7 kajillion Italian restaurants smattered around New York City and I have been to quite a few good ones and a bunch of crappy ones. While I am no Italian cuisine connoisseur by any stretch, I want to give a shout to the one place that I have been a repeat customer at (mostly out of convenience). We live a few blocks away from this place and it has never let us down. The food is excellent, the service is pleasant and the atmosphere is perfect – especially for lazy Upper West Side evenings when the weather is nice.
Order: Arancini and Strozzapretti

Golden Unicorn – Chinatown, Manhattan [ map ]
It seems that every other week or so, the urge for Dim Sum strikes and my wife and I trek downtown through waves of tourists and locals in Chinatown to this obnoxious palace of Chinese brunch food. This is how the Kriheli’s brunch it, unlike forking over a c-note at overpriced, long-wait eatieries all over town. Make no mistake, this place is loud and busy. The service is sub-par at best, but the food alone is worth making the effort to get there. Much cooler if you go in groups.
Order: Flat Stuffed Noodles (with Beef or Shrimp), Crispy Peking Duck In Pancake

I am standing on the platform in Jackson Heights, waiting for an express train when I see the light of a train approaching through the tunnel. Only now, I can’t tell which train is coming until the front car has entered the station. And even so, it takes a bit of squinting until it comes close enough to make out the badge. Yes, I’m getting old – but my eyesight is still good. So, it’s not that.

Earlier, when I threw up my dukes against gentrification and the loss of character in New York City, I glazed over another, more obvious example of losing face: the MTA’s wavering identity. I am not even talking about the loss of graffiti that once turned a train-ride into a lesson in underground, urban graphic art. Now, trains are virtually unidentifiable.

I have had plenty of beef with the MTA in the past, but this time its striking a different chord with me. Being that I’ve invested a large portion of my adult professional career in graphic design, I feel somewhat obligated to call out the MTA for this tragedy-in-the-making. Please join me in a collective: “what the eff happened to the design system/taxonomy?”

The MTA still uses the color-coded lines representing routes or trunks in their maps and stations, but traces of this system are slowly going extinct on the trains themselves. The new R142 trains that are slowly replacing the smelly-old cars are nice, clean and effective (so far). Let’s face it – anyone who has used the MTA in the past will appreciate the clear instructions being relayed instead of the muffled loud crap that no one understood anyway. But, the color codes and graphic design system is absent on the outside of the cars.

Thus, distinction is lost now. The experience is radically different in my estimation. There aren’t many cool things about the MTA, and you will rarely hear me compliment anything they do. But the graphic design is tight, and they had it good. The ubiquitous Helvetica used throughout with a strong color arrangement makes for a very user-friendly, seamless scheme.

I can’t believe today I can say : there used to be a time when I could tell which train was coming from almost a station away. That said, I strongly urge the MTA to bring back the color coded designs to the exterior of the cars. Actually, consider this a plea. Don’t destroy the only thing you have going in your favor: your face.

Santa was always a tough sell for me. With the current economy laying an egg, I’m no fool: I know there is no shiny new Macbook Pro waiting for me under the tree, courtesy Mr.Claus. But, hell, even as a child, I wasn’t expecting jolly ol’ Nick to be making any cameos in my household. Not because I was a bad apple or anything — nope. It’s all because of where I grew up – Queens. To be frank, I wondered how any kid around my neighborhood could believe that Santa would venture ’round our neck of the woods. My pea-sized pre-K brain was positive that reason and logistics in this case were way off. That said, my childhood holidays were pretty much wrecked from the go.

Recently, I found this old pic of myself and Santa in some mall, circa 1977. At close examination, the apprehension and doubt painted all over my little face is clear as day. I wonder if this blatant lack of faith messed with the dreams of those around me. I suddenly feel terrible. This time of the year (or any time for that matter) should be spent with more positive energy and less skepticism. So, I feel it’s time for me make amends with ol’ Kringle. Here goes:

Dear Santa,

Alright, I suck. I’m sorry I didn’t believe in you when I was three. Can you blame me, though? Forgive me for wondering how you could maneuver around Queens in your bright red suit without getting mugged. Hey, the 70s-80s were a rough time. I apologize for telling you not to bother with my building because of the security cameras. Reindeer flying or not, I was sure there was no way you were lugging around a bunch of Ataris through the projects just to make your way to my neck of the woods. I was just a little kid and I didn’t know the importance of your presence/presents. So I shall compose a little jingle verse in hopes you can absolve my childhood deriliction:

Money is tight ’round the country
you must be busy fielding requests
I know I’ve been naughty, even at three
now your word will live at my behest

Tis the season, or so they say
But don’t let my mood kill your glow
I shall spread your word every day
so try get me a Macbook Pro

Sincerely,

- Rich from Rego Park

In short, I can get behind this Santa thing now. Even though I am back in Queens for the time being, I think a little good juju (especially out of me) will go far. With NYC looking more like Minnesota everyday, I see no reason why we can’t leave our collective cookies and milk out and have some faith, for a change. Ho ho ho.

I’ll trade you an Aston Martin for your 10×10 “master bedroom” off Central Park West. Yep, that’s what it will take. One million dollars gets you approximately 750 square feet in Manhattan these days. That’s $1500 a square foot. Insane. The abstract science of number, quantity and space is grossly distorted if you consider purchasing real estate in New York City. Unless of course, my math is wrong.

Up until college, I was good at math. I mean, really good. Let’s put it this way: I don’t remember getting anything wrong on any math exam dating between junior high and the time I reached college. Even in my SAT’s (680 out of 800 in the Math portion), I just didnt answer everything in time. I took all those honors math courses with the graphing calculator-carrying contingency. Complex algorithms were my bitch. Though I didn’t geek over any lame trig analogies and jokes, or join any math-teams/clubs/whatever, I wasn’t exactly divided either – Har har.

Division first came in the form of a roadblock in my Freshman year in Syracuse. I took a Business Calc class I thought would be a breeze. After botching my first quiz (88/100) and learning that there was no way to make up points, I quickly realized my pursuit of an A in the subject was futile without perfection. Perfection eluded me altogether as I stumbled over and over again. I finished up the semester with a 79 average – which thanks to a very skewed curve, earned me a big, fat D!

My analytical skills either took a major nosedive, or reverting to my love of the arts compromised my attention altogether. I like to think the latter happened, but every time I peruse real estate ads and do the math, I am left wondering if I did indeed forget how to calculate altogether. It is astonishing to visualize the distortion.

Simply put, the laws of arithmetic and logic go out the door when you attempt to rationalize your shoebox existence. So, I say fuck math. I look forward to the highly prophesized (and much anticipated) dip in the real estate market – just so I can get my calculations all right again. And maybe my focus will be somewhat integral, for a change.

Standing in a grocery checkout line in Chinatown, I was not expecting to witness any acquisitions of fortune outside of those bad one-liners in bland “cookies.” But when I saw the register flash “$943.54″ with an ecstatic, grinning customer handing over his credit card to the clerk, my interest was piqued. I was carefully studying the customer’s purchase, bewildered as to what is inside the little bag sitting on the scale. I suddenly got nervous that the bag of Chrysanthemum tea I was holding was going to eat my savings.

As he was gleefully signing his name on the receipt, I learned of this coveted treasure found oddly in a little store on Canal Street. The label read “White Gold”. It’s not the gold you see peddled on Ebay or in the Diamond District in Midtown that you hope will suffice as an adequate engagement gift. The gold I am writing about is what is otherwise known as edible Bird’s Nest. Yes, Bird’s Nest – I kid you not.

Apparantly the U.S. and Hong Kong are the biggest importers of these nests. According to many Asian cultures, Bird’s Nests provide benefits such as increased sex-drive, help with asthma, concentration, digestion, voice-clarity and above all – re-invigorating a failed immune system. None of this, of course, is proven medical fact – though, it doesn’t seem to stop demand. And the prices soar around $2000 USD a pound. The White Gold variation is the clearest and most rarest kind, although the prices of the reddish, blood stained ones seemed just as steep.

Naturally, I am thinking : This is genius! Where can I get my hands on this kind of stuff so I can profit as well? But wait! Before you go climbing any trees to pad that wallet of yours and open up your new Golden Empire, be warned: these things are very, very rare. And mostly can be found in the caves of Indonesia and the islands off southern Thailand.

That said, we may be better off conjuring up some kind of belief system around something just as idiosyncratic but original – like jarring French Bulldog Saliva. We can call it something crazy like Spit Pearls. Who’s with me?

The welcome mat to New York’s proverbial ‘melting pot’ has long been weathered and worn. In the past couple of decades, those from the outskirts of this country seem to have migrated here in droves. Despite the stereotypes New Yorkers have long been branded with – the outsiders were always greeted with open arms. Though, there is a common aphorism amongst native New Yorkers – more typically in the outer boroughs that goes something like:

“wipe your feet before you step in my house”

With the said influx of transplants, I am starting to feel as if the mat is being hopped over en route to our place. The landscape of New York is transfigured with folks from other cities rapidly becoming a significant portion of our population. It’s those same people that say “I’m from Brooklyn,” and you can instantly whiff the new blood.

So these newbies stand before the mat, and glaze it over, walk right in, chest brazen with that ever-so-bleached smile. The immigrants who came before them are jolted. The same people who paved the way, and made this city what it is today. Or, rather, what it was.

What it was? Here are just a few checklist highlights: The gentrificaton of Harlem and now Brooklyn. The transformation of Times Square into Disneyland. The entire island of Manhattan gradually resembling a midwestern strip mall. People creating “you’re a new yorker when…” lists, whose stay here has been shorter than my current lease. Venti Skim Mochiattos with no foam. I could go on, but you get the picture.

This whole thing reeks of something equivalent a new neighbor helping themselves to your fridge and remote. Hey, I’m a friendly guy – even by NYC standards. Go ahead, use my fridge and remote, no problem – but please show some manners. This city is great, and everyone should have equal access to it. But this metamorphosis gives me the creeps.

Bottom line is, the welcome mat is there for a reason. It is muddied, though dry, from endless traffic to and from our home. And yes, it bears the word “welcome” but maybe this word needs to be redefined, or changed altogether – just like the face of this city. Those from outside should take a minute to be conscious of this mat, woven with coarse materials – designed to last. And last, it will.

The other day, I overheard someone on the train crowing (with a friend) about her impending lease signing in the Bed-Stuy neighborhood of Brooklyn. She was glowing, beaming! I couldn’t place her accent but my money would have been on Memphis, Little Rock or say . . . Williamsburg. Not Williamsburg, Virginia – but Williamsburg, New York! What was clear to me in that moment was a glaring truth simmering over the past decade or so, something I didn’t want to ever admit to or believe – New York has lost face.

The gentrification of some New York City neighborhoods over the years has been stunning and in some respect, heartbreaking. Williamsburg looks more like the East Village than the actual East Village now. All of the former ‘rough’ areas are now fashionable real estate targets. Never in my dreams would I have imagined that Brooklyn would become “the place to be” or the hot-spot it is today. “Bushwick? No sweat – we have this beautiful, sunny luxury condo . . .”

While I am all for the decrease in crime, and seeing parts of New York revitalized, the tradeoff appears to be a rapidly deteriorating identity. Nowhere is this more unmistakable than in Brooklyn. What happened? I mean seriously. Brooklyn used to have grit and character. It was easy to distinguish Brooklynites from Manhattanites. Those rough neighborhoods used to evoke fear and paranoia from non-residents. Unless you were raised there, no one really desired to be there. Now, everyone I meet (it seems) hails from there. It’s their ‘hood. No, not Biloxi, but Brownsville! Where did all these transplants come from? And how did the turf transform to such lengths? The whole thing stinks, partly because Brooklyn is now borderline unrecognizable. What’s next? An amusement park in the “Boogie-Down” Bronx? Oh wait, the Yankees are already there. I suspect once the NBA transitions the New Jersey Nets hoops franchise to Brooklyn, the circus will only get worse (you’re welcome, Jay Z).

The day has finally come where I can watch Do The Right Thing or listen to Mos Def and feel like I am experiencing artifacts of history. Now, every time someone mentions hailing from Brooklyn, I feel the hair on my arms stand and my stomach feel like I had too many dirty-water hot dogs. And its not out of intimidation, but rather despondency.