From the highway that cuts around Birmingham, AL, we saw the Full Moon sign and the blue cinderblock building.  We circled in on the sidestreets, and when we parked down the block, I could already smell the wood smoke. We’d had a 6 a.m. flight and it was only a little after 11:00 by then, really too early for lunch.  But we walked in anyway, drawn by the carmelizing pork.  Inside, there couldn’t have been more than 15 tables, and a small counter for ordering.  Cups of ice were already filled by the tea dispensers, cookies and coconut pie were wrapped and stacked.  We heard someone order a plate of ribs with potato salad and beans, so that’s what it was for us too.  One plate to share was plenty… but Peter Frank was teased by two 60-something gents, “why won’t you let her get her own plate?”  The men ordered “chunky chop” sandwiches and french fries, cole slaw.  Chunky chop wasn’t on the menu, but that’s what they got… chunks of barbecued pork piled 2-3 inches high on the bread.  (Yes, I asked to see.)  How were the ribs?  Wetter than I like, and sweeter too.  But delicious, and the extra sauce was nice to sop up with the Wonder Bread slices that looks to be served with every plate.

We were in Birmingham for just one day and night for PFE to photograph Frank Stitt, who’s had an amazing run since the 1980s with his Highlands restaurant.  Our prime mission was to get shots of his famous baked grits and of his cornbread in a cast iron skillet (an assignment for Garden & Gun), and we spent the afternoon with the master chef to get that done.  Chef Stitt told us about his next book that’s coming out soon, and he said the recipes were created throughout a full year, using what was fresh from all seasons.  He’s a Slow Food guy, and that night we took it slow with his menu… my favorite was the grilled figs wrapped in ham.  I wasn’t sure about the lemon-mint cream that came with it… until I tasted it.  The fig concoction was sweet-savory with a refreshingly fatty finish, if such a thing is possible.  Really nice.

Chef Stitt with the cornbread, made right.

– September 2008, Sandy Lang

It was supposed to be raining last Sunday afternoon in Manhattan, but when Peter Frank and I got there (we had an assignment that wouldn’t start until the next day) and the sky was clear, I said “beer garden?” Our friend, writer Bronwen Dickey knew where to go. I called Natalie Rivera, another friend who’s a jewelry designer, and we all took the N train to Astoria, then walked a few blocks to the Bohemian Hall & Beer Garden. Built between 1910 and 1919 by Czech-Slovak immigrants, the story is that it’s the last remaining of hundreds of beer gardens in NYC, but all you really need to know is how to point to a draught knob – there are at least 10 European beers on tap – and hand over some cash. (The bartenders that night looked like the soccer players on the television screens above them – tan and fit and speaking mostly in what sounded to be Eastern European accents.) We also ordered a plate to share of thick Klobasa sausage with sauerkraut and fried potatoes… and then another pitcher of Hoegaarden, the Belgian witbier (white/wheat beer) that we’d all decided would be our table’s choice. (And for the rest of the evening and ever since, Bronwen has affectionately called the whole scene “Hoegaarden.”) We could have stayed longer – the people-watching was terrific including one woman in pink hair, who between cups of beer, was often in full kiss with her boyfriend. And I was wearing my “Writer for hire” T-shirt, which always adds adventure… including a man and his friend calling out, “how much for a poem?” as I walked up to the bar to order that second pitcher.

But we didn’t stay much longer, instead walked about 10 minutes to our next destination – another Bronwen pick – a tiny restaurant that felt more like someone’s kitchen-living room, where there just happened to be one four-person bench open, and we happily filed in and sat along it in a line facing the long table opposite for the next couple hours. This was a feast I couldn’t have predicted. We’d come to Kabab Cafe, an Egyptian restaurant where chef Ali El Sayed was celebrating his birthday doing what he’s done for 19 years – cooking what he wants to cook for whoever comes in. It was comfortable from the start. The café’s 16-20 seats fill a narrow space with walls lined to the ceiling with gilt-framed photographs and mirrors, pendant lanterns, and drawings and masks of Egyptian mummies.

Seated along our bench piled with folded blankets, Chef Ali (at least that’s what we called him) came from behind his cooktop in the center of the room to tell us first what dishes he could prepare that night, and then – gauging our reactions to his descriptions – returned to let us know which of those we’d be having… leg of lamb, grilled sardines, fried soft-shelled crabs, and a meze platter of hummus and baba ganouj with hot pita bread. All of these plates were intended to be shared, and they were, we did. Somehow we thought it a BYOB restaurant and just after sitting down had sent one in our party out for wine (he failed, returning only with a 40-ounce bottle of malt liquor), but Chef Ali seems to see all in his restaurant, and he quickly appeared at our table with a bottle, a Malbec that matched perfectly with our first platters – each plate comes one at a time, as he cooks them. And when we finished that first bottle, the chef produced and corked another, and when the family with grandparents, parents and baby who sat across from us – a party of 10 or so, got up to leave, they passed along the remainder of their bottle, along with a square for each of us of a “passionfruit torte situation,” from a cake they said they’d brought from an Egyptian bakery across the street.

Before they left, we talked some with the family group – one said he’d been a chef in Phoenix for two decades and had rarely seen a restaurant serve lamb marrow bones as Chef Ali had done for them that night – one of the 16 dishes he’d made for them… ”if I eat anymore, I’ll go blind,” the man told us. And throughout this whole-café dinner party, a most curious soundtrack played, from Otis Redding, to a symphonic march, to middle Eastern sounding tunes, to Elvis’ “All Shook Up.” In all, the evening was remarkable, delicious, and we each kicked in our $60 share, plus tip, and talked of our evening all the way back to the subway, where our Upper East and Harlem friends went their way, and we made it back to our lower-mid lodgings, feeling our one night in Astoria, Queens well done.

– Sandy Lang, June 2008