Strangely New York: Japadog Brings a Taste of Japan From Canada

By Mitch Broder

Mr. Mustard and Miss Ketchup stood before the golden fringe, confirming the event’s significance in New York restaurant history.

Then the man in the giant red bow tie spoke and I wrote down what he said, confirming my significance in New York journalism history.

“Hello, everybody,” I wrote. “I, Noriki Tamura, represent Japadog. And … today is one of the greatest moments in the history of Japadog. We finally open our new location in New York, which is, of course, the greatest city of the world.”

He got that right, but only because of the opening. Before that, New York had an indefensible culinary gap. We may have had our hot dog restaurants, and we may have had our Japanese restaurants, but only now do we have our first Japanese hot-dog restaurant.

Only now do we have the Terimayo, the hot dog with teriyaki sauce, Japanese mayonnaise, and seaweed. Only now do we have the Kobe, the hot dog with miso sauce, wasabi mayonnaise, and caviar. Only now do we have the Okonomi, the pork sausage with bonito flakes and fried cabbage. And only now can we have those hot dogs with French fries and a Coke.

That's my dog.

You can see why I made it my business to attend the grand opening of Japadog: I had to have that dog with the teriyaki sauce. I knew that it would be there. What I didn’t know was that hot dogs would be free to the first fifty customers, and I would be number thirty-eight.

Actually I was number one, because I arrived ahead of the opening to speak to the man in the giant red bow tie, who had made the opening possible. Noriki represented Japadog because he invented Japadog. I took him seriously, even though he also wore a sash that said “BOSS.”

He started Japadog in 2005 as a hot-dog stand in Vancouver, shrewdly pouncing on Canada’s own failure to sell German sausage with Japanese toppings. By last year, he was running four stands and his first Japadog store. With a record like that, there was no question that he could start here at the top.

That's Joey.

“We have a style that’s totally different,” he said if I can trust Tatsuki Kida, who translated. “It’s one-of-a-kind. It beats all the street vendors.” I asked if he had plans for more stores. “If we succeed in this,” he said, “we’ll be all over New York — and the world. We want to make everyone happy eating hot dogs.”

A few minutes later he was standing on a chair on the sidewalk, repeating that goal. I couldn’t very well disappoint him, so I got in line. I ordered the Terimayo, and while waiting for it I spoke to Joey Heimgartner, who was not only a woman but also the first customer at America’s first Japadog.

“I’ve been walking by, waiting for this place to open for weeks,” she said. “Now it’s finally open, and it’s very exciting.” She needed a change from the Basil Popcorn Chicken she’d been getting at TKettle nearby. She got it in Japadog’s arabiki pork sausage with cheese, which is known as the Love Meat.

I stuck with my Terimayo, with butter-and-soy-sauce fries and a Coke. It was delicious, and not just because the meal would have cost me eight bucks. The bun was large, soft, and warm. The dog was large, tender, and juicy. The seaweed inexplicably worked. And you can’t go wrong with teriyaki and mayo.

I felt happy for Noriki. He worked hard to get here. I knew that some hot-dog chains have failed, but probably none of them had bonito flakes.

On my way out, I thanked Noriki and wished him and Japadog well.

I never did squeeze Miss Ketchup, but don’t think that I didn’t consider it.

Squeeze into Japadog, at 30 St. Mark’s Place, between Second and Third avenues, in Manhattan.

Strangely New York: The Pies are Still Hot at Tuck Shop

By Mitch Broder

At Tuck Shop they sell meat pies without windshield wiper fluid, which may seem inconvenient to New Yorkers but proves liberating to Australians.

Meat pies in Australia are like hot dogs in America; they’re displayed at gas stations and convenience stores, where, in a weak moment, you might buy one. Tuck Shop sells Australian meat pies at meat-pie shops, which means an extra stop for wiper fluid but less chance of thinking it’s your beverage.

So far it’s worked, since the Tuck Shop on First Street is in its seventh year, and has been joined by a shop on St. Mark’s Place and another at Chelsea Market. In Australia it’s always meat-pie season, but in New York we’re in the heart of it, so I stopped in at the St. Mark’s shop, secure that in winter a pie lunch is healthy.

It’s a little shop with just a couple of tables and a counter with five stools, because most people follow Australian tradition and eat hand pies while on foot. Still, it’s cozy and festooned with the things you find in every Australian home, like a cricket bat, a boomerang, and a calendar showing all the pubs in Melbourne.

The hot pies are on view in a pie case and described in chalk on a blackboard. They were served on my visit by a genial Australian counter man named Isaac. I discussed my options with Isaac at length, learning in the process that chook means chicken, as in — per Isaac’s example — “Put the chook in the oven, love.”

St. Mark's Place.

Still, I declined the Thai Chook Curry pie, choosing instead the Traditional Beef pie and the Lamb and Veg pie, two of the most popular selections. They were both hot and piquant and satisfying enough to make a fine meal for $12. Isaac was impressed that I ate both.

Later I stopped at the First Street store, which is similar to the St. Mark’s store except that it has the table on which the pies are made and two inflatable kangaroos. It also had an Australian named Lincoln Davies, who owns the stores, even though he came to America to do the opposite of work.

“I came here with the idea of a two-week holiday,” he told me. But he couldn’t help noticing that America was dangerously short on meat pies. He made it his mission to help us out. A few years later he and his partner, Niall Grant, were running the first Tuck Shop, daringly free of auto parts.

East First Street.

Like all attempts to change eating habits, it has had challenges, Lincoln said: “ ‘Meat pie’ to an American conjures up nothing like this.” New Yorkers see ‘pie’ at a takeout and expect to have pizza pie. Anglophiles know English pies, which Lincoln refers to as “gelatinous.”

Australians, however, know their continent’s mass-produced gas-station pies, and so tend to regard the Tuck Shop offerings as gourmet fare. One such Australian was in the First Street store eyeing Lincoln and me as we talked. Lincoln was underselling his product, the man finally complained.

“In Australia, eating meat pies is something you do very casually,” said the Australian, Peter Freudenberger. “It’s not a fine dining thing. This place replicates the experience, but you get good food. In eighteen years in Australia I never saw a pie being made — just like you never see a hot dog being made here.”

Lincoln accepted the compliment. But the meat pie, he said, still battles — even after people have come in, tried it, and liked it. “Once they try them,” he said, “they get stuck on one, and we have to kind of wean them off it and get them to try another.”

Try another at Tuck Shop, at 68 East First Street, 115 St. Mark’s Place, and Chelsea Market Ninth Avenue, New York City.

Strangely New York: Stepping Out at B-Bap, Chickpea, and Nooi

B-Bap. It means rice. Sort of.

By Mitch Broder

If I took Step 1 at Chickpea, and Step 2 at My Maki, and Step 3 at Nooi, and Step 4 at B-Bap, I could have the Hummus with Tahini and Eel in Tomato Diablo Sauce topped with Organic Bacon Bits, plus Parmesan and Green Olives, since Nooi has a Step 5.

My Maki. Before.

But I can’t, since My Maki has just gone out of business, leaving me eelless, so for Step 2 at My Maki I’ll substitute Step 3 at B-Bap, because what could be better in Tomato Diablo Sauce than Julienned Eggs, unless it’s Bean Sprouts, which are 23 cents less?

The point here is not only that I can design a disgusting lunch. It is also that My Maki has just gone out of business. While this doesn’t delight me, it does suggest to me that people may have had their fill of places that require you to write the recipe for your food before you eat it.

The late My Maki (“Sushi How You Like it”) was one of the latest. It opened just last March, on 43^rd Street between Third and Lexington. It was proud of your work. In its window it posted a quote from UrbanDaddy exclaiming that “you’ll brainstorm, micromanage, and give birth.” And where better to do those things than a sushi bar?

My Maki. After.

In its Step 1, you chose from two Wraps. In Step 2, you chose from 10 Main Ingredients. In Step 3, you chose from 18 Other Ingredients, which included Craisins and Doritos. In Step 4, you chose from eight External Toppings, which included seven Dipping Sauces, which, perhaps for variety, were listed on the store’s menu board as Step 5.

After brainstorming and micromanaging, you could give birth to a soy-wrap eel roll with jalapeño, mango, sundried tomato, cream cheese, and Doritos, topped with crab mix and crunchy tempura, and dipped in citrus ponzu sauce. A few months after the opening I saw a guy at the corner holding up a My Maki sign. I was not surprised.

But for now, other four-step (or five-step) restaurants seem to be flourishing, no matter how much of their job they get you to do. The steps vary, sometimes at the same place, but all the spots give you the same chance to create something so vile that you’ll want to come back and try again.

Nooi. It means noodles. Sort of.

Nooi (“Pasta-to-Go”) is on Lex between 40^th and 41^st.  The experience here begins with the appetizing slogan “Simply pick your.” Step 1 is Size. You pick 26 or 32 ounces. Step 2 is Pasta. You pick regular or multigrain. Step 3 is Sauce; you pick from 11. Step 4 is Extras; you pick from six. Step 5 is 2 Free Toppings; you pick from another six. But at Nooi you can also pick different steps.

On its Web site, Step 1 is Step 2, and Step 2 is Step 1, and Step 4 is Customize Your Pasta, though Step 3 is still Sauce. And Step 5 is Add Salads, Drinks or Dessert, since Step 4 combines Steps 4 and 5, which doesn’t explain why only the sign in the store window refers to dessert  —though not to salads and drinks — as Step 6.

Chickpea (“Always baked. Never fried.”) has several stores besides the one I visited, which is on 45^th Street between Madison and Vanderbilt. Here you choose your format (pocket, wrap, platter, plate, or salad), and then you Select Your Hummus (original, basil & toasted pine nuts, roasted red pepper, jalapeño & scallions).

Chickpea. It means chickpea.

If you’re not yet fried, you Add Your Essentials, which include Falafel, Shawarma, Shawafel, Chicken Kebab, Chicken Breast, Chickplant, Lamb Turkey Kebab, and Chicken Cutlet. Then you can choose from Extras, including eggplant, avocado, and fries, except that Extras don’t count as a step, leaving Chickpea with just three.

B-Bap (“Fusion Rice Bar”) is on Ninth Avenue between 54^th and 55^th. Here “customers can design their own b-bap bowl.” Step 1 is Select Your Base. Step 2 is Select Your Protein. Step 3 is Select Your Toppings. Step 4 is Select Your Sauce/Garnish. Mostly, you’re mixing rice with meat, vegetables, and sauce/garnish, making B-Bap the place with the least room for bad judgment, and the only place I know with Julienned Eggs.

16 Handles. I assume they did the math.

If you’ve taken steps at one of these places but still want to step out for dessert, the logical next step is 16 Handles (“Frozen Yogurt Your Way”). The chain, which has several stores in the city, invites you to Select Your Cup Size, Fill with Yogurt, Add Toppings, Weigh and Pay. It claims “trillions of possibilities.”

I don’t want trillions of possibilities. I want a cup of chocolate.

Or a bowl of rice. Or a stack of falafel. Or a plate of noodles. OK, with sauce.

I am not alone, for New York has clearly rejected cream-cheese-Dorito sushi.

Though it may have been only because the Doritos didn’t work with the teriyaki.

Getting a handle.

Have it your way at B-Bap, Chickpea, Nooi, and 16 Handles, but not at My Maki.

Strangely New York: Embracing the Crunch at Schnitzel & Things

By Mitch Broder

There are numerous unforeseen benefits to our economic collapse, and among them has been the New York City debut of accessible schnitzel.

There’s scant hope that you could approach a counter and order fried cutlets in five flavors today if Oleg Voss had not lost his job as an investment banker in Vienna.

But he did. And he had trained at the French Culinary Institute before he’d attended the NYU Stern School of Business. So he decided to start a restaurant and he saw opportunity in schnitzel. He and his brother Gene launched a food truck called Schnitzel & Things, and now they’ve parked a quick-schnitzel restaurant by the same name.

The schnitzel comes in traditional veal, less traditional pork, and least traditional chicken, cod, and eggplant. The things range from the traditional Austrian Potato Salad to the Schnitz Burger with Cheese and the Yukon Gold French Fries, because this is America.

Because this is America, the brothers strategically Americanized. They don’t want you to worry if, say,  you don’t know what schnitzel is. “The challenge was to take this ethnic food and to make it cool,” Oleg explains. “To make it so the masses identify schnitzel with us and not with the Bierhaus down the street.”

They do have bratwurst, and they serve things like spätzle on special, but they’ve left the full German menu to spots like the Bierhaus down the street. The gold’s in the schnitzel, Oleg says, because it’s Americanly crispy and crunchy: “Ultimately, it’s a familiar flavor because it’s a fried piece of meat.”

Hearing that, I couldn’t resist. I had the chicken schnitzel combo. I had it with the Austrian  Potato Salad and the Roasted Beet & Feta Salad. As you can see, the fried piece of meat overshot the takeout container. I dined in. This was just too much schnitzel to carry around.

The schnitzel was addictive. It tasted like chicken coated with potato chips. The potato salad was pleasantly cool and chunky. The beets were beets, which was a strike against them, but they were made palatable by the feta. I dipped the chicken in the Spicy Sriracha Mayo, which I believe is from the Thai region of Austria.

The place makes a tasty meal, and clearly others agree. The brothers already have plans to open several more stores. Oleg could be the king of fast-casual schnitzel — and all because he aimed high.

As he recalls: “I just didn’t want to work at a restaurant peeling potatoes and onions.”

Break tradition at Schnitzel & Things, 723 Third Avenue, between 45th and 46th streets, New York City.

Jimbo's Hamburger Place: An Atmosphere You'll Never Forget

By Mitch Broder

Walking into Jimbo’s Hamburger Place is less liking walking into a place than it is like walking into a hamburger.

You inhale hamburger steam. You see through hamburger vapor. You are having a hamburger sauna.

You’re engulfed by the greasy haze of decades of hamburger.

You believe you’re getting a film.

If you’re a fairly antiseptic person you will tell yourself to flee. But since you want a really good  hamburger, you will tell yourself to sit. You will allow yourself to drift back into fifties luncheonette culture. You will be rewarded with “The Best Chopmeat Money Can Buy.”

There aren’t many places left like Jimbo’s. There aren’t many places left called Places. Jimbo’s is a refuge from a city of chefs trying to make the hamburger something it’s not. It has a list of twenty-three burgers, but the most exotic topping is blue cheese. (It also has the one with the fried egg on top. There’s a reason it’s called Texas Burger.)

Jimbo’s has indeed been cultivating burger mist since the fifties, at least as Jimbo’s, whether or not Jimbo was actually named Jimbo. He is said to have been a man who came from Arkansas, which is plausible; Arkansas is a cattle-raising state.

Jimbo is believed to have sold the restaurant to a man named Gus, who was Greek, which is also plausible, since there’s no reason to make it up. In the late seventies it was taken over by Mahmoud Mostafa, who is Egyptian, which, too, is plausible, since he is still the owner.

That's Andy's and my table. And Abe at the counter.

Mahmoud, who answers to “Jim,” runs the place with his son Abe. He renovates it every decade or so, so it has the look of no particular era. He says he’s closing down in about two weeks for this decade’s renovation. It won’t be massive, he told me. Just the same, I’d get over there now.

When I was over there, I got the table by the window, which was lucky because it was Andy Warhol’s table, and because there are only three tables. Abe told me that Andy used to sit there on Saturday mornings. Michael Jackson never sat there, he added. He preferred to order in.

I ordered the Beef Burger Deluxe. I received a trapezoidal mound of perfectly cooked chopmeat that was hot, steamy, and juicy. The tomato was white; I didn’t care. The Coke was canned; I didn’t care. The burger was delicious and the fries were delicious, and every diner in New York City ought to just give up on tomatoes.

I asked for the men’s room. I was led out to an iron gate that said “360 E. 55^th St. Service Entrance.” A man unlocked the gate and pointed me to a bathroom that held, among other things, a mop and bucket and a pair of pants. I didn’t care about that, either. I just didn’t want to run into the guy who owned the pants.

Jimbo’s isn’t dainty. But that’s why it is precious. You deal with things like the grease fog. Just like the manager does.

“You go home with it,” Abe told me, referring to himself. “If you’re going out at night you have to shower. Unless you want to smell like burgers.”

Beef up at Jimbo’s Hamburger Place, 991 First Avenue, between 54th and 55th streets, in Manhattan.

Strangely New York: For Contrary Canines, the Tables are Turned

By Mitch Broder

Several hundred dogs emailed to say they were offended by the sight of the plastic dogs in front of three New York City restaurants owned by David Burke.

They found Burke’s whimsical dog ornaments to be insensitive and demeaning, not to mention inedible. Some of the writers also complained about their smartphones’ tiny keyboards.

“Sure, Burke, just perpetuate the stereotype of a mindless mongrel standing outside on a leash with his tail in the air,” wrote an angry border collie. “Yeah, we’re all just patiently waiting for our master to polish off his great big plate of Roasted Seawater Soaked Organic Chicken.”

“You know what I’d like to see?” demanded an irate affenpinscher. “I’d like to see a dog restaurant with a fake person standing outside.”

I will not call Burke on the real dogs’ behalf, since he’s already mad that his fake dogs get stolen. But regarding the sarcastic restaurant request, I think I can help.

Indignant dogs should drag their owners to 34^th Street between Third and Lex, where they will find a café called Barking Dog. It is dog-friendly, though not friendly enough to actually let dogs in. But it has dog water pots near the outdoor tables. And it has a fake person standing outside.

The person is an artist, and the artist is a sculpture called “The Right Light.” The artist’s artist is J. Seward Johnson Jr.

Johnson is famous for his bronze statues of regular people. He is also an heir to Johnson and Johnson, which makes Listerine, which should have a dog version.

The sculpture belongs to the Affinia Dumont hotel next door. A staff member there told me that “people talk to it all the time.” Jenée Castellanos of The Sculpture Foundation told me that Johnson made it in 1983 and that it’s been at the hotel for about twenty-five years.

As for Barking Dog, it has several menu selections with “barking dog” in the name, as well as shepherd’s pie, though the menu spells it wrong.

Bitter dogs are free to mock the person-sculpture to their hearts’ content.

Any other means of expressing their hostility is not condoned here.

Catch “The Right Light” at Barking Dog, 150 East 34th Street, between Third and Lexington avenues, in Manhattan.