Bread and Honey, 8th and 56th, $6.99 – $7.99/ lb

March 10th, 2011

The Maze

A wise old actor once told me that success was about being at the right bus stop at the right time and getting on the bus. It was when I was young and singular in my ambition. I searched for the right bus stop for years.  And then waited. And then searched. And then waited again. With each bus stop, my scope widened  and my ambition softened. My waits grew shorter and shorter. One day, I stopped waiting for the bus and started walking. I’ve gotten a lot farther on foot.

Every once in a while, someone drops in and out of your life, leaving behind an idea that turns you around. You find yourself not in a car chugging down the avenue, nor on an airy hike through the wilderness of your imagination, but jumping off a plane into the last place you ever intended to visit -  a deep, scary, beautiful vista that you’d never seek, but feel blessed to have seen. I had one of those moments this week – an extended conversation with an unlikely messenger. After listening to his convoluted story, I understood how windy, twisty, and turny my life is. And how, even with all the twists of fate, it seems like what’s supposed to happen has, whether I’ve wanted it to or not. I saw life as a maze.  It’s a self-constructed maze and its walls are at different times high and wide, or so flimsy and gauzy that you feel you could easily break them down. Sometimes the corners are sharp and sudden, sometimes gradual and gentle, and sometimes you double back on yourself.  Maybe this is why we erect flag posts – a tattoo, a relationship, a very special conversation. The flags show us if we’re moving on, or roaming around in circles and squares.

Sometimes sneezeguard can seem like a flag on the maze, the contents of the steam table, even with its slight variations, always familiar, constant, and consistent. But this week, I came across Bread and Honey.  Perusing the table, I expected to see the regular items, and I did, plus some amazing additions. The tables are long and gleaming and I traveled the length of the first two, duly impressed by their generous offerings. The third table stopped me. Raw salmon, beef rolls, beautiful baby spinach, raw broccoli florets, three types of mushrooms, swiss chard, kale, shrimp, noodles. I was looking at something different, something fresh and new: a pick-your-own-ingredients-by-yourself-magical-mixed-genre-sneezeguard dining experience. And I knew, in the maze of my life, I had turned another corner. The Mongolian grill.

I started with an empty, gleaming, metal bowl into which I dropped my ingredients: broccoli, swiss chard, kale, pineapple, salmon, red peppers, bell mushrooms, green noodles, cabbage and chives. Then to the sauce section: grated ginger, crushed garlic,  hot sauce, and the nearly impossible choice between  dressings.  I went with a black bean sauce. The chef sauteed it over a large round metal hot plate, pushing the ingredients with a long wooden pole. The results: a spicy, nuanced, complex and tart concoction. Bread and Honey is a game changer, an abrupt about-face in the middle of Manhattan.

Its true that sometimes the maze we walk is simple, like the grids of New York, and sometimes it’s convoluted, like a country road. Its also true that, despite the twists and turns, the circles and squares, there’s only ever one direction to go – forward. I told a friend about my maze, how the path swivels and swirls because I insisted walking my own way and how the walls are so thick and high because I clung to the security of the tunnels and bridges built for me by family, friends, education, and  career. “That would matter,” my friend offered, “if life was about the destination and not the journey.”  The truth is, I don’t know what life is about. And I don’t want to know. Its more fun to wonder. And walk.

Bread and Honey: mongolian barbeque with mixed vegetables and salmon, $6.87

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EZ Deli, 1625 Broadway, $7.99/ lb

February 17th, 2011

The End.

Its a new year, just one and a half months old, and  a recent realization  has me thinking about my life, ghosts and all. I was in L.A. revisitng my old haunts and habits. I stepped into the CVS on Fairfax and Third, where, during an eight month experiment living in that flat, sunny city,  I first discovered the ‘Fire’ Cinnamon Peel ‘n Pull Twizzler.

They came in pound packages, a slightly browner, deeper red than regular Peel ‘n Pulls. A perfect storm of plastic, sugar and artificial spice. Chewy, addictive, sentimental and new. I pursued them in New York, followed them to Connecticut, and stalked them online. There are few tangible things I’ve chased over the years, fewer that I’ve caught. And now, even the Cinnamon Peel ‘n Pull Twizzler eludes me.

But,  New York offers many things that L.A. doesn’t – far reaching public transportation, true New York grit, unbiquitous sneezeguard delis, and the Empire State building. Slipping into the EZ Deli minutes before work, I admire the fact that most of the cold table seems fresh and new, despite the late hour. The semi-hot table, however, is a over-cooked and crusty, and aside from a full tray of glistening, thick-skinned dumplings, I skip it.

The EZ Deli is clean, ready for throngs of Times Square tourists, and its prices reflect the price-gouging midtown places get away with, but I’m feeling flush. Three pieces of sneezeguard sushi, two black olives, two very green broccoli florets, two thick stalks of roasted asparagus and, the biggest risk of all, two roasted brussel sprouts.  I pick at it as I work. First, the dumpling. Salty and bland, the pork is a liquid consistency I didn’t like or trust. The sushi, unremarkable. The broccoli tastes suspiciously like the dumpling. In fact, disregarding texture, everything tastes like everything else. I skip the brussel sprouts. EZ Deli, or maybe all of Times Square, has guessed and doubled guessed the palates and tastes of too many people and ended up here, mushy and diluted, just a tiny bit better than mediocre, the heart and soul beaten out by ruthless practicality. I chewed, I swallowed, I ate, but I don’t want to remember.

Back to L.A. It was a time when I was ready for something new. The end of a job, the beginning of life in a different city. The end of a friendship, the beginning of a love affair. Those Fire Peel n’ Pull twizzlers are part of my Los Angeles adventure, perky, unique, flavorful and red. And now they’re gone. Discontinued. An item not even the store managers remember.

The history of twizzlers, stolen without permission from Wikipedia:

  • 1845 – Young and Smylie confectionery firm is established.
  • 1870 – Y&S is adopted as the company trademark.
  • 1902 – National Licorice Company established with the merger of Young and Smylie, S.V. & F.P. Schudder and H.W. Petherbridge.
  • 1968 – National Licorice Company is renamed Y&S Candies, Inc.
  • 1977 – Hershey’s Foods acquires Y&S Candies, Inc.
  • 1994 – Hershey’s introduces Twizzlers “Pull-n-Peel” candy.
  • 2004 – Hershey’s introduces Twizzlers “Twerpz” candy.
  • 2009 – Hershey’s introduces Twizzlers “Sweet & Sour Filled Twists” candy

To this I add:

January 2009 – I discover  Cinnamon Fire Peel ‘n Pull twizzlers on Fairfax and Third during a year I decide to change my life. I take a bag home. I eat them all. I buy more. I eat them, too.

January 2011, a mere two years after discovering the treat, becoming a fan, falling in love, I meander through six CVS’, Rite-Aids and Ralphs, to find – nothing. They have been erased from the Hershey’s website and are auctioned in limited quantities for ten dollars a package on Amazon.com.

The end.

And a new beginning.

The EZ Deli: 3 pieces of unremaqrkable sneezeguard sushi, 1 pork dumpling, 3 pieces pink tortellinin, 2 flowers broccoli, 2 stalks of roasted asparagus, 2 brussel sprouts, 2 black olives – $5.65

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Cranberry Deli, 115 West 45th Street. $7.59/lb

October 31st, 2010

Time.

Things that keep me up at night: recounting the day’s sly negotiations of personal and professional politics, the kitchen light of my alleyway neighbors when they wash their dishes naked, the absurdity of the profession that chose me and the people who have fallen into my life, the ticking of my white, boxy Westclox clock, which echoes louder the later it is, from the corner of my bedroom. There are other things that keep me up, but I never remember them come morning.

I’ve had lots of sleepless nights lately, and while I can’t put my finger on why, I suspect it has something to do with my tenuous, tumultuous relationship with time. I set my white ticking clock ten minutes ahead, which once seemed like a good idea. When frustrated, I claw, white-knuckled, at the idea of passing time, or losing time, saving time, running out of time. I wish I knew how to romance time, how to pay attention, in the dark, in my bed, to the quiet between the ticks of the clock and the quiet between my thoughts. How to enjoy my pretend nothingness while I chase elusive sleep, so that time is not something simply to plow through as I lumber towards my transparent dreams.

The Cranberry Deli – crammed into an unexpected call to work after a sleepless night. Lunch hour. Two modest steam tables. A well managed, Times Square, lunchtime crowd. The selection is small, and I am challenged to find a deeply satisfying unhealthy fried thing, or a platter of sneezeguard sushi, but I make due with fresh looking salmon with a sweet peppery glaze, brocolli rabe salad with a ubiquitious sneezeguard dressing, ripe avocado with the same dressing, grilled asparagus with the same dressing, and a small pinch of pasta with a similar dressing. Nothing imaginative, nothing daring. A perfect kind of meal to not pay attention to on a day I wish to ignore. An obvious, transparent meal, like an unsatisfying dream at the end of a restless night.

I wrote a poem for a high school English class. It was years ago, when I was loping blindly into my future and it seemed right that I didn’t know what to expect or when to expect it. My teacher read it out loud and my words drew another English teacher from her office to listen. I don’t remember the poem, but it was about time. Time standing still in a smoky room. And a fan, a ceiling fan, unevenly spinning as it breaks up light shafting through a window. I remembered the poem today as I was walking to work, my mind jumping back twenty years, then ahead four days, then catching a glimpse of seagull bouncing on the wind by the water, no need to flap its wings. I whispered a prayer into the wind and felt that elusive time, like water, slipping through my fingertips. Its there, and then it isn’t. And you can’t prove it ever was.

Maybe its time to unplug that cheap Westclox clock.

Cranberry Deli – cold salmon, brocolli rabe, grilled asparagus, avocado, noodles – $4.63.

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Green Symphony, 255 West 43rd Street. $6.99/lb

August 12th, 2010

I am convinced that I am a technological pariah. In the past three months, I’ve possessed four incompetent cellphones, a broken internet router, two crashed computers, and a dead cable internet modem, in essence making it almost impossible for me to know the time, the weather, the news, or to communicate with anyone on a regular basis. Along with all my communication devices, my sense of direction, the where, why, and how of my world has also evaporated. I don’t know what day it is on a consistent basis, for instance, and it’s been weeks since I’ve read my horoscope. Yet, somehow, even with this electronic barrier, I am busier than ever. So busy, that I find myself face to face with three loads of laundry and the pervasive question: have I remembered to brush my teeth.
While everything seems to be breaking down, a sure arbiter of change to come, I find solace and safety in all the familiar places that are still hanging on in New York. Like an old, worn in friend whose life I move in and out of, these few places stand stalwart in their spots, waiting for me appreciate them for who they are, not what they have to offer. They are few and far between and I have long taken them for granted. Now I imagine that the owners of these establishments are hanging onto their awnings with the same white knuckled, slipping grip I’m using to hold onto my life.
Green Symphony. A Broadway standard. It was new to New York when I was new to Broadway, a healthful alternative to standard Times Square budget fare. I haven’t been there in several months, but walking through the door, I feel as if I’m being greeted by an old friend. The owner smiles from the counter and even though I know he doesn’t know who I am, his familiar face puts me at ease.
Fresh kale with pepitos, spicy Indian stew, a satisfying, very spicy samosa, fluffy brown rice… none of my sneezeguard standards. I love this place. The food is warm and inviting. One can indulge without guilt and the sneezeguard selections are always fresh, unusual, and full of love. All for $4.35. Or $6.99 a pound, depending on your appetite.
Friendship is a funny thing. Sometimes it’s given. Sometimes it’s misplaced. Sometimes it grows without water, food, or encouragement. That’s what I’m thinking as I eat my meal. A couple of Broadway dancers, an odd senior citizen from the building next door, the smiling owner who knows so many of his customers by name or smoothie preference. There are days and ends of days when you sit behind a meal or a margarita and you look across the table to see not a co-worker, or a drinking buddy, or a business associate, but a friend. And there are days when you walk into a sneezeguard deli and feel like you’ve finally arrived home.
Kale salad, Indian Chick Pea Stew, one Samosa, a scoop of brown rice: $4.35.

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Bistro Marketplace, 312 West 34th Street, $7.49 per pound

June 27th, 2010

Reality Check

My friend Michele looks upon sneezeguard cuisine with disdain. “It’s too expensive,” she says. “It’s tasteless. It’s not real.” I respond with a question: “what is real?” She can’t answer this, of course, and so she pauses over a sip of her beer. I sit back in my chair, taking in the summer breeze, thinking that a margarita sounds like a good idea even though I’ve committed to peeling the label off another beer. I don’t know what “real” is either.

I have read enough pop science books to know that science is usually wrong, even when proven right and that most who are well studied on the intricacies of reality know that they know nothing. This doesn’t stop me from pretending that certain things are real, but it does make me careful about how I choose my words -  so much so that some days, I feel like I am swimming in a sea of semantics. On those days, I long for the comfort of sneezeguard. The half-size plastic serving container fits perfectly in my hand. The stainless steel hut of prepared food gleaming with welcome. 30 choices, an infinite sea of combinations, each pre-destined, pre-cut, prepared, and presented, huddle beneath the protective fiberglass veneer. And I feel as if I am actual participant in the culling of my meal. As if freewill exists. On those days, I invite sneezeguard into my reality.

Bistro Marketplace. Two o’clock on a hot summer day, walking across town towards the water, three strapping steam tables in a palatial setting wink at me through the open deli door. I am drawn in.

But then I see the reality of the situation. Two of the steam tables are empty, presumably cleared from their lunch time rush. What’s left? Jello. Kim Chee. Roasted cauliflower and a slice of avocado. Three different pasta salads with all the mixings picked out. Cold rice. Fried chicken pieces that look suspiciously similar to each other, as if coming from identical mutant chickens. Fried Calamari. Lots of it. And a wilted Caesar Salad. Slim pickings.

I, the intrepid sneezuguard adventurer, convince myself that I can find something appetizing in this din of sneezeguard rejects. Not even the lunch crowd touched these leftovers, but I am of alternative tastes.  I circle the table, my open to go container yearning for some weight. I circle again. A third time. And I reach for a block of jello.

The things I love about sneezeguard: I love a buffet. I love its price by pound honesty. I love the illusion of free choice and its efforts to graciously embrace every type of personal taste in its steely palate. I love the continuous attempt to customize a meal with a  non-customized menu. I guess I love the kitsch of it all. I love that each deli has a unique signature dish. And, of course, I love sneezeguard sushi.

I walk to the water, my meager lunch jostling in my bag. Three slices of Portobello mushrooms, three pieces of soggy, cold, fried cauliflower, a slice of slobbering, soft avocado, three pieces of fried calamari, and a square of orange jello.  I sit down at a table at the Frying Pan and open my sneezeguard selections. I pick at it for a moment. And then I order an entirely different lunch.

This is jello:

And this is what happens when you mix jello with various sneezeguard selections:

I have long suspected that there are as many realities as there are people (which means there’s no real reality at all), and I am certain that Bistro Marketplace has its own family of customers who spin through their sneezeguard every lunchtime, Monday through Friday. This is their life, their daily reality. Maybe this group finds some joy in what the Bistro has to offer. I hope they do. I, unfortunately, did not.

Three slices of Portobello mushroom, three pieces of roasted cauliflower, three pieces of calamari, half a slice of avocado, one pinch of Caesar salad, and a block of orange jello: $3.34.

Amy Sneezeguard Sushi Neswald

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Danny’s, 224 West 47th St., $6.79 per pound

June 21st, 2010

The BSLD

When you work in the theater, you don’t always get to spend time with your significant other, hence the advent of the Between Show Lunch Date, or BSLD. Most often, the BSLD is conducted at a restaurant with table service and napkins. Today, however, I made other plans.

My husband met me at my theater after our  matinee. He was informed that we would be enjoying a sneezeguard luncheon. He had his doubts about this decision, but our 13 years together have made him approach my fits and starts with an admiral degree of laissez faire. Our destination: Danny’s on 47th off of Broadway.

When you walk in the door of Danny’s you are immediately presented with three long tables of sneezeguard delicacies. Closest to the door, drawing one in with its vibrant colors and bite size morsels in the fruit table. Beyond is a salad spread of both the lettuce and pasta variety. Past these silent sentinels, in the far recesses of the deli, is the last table standing. The steamtable. The Holy Grail of sneezeguard culture.

And what a table it is. There is a glut of choices, laid out for your viewing pleasure. Ribs, chicken, rice, and sausages, and potatoes, and pasta, and meatballs… the list goes on.

As I stood there, trying to make sense of all that was within my reach, my husband grabbed his clear plastic container and filled it with single-minded determination. A tasting of fried chicken, a bit of mashed potato, kielbasa, and a bite of pasta. And then something on the table brought him to a halt and I watched a grin spread on his otherwise resigned mien. Macaroni and cheese.
I, on the other hand, took my time choosing, circling the table a few times, literally weighing my options. At $6.79 a pound, one can’t be foolhardy with one’s choices. Finally, I filled by container with rice, my all-time favorite sneezeguard selection, a few pieces of shrimp, broccoli, a taste of pasta, and mixed greens. I was confident with my thoughtful picks. While I was choosing, my husband had supplemented our meal with bottled water and a selection of fruits and a sideways glance directed towards me.
He chose our seats. I changed them, giving pause to the sign on the wall that announced a seating capacity of 150 people. I wondered what cosmic alignment might bring that many people to Danny’s upstairs eating area.
My husband went straight for his favorite, the mac and cheese, a dish that he fancies as himself a connoisseur of. His joy soured. “Favorless,” he proclaimed. He moved onto the pasta and mashed potatoes. “Flavorless,” he declared. He perked up over the chicken and turned giddy over the kielbasa. “Tasty.”
I was equally underwhelmed by my selections. The shrimp was rubbery, the pasta merely okay. My old standby, rice, broccoli and green beans were good, but they came a little too late.
The BSLD: less than stellar, with a few good points:
1. We ate together.
2. We chatted.
3. Though we paid far too much for far too little, we did experience together another corner of this city we call home.
4. The company was delicious, though, the rest of it, not so much.
Two containers of mixed edibles, one container of fruit, two bottles of water: $28.49.

– Moira Greenbean Conrad

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Village 38, 38th and Broadway, $7.49 per pound

June 15th, 2010

Dining In

Sneezeguard dining can be a lonely experience, unless you’re a group of German tourist or a New York City bus tour driver, which is why so many people who dine in at the sneezeguard share their meal with their cellphones. Only the brave of heart dare to savour their mixed-up sampling of meats, fish and random pastas and sauces. Only the brave of heart take in the ambience – in this case a slightly dingy, though undeniably clean, eating mezzanine overlooking beautiful Eight Avenue just south of Times Square.

Who are the lone diners? A man eating his sneezeguard with gusto. A mailman meditating over his Coke. A young woman in a serious conversation with her iphone. And me.

People carry their food up one flight of stairs in plastic bags, unpack their single plastic container, throw this bag that never leaves the deli in the trash, and dive into their food. It makes me feel lonely. The sneezeguard meal, in all of its elegance, creativity, eccentricity, and jumble is as disposable as the plastic-ware it’s consumed with.

This is not a place of serious dining. There is no drama, no comedy. People don’t break-up over a sneezeguard meal, nor do they propose marriage. The sneezeguard deli, I would venture to guess, is a stopping place of the in-between moments of life. Its not a place to sit and chew on the meaning of great things. Its barely a place to chew at all. Most people here, I notice, simply swallow.

I take my time, though. I taste. Broccoli rabe, sprinkled with a little lemon, pine nuts, a delicate tamari, and a sprinkling of pepper. Perfectly ripe avocado with a delightful hint of cilantro, and four steamtable sushi rolls, seaweed, eel and avocado, vegetable with egg, and spicy tuna. And though I have no one to share my meal with, I am overwhelmed by the beauty and simplicity that is presented by some artist chef hidden in a some kitchen, perhaps very far away, and wonder at the lessons that sneezeguard teaches us. For, amongst the plastic cutlery and bags and containers, there is some gift.

And across from me, now a mailman, now a middle aged woman, now a man consumed with his book, the table turns ever few minutes. And I know what the lesson is. If sneezeguard teaches us anything, it is to how to clean up after ourselves. The shame is how much garbage we need to make in order to learn the lesson.

$5.38 for four pieces of fake sushi, a scoop of delicious broccoli rabe, and a dollop of fantastic, chunky guacamole-like avocado. I finish it all. And then I cleared my table. And then I leave. And someone else sits down.

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Smilers, 48th and Broadway, $6.99 per pound

June 4th, 2010

Average To The Untrained Eye.

My friend Shad asks me for an impromptu review of the Smiler’s sneezeguard on 48th and Broadway. Drawing from the hotel and tourist crowd, Smiler’s price by pound  rivals Wholefoods even though its presentation is limited at best. Average. Lacking in innovation and character. We peruse the offerings. Chicken and broccoli, a sneezeguard staple. Some sort of pork- like substance slathered in a shiny red sauce, greasy lo mein. Its easy to jump to conclusions here.

I’ve known Shad for more than ten years, off and on. He’s a good guy, a fight director and actor with soap opera good looks and a penchant for super heroes. He owns a lot of swords. Shad and I don’t have much in common, except a deep desire to aid in the other’s success, even though we’re both stifled. We are helpless to help one another is the sad truth, no matter how hard we try.

I pick out the broccoli from the chicken and broccoli dish and stow it in my plastic container. Green is my favorite color to eat. He likes beige.

“Fresh,” I say, nodding to the roasted asparagus, “slightly ambitious, pushing the limits a little…” Arm in arm, we peruse the other side of the table. I don’t often experience sneezeguard at lunchtime, when the buffet is at its freshest. I find myself slightly envious. This is how the other half lives.

I pause in front of the fake sushi. “Is that eel?” I ask. He peers over my shoulder. Here is something I’ve never witnessed before. Sneezeguard eel sushi. A star for originality.

Further along, a Japanese bamboo steamer is filled with shrimp shumai. The shumai, in true American fashion, are as big as my head, but steamed shumai at a Smiler’s steam table is intriguing, to say the least. I pass, but I do take note. This is something I’ve never seen before.

It seems to me that in the arena of obvious choices, a few unexpected delights, a celebration of culture, or a point of pride are good things to have.

My damage, $5.02 for three pieces of fake sushi and a handful of broccoli sans chicken. His:@$5.59 for an array of colorless food I neglected to take note of.

And despite this affection, this driving need to influence each others’ life, he crosses the street one way with his plastic container of sneezeguard and I go the other way, both to our very separate days, sharing the sun shining down on crowded Times Square.

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Sneezeguard Culture

May 31st, 2010

Welcome to the sneezeguard gourmet, a collective blog about life and food at the sneezeguard.

Are sneezeguard steam tables a New York phenomenon? A way of life in this take-it-and-go city of ours? The New York version of a pay-by-the-pound-all-you-can-eat-buffet that most-likely costs our mid-western tourists much more than the sneezeguard savvy New Yorker?

We at The Sneezeguard Gourmet are struck by the ubiquitous, diverse, and familiar comforts the sneezeguard offers. At most sneezeguards, you can count on chicken and broccoli, unidentifiable meat, some sort of dumpling, and sushi roll that glistens with fake crab and dyed yellow radish. But what of the steam table that serves whole fish and beautifully roasted Brussels sprouts, or the one that has no outstanding dishes save for a rice paper wrapped, juliened vegetable delight? Or the sneezeguard that seems to specialize in different colored jello and peeled hard boiled eggs? Sneezeguards are as unique as the delis they live in, as unique as each individual who attempts to wrangle their magical choices.

And so, as we celebrate the sneezeguard, our lives unfold like that surprise buffet. Take in the choices, choose your to-go container, and let us share our sneezeguard reviews with you.

Posted in Life and Times at the Sneeze Guard Deli | 132 Comments »