Just discovered today that Panera Bread no longer sells their Cuban sandwich, which was an excellent way to get a taste of the southeastern United States (and Cuba, obviously) elsewhere in the country. I haven't watched the sandwich menu too closely, but it appears the replacement is the Mediterranean Veggie.
A healthy-sounding choice, and one I'd probably order. But the Panera Bread employee I talked to said the company should have dropped the "Portobello & Mozzarella" Panini sandwich. "No one orders it," he said.
You had to order extra spicy mustard with the Cuban to get the right effect, and it came on Asiago cheese bread instead of Cuban, but it was awfully good. All the proper ingredients, and pressed thin on a sandwich press. It will be missed.
At Panera you can still get the incomparable Dr. Brown's Black Cherry Soda and Krunchers potato chips, neither of which are widely available in Nebraska. I'll keep going.
Thursday, July 25, 2002
Torta Cubana: Food Fun with Babelfish
You'll never know just how much fun you can have translating foreign-language Web pages until you try it with a recipe.
A colleague sent me a link to a recipe, in Spanish, for a Torta Cubana (the Mexican version of a Cuban sandwich). Running it through Babelfish produces these delights, among others:
" . . . all it passed through the plate until the cheese is based."
"It serves... and acuérdate immediately to open the jaws well to bite this sandwich."
A colleague sent me a link to a recipe, in Spanish, for a Torta Cubana (the Mexican version of a Cuban sandwich). Running it through Babelfish produces these delights, among others:
"It serves... and acuérdate immediately to open the jaws well to bite this sandwich."
Saturday, July 20, 2002
Midwest Express Airlines: The Best Care in the Air?
The premium carrier Midwest Express costs just slightly more than other carriers for leisure airfare, and delivers a world of difference. After enjoying the airline's justifiably famous service, legroom and fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies, I'm seriously considering making it my only choice for air travel.
Midwest Express, soon to be renamed Midwest Airlines, operates from Omaha, Milwaukee and Kansas City hubs. This is no regional airline; it offers nonstops to both coasts from Milwaukee and to the East Coast from Omaha and Kansas City. The name change, coming in 2003, is designed to remove the false regional-carrier stigma that the company says costs it millions of dollars a year in lost bookings.
My $517.50 unrestricted fare from Omaha to Washington D.C. for staff training came with fixings it's hard to get in the lower classes of multi-class carriers. (The same trip on a no-refunds, no-changes ticket can be made in August for $233.50, a check of Midwest's quick and efficient Web site revealed.) The airline has just one class: superior. Besides the amenities, you get an aircraft (mostly McDonnell-Douglas DC-9s) that feels more spacious simply for having no section dividers, and a uniformly wide center aisle.
The brown leather seats look rich but aren't impressive in comfort terms. They're not uncomfortable, but neither are they cushy. Generous legroom makes up for any seating drawbacks, however; my 6'2" frame fit nicely, with a good four inches to spare ahead of my knees. All the tray tables fold out from the armrest in the two-by-two seats, which helps avoid jarring interruptions in computing or eating when the person in front reclines his or her seat. The center armrest is big enough for two large men to share.
Meal service starts shortly after takeoff, with red and white wine offered from real 750-milliliter bottles in real glass stemware (customized with a square base, so as not to slide around as much). On offer for my flight were a Cabernet Sauvignon and a Chardonnay blend, both of southeastern Australia's Lindeman's Cawarra label. My wine knowledge extends only to knowing at a taste whether I like a wine, and I liked the Chardonnay blend. The previous night's too-short rest and the upcoming busy day didn't allow a test of the Cabernet. The possibly mis-named "lunch" (served around 4:30 p.m.) consisted of a chicken "Caesar" salad -- definitely mis-named, as no Caesar dressing was present. In its place was "sour cream herb" dressing, which tasted just fine. Shredded parmesan, boiled egg slices, tomatoes, olives and cucumbers surrounded a chicken breast atop Romaine lettuce. The chicken -- moist, dense and flavorful -- was a pleasant surprise.
The meal presentation recalls some of the glamour of a bygone aviation era. The salad came on real china, with metal fork and spoon and a plastic knife. Hang on to that large linen napkin -- you'll need it in just a few minutes.
That's when the renowned Midwest Express fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies come out. Each passenger gets two (probably more, if you asked), and the gooey chocolate gets all over your fingers. Thus the retained linen napkin. But the cookies, even piping hot, are firm enough to fill the mouth with decadent satisfaction while not falling apart in one's hands. A colleague told me these are the best chocolate chip cookies she's ever had. She hasn't had mine yet, but they're a close second.
Service from the well-attired flight attendants was quick and efficient, if not overtly friendly. Unfortunately, the Midwest Express flight crews share with their colleagues at other carriers an affinity for talking too long, too loudly and too often on the intercom system. They should read my friendly suggestions to the airlines on flight announcements, and take it to heart.
Midwest Express, soon to be renamed Midwest Airlines, operates from Omaha, Milwaukee and Kansas City hubs. This is no regional airline; it offers nonstops to both coasts from Milwaukee and to the East Coast from Omaha and Kansas City. The name change, coming in 2003, is designed to remove the false regional-carrier stigma that the company says costs it millions of dollars a year in lost bookings.
My $517.50 unrestricted fare from Omaha to Washington D.C. for staff training came with fixings it's hard to get in the lower classes of multi-class carriers. (The same trip on a no-refunds, no-changes ticket can be made in August for $233.50, a check of Midwest's quick and efficient Web site revealed.) The airline has just one class: superior. Besides the amenities, you get an aircraft (mostly McDonnell-Douglas DC-9s) that feels more spacious simply for having no section dividers, and a uniformly wide center aisle.
The brown leather seats look rich but aren't impressive in comfort terms. They're not uncomfortable, but neither are they cushy. Generous legroom makes up for any seating drawbacks, however; my 6'2" frame fit nicely, with a good four inches to spare ahead of my knees. All the tray tables fold out from the armrest in the two-by-two seats, which helps avoid jarring interruptions in computing or eating when the person in front reclines his or her seat. The center armrest is big enough for two large men to share.
Meal service starts shortly after takeoff, with red and white wine offered from real 750-milliliter bottles in real glass stemware (customized with a square base, so as not to slide around as much). On offer for my flight were a Cabernet Sauvignon and a Chardonnay blend, both of southeastern Australia's Lindeman's Cawarra label. My wine knowledge extends only to knowing at a taste whether I like a wine, and I liked the Chardonnay blend. The previous night's too-short rest and the upcoming busy day didn't allow a test of the Cabernet. The possibly mis-named "lunch" (served around 4:30 p.m.) consisted of a chicken "Caesar" salad -- definitely mis-named, as no Caesar dressing was present. In its place was "sour cream herb" dressing, which tasted just fine. Shredded parmesan, boiled egg slices, tomatoes, olives and cucumbers surrounded a chicken breast atop Romaine lettuce. The chicken -- moist, dense and flavorful -- was a pleasant surprise.
The meal presentation recalls some of the glamour of a bygone aviation era. The salad came on real china, with metal fork and spoon and a plastic knife. Hang on to that large linen napkin -- you'll need it in just a few minutes.
That's when the renowned Midwest Express fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies come out. Each passenger gets two (probably more, if you asked), and the gooey chocolate gets all over your fingers. Thus the retained linen napkin. But the cookies, even piping hot, are firm enough to fill the mouth with decadent satisfaction while not falling apart in one's hands. A colleague told me these are the best chocolate chip cookies she's ever had. She hasn't had mine yet, but they're a close second.
Service from the well-attired flight attendants was quick and efficient, if not overtly friendly. Unfortunately, the Midwest Express flight crews share with their colleagues at other carriers an affinity for talking too long, too loudly and too often on the intercom system. They should read my friendly suggestions to the airlines on flight announcements, and take it to heart.
Ban Annoying Flight Announcements!
Open letter to the airlines: Do a scientific study to find a quiet and soothing female voice (like the Washington Metro's "Doors closing. Please stand clear of the doors" recording) and use it for all the FAA regulations and safety advisories no on listens to anyway. It's improve the morale of passengers, who'll be able to get some work or sleep in with fewer distractions, and of employees who must just hate repeating the same script flight after flight, so much that they make gaffes like "FAA regulations prohibit destroying airplane lavatories, um, airplane lavatory smoke detectors."
Another thing: ban weather reports. There is no weather information useful to the average person that cannot be gained be looking out the window upon landing, and/or feeling the blast of cold/hot/mild air in the jetway immediately after "deplaning."
And get rid of that word, too. The sooner we all forget the tired "De plane, boss, de plane!" joke, the better.
Another thing: ban weather reports. There is no weather information useful to the average person that cannot be gained be looking out the window upon landing, and/or feeling the blast of cold/hot/mild air in the jetway immediately after "deplaning."
And get rid of that word, too. The sooner we all forget the tired "De plane, boss, de plane!" joke, the better.
Tuesday, July 2, 2002
Excellent Dumpling House
New York -- Excellent Dumpling House offers Chinese noodle dishes in astounding variety, many with delectably unidentifiable ingredients and all in servings that only the hugest of appetites could conquer. A favorite among people on jury duty because it's so cheap. I went late at night and was served quickly, but I hear it's packed during the day. The decor, dominated by baby-barf-green tile, makes the restaurant look like a gigantic bathroom.
Excellent Dumpling House | 111 Lafayette St., between Canal and Walker streets | Chinatown, Manhattan, New York City | (212) 219-0212
_____
This piece is excerpted from an article that originally appeared August 15, 2000, in Nebraska StatePaper. You can see the original article here on StatePaper.
Excellent Dumpling House | 111 Lafayette St., between Canal and Walker streets | Chinatown, Manhattan, New York City | (212) 219-0212
This piece is excerpted from an article that originally appeared August 15, 2000, in Nebraska StatePaper. You can see the original article here on StatePaper.
Mocca Hungarian Restaurant
New York -- For central and eastern European cooking on a budget, this is the place to go. Roughly the same cuisine, of higher quality, is offered a few blocks north at Heidelberg. But why pay? Mocca's $6.95 lunchtime prix fixe menu, available from 11 a.m. to 3 p.m., is absolutely astounding. You get fresh bread, soup or salad, your choice from a generous list of entrees, and dessert. The service is phenomenally gruff and rude; your plates will be dropped onto your table, and you will not receive a single smile from anyone. But the food, oh, the food. It's heavy and delicious. We tried the Chicken Paprikash and the Wiener Schnitzel and found both above average. Allow time for a nap afterward.
Mocca Hungarian Restaurant | 1588 Second Ave., between 82nd and 83rd streets | Upper East Side, Manhattan, New York City | (212) 734-6470
_____
This piece is excerpted from an article that originally appeared August 15, 2000, in Nebraska StatePaper. You can see the original article here on StatePaper.
Mocca Hungarian Restaurant | 1588 Second Ave., between 82nd and 83rd streets | Upper East Side, Manhattan, New York City | (212) 734-6470
This piece is excerpted from an article that originally appeared August 15, 2000, in Nebraska StatePaper. You can see the original article here on StatePaper.
Mahmoun's Falafel
New York -- Prepare yourself, for you are about to have a taste experience like none other. For the last hour and a half (you did eat in 30-minute increments, didn't you?) you have eaten but peasant food; tasty, but simple. Now you are about to consume the Pita Fulla Passion, the Mediterranean Magnificence. You enter the narrow doorway, and before you stands -- not much at all. And that's the glory of the place! Four long steps and you're at the counter. You order a falafel sandwich, pay two dollars (much cheaper than anywhere else in the city) and half a minute later it's in your hand, its vegetarian goodness ensconced in aluminum foil. You sit down on one of the 10 seats in the entire place, and think, "My walk-in closet is bigger than this." Then you unwrap the falafel and the aroma wafts up to tickle your nostrils and your fancy. In one bite are found fried balls of ground chickpeas and spices; tomatoes, lettuce and tahini sauce, a mixture of ground sesame seeds and oil. Not a single animal died in its production, yet it's a perfectly filling meal.
Mahmoun's Falafel | 119 MacDougal St, between Bleecker Street to the south and West Third Street to the north | Greenwich Village, Manhattan, New York City
_____
This piece is excerpted from an article that originally appeared August 15, 2000, in Nebraska StatePaper. You can see the original article here on StatePaper.
Mahmoun's Falafel | 119 MacDougal St, between Bleecker Street to the south and West Third Street to the north | Greenwich Village, Manhattan, New York City
This piece is excerpted from an article that originally appeared August 15, 2000, in Nebraska StatePaper. You can see the original article here on StatePaper.
Gray's Papaya
New York -- This, my friends, is Hot Dog Heaven. Bliss on a Bun. For 75 cents you, yes you, can have a hot dog onto which a sweaty man in white will pile endless sauerkraut -- for no additional charge. The line stretches down the street as starving Greenwich Villagers, wallets empty from paying their $2,000 rents, wait for a little bit o' Heaven slathered with spicy mustard. But you don't just go to Gray's Papaya to get a hot dog for 50 cents less than you'd pay anywhere else in the city, you go to get, that's right, papaya juice. It's one of several exotic fruity delights they have; pina colada and orange juice are there, among others. The dogs are even better than the ones launched at you by Der Wiener Schlinger in Lincoln, Nebraska's Memorial Stadium. Yes, that good.
Gray's Papaya | 402 Sixth Avenue at 8th Street | Greenwich Village, Manhattan, New York City
_____
This piece is excerpted from an article that originally appeared August 15, 2000, in Nebraska StatePaper. You can see the original article here on StatePaper.
Gray's Papaya | 402 Sixth Avenue at 8th Street | Greenwich Village, Manhattan, New York City
This piece is excerpted from an article that originally appeared August 15, 2000, in Nebraska StatePaper. You can see the original article here on StatePaper.
Arthur Bryant's
Kansas City, Missouri -- Driving 45 minutes through flash floods, car-shaking wind and the occasional hailstone to reach a place a block away from that morning's fatal shooting is worth it if the destination is Arthur Bryant's.
This is the barbecue that stuffed-to-bursting, groggy, contented 6 p.m. naps are made of. It starts blocks away, that scent of smoking meat you know will subtract a day or two from your life, but who cares? You near the parking lot and wave to the rent-a-cop watching carefully over the beat-up station wagons and Lexus sedans parked side-by-side. Your stomach roars carnivorously like some starved mountain lion leaping upon its longed-for meal. Your legs move of their own accord, longing for purchase upon Arthur Bryant's rain- and drippings-soaked floors.
The screen doors slap shut behind you as you quickly assess the ordering line, figuring instantaneously how long you must endure the smoky sights and smells before tasting of their goodness. People of all shapes and sizes, colors and ages fill the narrow room ahead. Unfortunately, several of them are ahead of you in the queue.
The dirty jeans-clad lucky man who's reached the window says turkey on whole wheat, pickles and fries. He doesn't need to say "to go" - that's assumed, unless you hand the man behind the counter a dishwasher-hot white plate from the tall stacks close at hand. Behind him the high-powered businessman waits, gold cufflinks jingling as his hands shake slightly in anticipation.
A huge sheet of butcher paper is laid on the cutting board. One slice of whole wheat, then six more next to it (you need a lot of bread to soak up all the meat juice and sauce). A pound of meat on the single slice. Slap it with a house-painter's brush soaked in barbecue sauce. The customer wants extra, really paint it this time. Top with other six slices of bread. Grab a handful of fries pulled just seconds ago from boiling oil (no protection for the skin, first-time customers stare in wonderment), dodge the co-worker heading with a slab of meat for the slicer, pile the fries next to the sandwich. Grab a handful of dill pickle slices from a huge plastic jar, slap them down on the other side of the sandwich. Roll the whole mess into a ball the size of a cantaloupe. Juices soaking through, wrap it in another big sheet of butcher paper and seal with a sticker printed with Arthur Bryant's address (as if you could possibly forget it). Hand it to the happy customer, who rushes to pay at the end of the line because he knows the meaty majesty that awaits him.
This is the place where presidents (Jimmy Carter) dine. This is the place where you don't need foo-foo "side orders" like corn on the cob and cole slaw to fill the empty space left by less-than-generous servings of meat. This is the place that makes you look at restaurants like K.C. Masterpiece and Famous Dave's and think, "Why eat there? I'll just waste valuable stomach capacity I could better use at Arthur Bryant's!"
This is the place that occupies the same block as Wanna Burger, where employees could be seen through the windows (I kid you not) still cleaning up the bloodstains from that morning's shooting. This is the place I drove through a tornado watch to get to on a Saturday. This is the place that's worth it.
There's pork, beef and turkey for sandwiches, as well as sausage, ribs and burnt ends. There's the fries. Beer by the glass or the pitcher, or a big 40-ounce soft drink in a cup with the Arthur Bryant's logo if you're driving. Six to eight dollars for the sandwiches and I've never tried the ribs or sausage - the sandwiches are just too good. A group of four can dine for $48, beer, soft drinks and enough leftovers for next day's lunch included.
The blinding-hot smoker, big as an industrial refrigerator, stands with its blackened doors wide open just three feet behind the counter. At Arthur Bryant's, you know where your meat is coming from - because they pull slabs out of the furnace and start slicing them if they run out of meat on the counter. You could go to some lesser chain barbecue restaurant, where some college student serves you a prettified plate of origin-unknown "barbecue" - or you could travel three hours from Lincoln, Nebraska, four from Omaha, Nebraska, or send your private jet from California (it's happened). Who cares? It's worth it.
Arthur Bryant's | 1727 Brooklyn, Kansas City, Missouri | (816) 231-1123
_____
This piece originally appeared May 29, 2000, in Nebraska StatePaper. You can see the original article here.
This is the barbecue that stuffed-to-bursting, groggy, contented 6 p.m. naps are made of. It starts blocks away, that scent of smoking meat you know will subtract a day or two from your life, but who cares? You near the parking lot and wave to the rent-a-cop watching carefully over the beat-up station wagons and Lexus sedans parked side-by-side. Your stomach roars carnivorously like some starved mountain lion leaping upon its longed-for meal. Your legs move of their own accord, longing for purchase upon Arthur Bryant's rain- and drippings-soaked floors.
The screen doors slap shut behind you as you quickly assess the ordering line, figuring instantaneously how long you must endure the smoky sights and smells before tasting of their goodness. People of all shapes and sizes, colors and ages fill the narrow room ahead. Unfortunately, several of them are ahead of you in the queue.
The dirty jeans-clad lucky man who's reached the window says turkey on whole wheat, pickles and fries. He doesn't need to say "to go" - that's assumed, unless you hand the man behind the counter a dishwasher-hot white plate from the tall stacks close at hand. Behind him the high-powered businessman waits, gold cufflinks jingling as his hands shake slightly in anticipation.
A huge sheet of butcher paper is laid on the cutting board. One slice of whole wheat, then six more next to it (you need a lot of bread to soak up all the meat juice and sauce). A pound of meat on the single slice. Slap it with a house-painter's brush soaked in barbecue sauce. The customer wants extra, really paint it this time. Top with other six slices of bread. Grab a handful of fries pulled just seconds ago from boiling oil (no protection for the skin, first-time customers stare in wonderment), dodge the co-worker heading with a slab of meat for the slicer, pile the fries next to the sandwich. Grab a handful of dill pickle slices from a huge plastic jar, slap them down on the other side of the sandwich. Roll the whole mess into a ball the size of a cantaloupe. Juices soaking through, wrap it in another big sheet of butcher paper and seal with a sticker printed with Arthur Bryant's address (as if you could possibly forget it). Hand it to the happy customer, who rushes to pay at the end of the line because he knows the meaty majesty that awaits him.
This is the place where presidents (Jimmy Carter) dine. This is the place where you don't need foo-foo "side orders" like corn on the cob and cole slaw to fill the empty space left by less-than-generous servings of meat. This is the place that makes you look at restaurants like K.C. Masterpiece and Famous Dave's and think, "Why eat there? I'll just waste valuable stomach capacity I could better use at Arthur Bryant's!"
This is the place that occupies the same block as Wanna Burger, where employees could be seen through the windows (I kid you not) still cleaning up the bloodstains from that morning's shooting. This is the place I drove through a tornado watch to get to on a Saturday. This is the place that's worth it.
There's pork, beef and turkey for sandwiches, as well as sausage, ribs and burnt ends. There's the fries. Beer by the glass or the pitcher, or a big 40-ounce soft drink in a cup with the Arthur Bryant's logo if you're driving. Six to eight dollars for the sandwiches and I've never tried the ribs or sausage - the sandwiches are just too good. A group of four can dine for $48, beer, soft drinks and enough leftovers for next day's lunch included.
The blinding-hot smoker, big as an industrial refrigerator, stands with its blackened doors wide open just three feet behind the counter. At Arthur Bryant's, you know where your meat is coming from - because they pull slabs out of the furnace and start slicing them if they run out of meat on the counter. You could go to some lesser chain barbecue restaurant, where some college student serves you a prettified plate of origin-unknown "barbecue" - or you could travel three hours from Lincoln, Nebraska, four from Omaha, Nebraska, or send your private jet from California (it's happened). Who cares? It's worth it.
Arthur Bryant's | 1727 Brooklyn, Kansas City, Missouri | (816) 231-1123
This piece originally appeared May 29, 2000, in Nebraska StatePaper. You can see the original article here.
Saturday, June 1, 2002
Alphabetical Guide To© Taiwan
The Alphabetical Guide To . . . concept is Copyright © 2002-2004 John Fulwider. All Rights Reserved.
Traveling to Taiwan? Look up all the information you could need, conveniently organized by topic.
Climate: I've visited in May and June, when it's hot, humid, and frequently overcast. Periodic droughts force water restrictions in the cities. There's air conditioning of varying effectiveness in many stores and some restaurants. Buses are frigid. Taxi drivers will adjust their air conditioning to your comfort.
The heat, while uncomfortable, is not as bad as a concrete jungle like New York City where one can be soaked with sweat from head to toe mere minutes after exiting a building. Big cities like Taipei are dense with people, but many of the buildings aren't that tall and breezes can get through.
Heaters are almost nonexistent in Taiwan because they're unnecessary by the average person's standards, even in winter. Those people who torture their spouses or significant others with perpetually chilly hands and feet may want to bring a space heater for an extended stay. Taiwan uses 110-volt current and two-prong outlets. American appliances with two-prong plugs will work just fine.
Consulate: For Americans, there is no consulate or embassy in Taiwan because China, a country which the United States does not wish to anger, views Taiwan as a renegade province. You'll find the "American Institute in Taiwan" at #7, Lane 134, Hsin Yi road, Section 3 in Taipei and at 5th Floor, #2 Chung Cheng 3 Road in Kahohsiung. Both function as consulates in everything but name.
Drugs: "Drug trafficking is punishable by death in the R.O.C." reads a sign placed just off the jetway from your arriving plane, so you can't miss it. Don't take any package from anyone, and watch your bags closely so you don't become an unwitting mule.
Prices: Prices, blessedly, are exactly as posted. Price not posted? Say "dwo shau chien" and wait for the person to say it Mandarin or English. If you get Mandarin, hold out one hand, palm up, and poke it several times with your index finger, as if you were using a calculator. The merchant will then pull out a calculator (everyone has one) and punch in the price.
Scooters: Fairly powerful 150cc motor scooters are everywhere in overwhelming abundance. They are the only intelligent mode of transportation for short and medium-range trips - bicycles don't have the quick reaction speed necessary to survive on the roads, and there are no bike trails. Riding a scooter, you'll grin with glee as you glide through the gridlock cars, buses and trucks endure. Licenses aren't required for 50cc and smaller scooters, which means you'll be sharing the road with kids. Licenses are technically required for bigger motors, but the law isn't noticeably enforced. There are very, very few policemen out on the street. If you do get stopped, produce the driver's license from your own country and smile a lot. It's worked for friends before.
Many of the more recently built roads have scooter lanes, which you are advised to use. Don't be surprised if a taxi joins you in the lane to evade the gridlock.
Some scooter drivers don't seem to obey red lights when they're in the scooter lane (always the right-most lane) and they're at a T-intersection where there's no lane going to the right. You should stop anyway; a few natives will join you, and a few won't.
A seemingly legal maneuver you'll see performed often is the three-point U-turn. That's where scooters will turn right at an intersection, driving in the crosswalk to get to the opposite lane so they can then turn left and get going back the way they came. Frequent raised medians between lanes make this move a necessity; city blocks are all different lengths here, but seemingly always long.
Smells: Taiwan is a place of constant strong odors, many of them unpleasant to the western nose. A chief offender is "pungent tofu," blessedly prepared only in the evening and served at many a roadside stand. It smells like strong sewer gas. The sewers smell like regular sewer gas; compare the two if you doubt me. Plenty of westerners get used to and develop a taste for the "tea eggs," which are eggs boiled in tea-filled crock pots for greatly extended periods of time. You can't escape them, as every 7-11, Hi-Life, and other convenience store sells them. On a recent 13-day trip, I did not get used to them.
Starbucks: Yes, they've got them here, too, in impressive abundance. I'm of mixed feelings about corporate coffee shops, but in Taiwan I was glad to have Starbucks. The local brew leaves something to be desired in taste and value (it's expensive). Prices, with exchange rates considered, are similar to what you'd pay at a Starbucks elsewhere.
Restrooms note: If you're looking for a clean, Western-style restroom, Starbucks is the place. They have working sinks, full soap dispensers, and real paper towels.
Taxis: Taxis were amazing cheap reliable transportation in the two northwestern cities I tested them, Taipei and Hsinchu. The Taipei meters start at 70NT (about $2.05 US) and the Hsinchu meters start at 90NT (about $2.65 US). The meter advances ever so slowly, meaning you can go a long way on not a lot of dough. The most expensive trip I took was a many-kilometer journey from the Taipei Main Train Station to the National Palace Museum, which is actually in another town. Total: 220NT, or about $6.47.
Best of all, tipping cab drivers isn't customary.
Tipping: Tipping isn't customary for anything except hotel bellboy services. That's right, your cab ride and your dinner will cost exactly what you think, no multiplication by .10 or .20 necessary.
Toilets: People who have a compulsive need for clean restroom facilities may want to consider another country. While Taiwanese culture can be heavily influenced by Japan, the meticulously clean Japanese have not made their mark on the Republic of China's bathrooms. Expect untidy "squatty potties" in many areas, even the cities, which put to unwelcome test one's aim and balance. Worse, many of the plumbing systems (again, even in the nicest places) aren't designed for toilet paper. That means you must dispose of it in the small trash can conveniently located near your posterior.
On the bright side, functional public restrooms are in abundance - no purchase necessary, unlike the infamous "Restrooms for customers only" custom in New York City. Subway stations and bus stops all have them, often in multiple sets. Bring wet naps, though, because the water faucets produce barely a trickle, there's no soap, and the electric dryers don't work. There are no paper towels.
Toilet Paper: You must bring your own, as restrooms don't often supply it. Convenient travel packs smaller and thicker than a pack of cards are available at the store. If you're in Taiwan for an extended stay, note that toilet paper for home use comes in a plastic bag about the size of a Kleenex box (the ones that are long, not tall).
Visa: As a visitor, you can get a free 14-day entry visa by presenting your passport and customs declaration form to one of several clerks in the "non-citizen" lines of Chiang Kai Shek International Airport's immigration area. The clerks speak English, and are understanding of slight omissions on non-critical areas of your form.
Water: Everyone buys filtered or bottled water, either from stores or roadside machines that pop up in the oddest places. The water in northwest Taiwan is said to be relatively free of biological contaminants, but rich in heavy metals.
An 8-ounce bottle of water usually costs around 20NT, or about $0.60 US.
It's hard to find ice-cold water, even at the convenience stores. Reach far back into the cooler to get the best bottles. Filtered water at the tap in people's homes will be very slightly cool at best.
Traveling to Taiwan? Look up all the information you could need, conveniently organized by topic.
Climate: I've visited in May and June, when it's hot, humid, and frequently overcast. Periodic droughts force water restrictions in the cities. There's air conditioning of varying effectiveness in many stores and some restaurants. Buses are frigid. Taxi drivers will adjust their air conditioning to your comfort.
The heat, while uncomfortable, is not as bad as a concrete jungle like New York City where one can be soaked with sweat from head to toe mere minutes after exiting a building. Big cities like Taipei are dense with people, but many of the buildings aren't that tall and breezes can get through.
Heaters are almost nonexistent in Taiwan because they're unnecessary by the average person's standards, even in winter. Those people who torture their spouses or significant others with perpetually chilly hands and feet may want to bring a space heater for an extended stay. Taiwan uses 110-volt current and two-prong outlets. American appliances with two-prong plugs will work just fine.
Consulate: For Americans, there is no consulate or embassy in Taiwan because China, a country which the United States does not wish to anger, views Taiwan as a renegade province. You'll find the "American Institute in Taiwan" at #7, Lane 134, Hsin Yi road, Section 3 in Taipei and at 5th Floor, #2 Chung Cheng 3 Road in Kahohsiung. Both function as consulates in everything but name.
Drugs: "Drug trafficking is punishable by death in the R.O.C." reads a sign placed just off the jetway from your arriving plane, so you can't miss it. Don't take any package from anyone, and watch your bags closely so you don't become an unwitting mule.
Prices: Prices, blessedly, are exactly as posted. Price not posted? Say "dwo shau chien" and wait for the person to say it Mandarin or English. If you get Mandarin, hold out one hand, palm up, and poke it several times with your index finger, as if you were using a calculator. The merchant will then pull out a calculator (everyone has one) and punch in the price.
Scooters: Fairly powerful 150cc motor scooters are everywhere in overwhelming abundance. They are the only intelligent mode of transportation for short and medium-range trips - bicycles don't have the quick reaction speed necessary to survive on the roads, and there are no bike trails. Riding a scooter, you'll grin with glee as you glide through the gridlock cars, buses and trucks endure. Licenses aren't required for 50cc and smaller scooters, which means you'll be sharing the road with kids. Licenses are technically required for bigger motors, but the law isn't noticeably enforced. There are very, very few policemen out on the street. If you do get stopped, produce the driver's license from your own country and smile a lot. It's worked for friends before.
Many of the more recently built roads have scooter lanes, which you are advised to use. Don't be surprised if a taxi joins you in the lane to evade the gridlock.
Some scooter drivers don't seem to obey red lights when they're in the scooter lane (always the right-most lane) and they're at a T-intersection where there's no lane going to the right. You should stop anyway; a few natives will join you, and a few won't.
A seemingly legal maneuver you'll see performed often is the three-point U-turn. That's where scooters will turn right at an intersection, driving in the crosswalk to get to the opposite lane so they can then turn left and get going back the way they came. Frequent raised medians between lanes make this move a necessity; city blocks are all different lengths here, but seemingly always long.
Smells: Taiwan is a place of constant strong odors, many of them unpleasant to the western nose. A chief offender is "pungent tofu," blessedly prepared only in the evening and served at many a roadside stand. It smells like strong sewer gas. The sewers smell like regular sewer gas; compare the two if you doubt me. Plenty of westerners get used to and develop a taste for the "tea eggs," which are eggs boiled in tea-filled crock pots for greatly extended periods of time. You can't escape them, as every 7-11, Hi-Life, and other convenience store sells them. On a recent 13-day trip, I did not get used to them.
Starbucks: Yes, they've got them here, too, in impressive abundance. I'm of mixed feelings about corporate coffee shops, but in Taiwan I was glad to have Starbucks. The local brew leaves something to be desired in taste and value (it's expensive). Prices, with exchange rates considered, are similar to what you'd pay at a Starbucks elsewhere.
Restrooms note: If you're looking for a clean, Western-style restroom, Starbucks is the place. They have working sinks, full soap dispensers, and real paper towels.
Taxis: Taxis were amazing cheap reliable transportation in the two northwestern cities I tested them, Taipei and Hsinchu. The Taipei meters start at 70NT (about $2.05 US) and the Hsinchu meters start at 90NT (about $2.65 US). The meter advances ever so slowly, meaning you can go a long way on not a lot of dough. The most expensive trip I took was a many-kilometer journey from the Taipei Main Train Station to the National Palace Museum, which is actually in another town. Total: 220NT, or about $6.47.
Best of all, tipping cab drivers isn't customary.
Tipping: Tipping isn't customary for anything except hotel bellboy services. That's right, your cab ride and your dinner will cost exactly what you think, no multiplication by .10 or .20 necessary.
Toilets: People who have a compulsive need for clean restroom facilities may want to consider another country. While Taiwanese culture can be heavily influenced by Japan, the meticulously clean Japanese have not made their mark on the Republic of China's bathrooms. Expect untidy "squatty potties" in many areas, even the cities, which put to unwelcome test one's aim and balance. Worse, many of the plumbing systems (again, even in the nicest places) aren't designed for toilet paper. That means you must dispose of it in the small trash can conveniently located near your posterior.
On the bright side, functional public restrooms are in abundance - no purchase necessary, unlike the infamous "Restrooms for customers only" custom in New York City. Subway stations and bus stops all have them, often in multiple sets. Bring wet naps, though, because the water faucets produce barely a trickle, there's no soap, and the electric dryers don't work. There are no paper towels.
Toilet Paper: You must bring your own, as restrooms don't often supply it. Convenient travel packs smaller and thicker than a pack of cards are available at the store. If you're in Taiwan for an extended stay, note that toilet paper for home use comes in a plastic bag about the size of a Kleenex box (the ones that are long, not tall).
Visa: As a visitor, you can get a free 14-day entry visa by presenting your passport and customs declaration form to one of several clerks in the "non-citizen" lines of Chiang Kai Shek International Airport's immigration area. The clerks speak English, and are understanding of slight omissions on non-critical areas of your form.
Water: Everyone buys filtered or bottled water, either from stores or roadside machines that pop up in the oddest places. The water in northwest Taiwan is said to be relatively free of biological contaminants, but rich in heavy metals.
An 8-ounce bottle of water usually costs around 20NT, or about $0.60 US.
It's hard to find ice-cold water, even at the convenience stores. Reach far back into the cooler to get the best bottles. Filtered water at the tap in people's homes will be very slightly cool at best.
Thursday, May 23, 2002
Baptism By Fire: Scooting Through Hsinchu at 60kph
They could make an entertaining video game out of riding a scooter through heavy traffic in Taiwan, because only the brave -- or the unwitting -- would try the real thing.
Dave needed to head off to the guitar store in downtown Hsinchu, Taiwan, to get his guitar fixed, so I agreed to go when he asked. I thought we'd putter along lazily at scooter-like speeds -- say, 20 kph. Dave quickly disabused me of that notion as he sped up to 60 kph in six seconds and I held his abdomen in a vise-like death grip. Weaving in and out of traffic, paying no mind to lane markers and little attention to traffic signals, we bottomed out on every big bump. "These were made for two short Chinese people," the 170-pound Dave reminded his 200-pound friend. We saw plenty of people accelerating through red lights, not just yellow ones, and I asked, "Does anyone here obey the traffic laws?"
Dave laughed. "You mean the traffic suggestions?"
Harrowing though they may be, scooters are the only way to get around in Taiwan. You can go three blocks before the car you weaved in front of hundreds of yards back even makes it past the intersection in the perpetual gridlock. Turning left is entertaining, as dozens of scooters fill the middle of the intersection, lined up in neat rows and columns. That takes too long, though, so try the savvy scooter's trick. Say you're headed south and you want to turn left to go east at a four-way intersection with four lanes going in each direction. The thing to do is turn right (west), quickly do a U-turn in the middle of traffic, and end up facing east. You get a green light before the poor saps in the southbound lane get a left-turn arrow, and you zoom by laughing.
Did I mention there are precious few sidewalks in Taiwan? Here's another reason it's handy to be on a scooter -- pedestrians can't run over your toes, but you can run over theirs when you zoom by them with inches to spare. It's all one street, and fair game for use by cars, trucks, scooters, sandwich stands, vegetable stands, pedestrians and the more than occasional stray dog. There is no "personal bubble" with this many people around.
Dave needed to head off to the guitar store in downtown Hsinchu, Taiwan, to get his guitar fixed, so I agreed to go when he asked. I thought we'd putter along lazily at scooter-like speeds -- say, 20 kph. Dave quickly disabused me of that notion as he sped up to 60 kph in six seconds and I held his abdomen in a vise-like death grip. Weaving in and out of traffic, paying no mind to lane markers and little attention to traffic signals, we bottomed out on every big bump. "These were made for two short Chinese people," the 170-pound Dave reminded his 200-pound friend. We saw plenty of people accelerating through red lights, not just yellow ones, and I asked, "Does anyone here obey the traffic laws?"
Dave laughed. "You mean the traffic suggestions?"
Harrowing though they may be, scooters are the only way to get around in Taiwan. You can go three blocks before the car you weaved in front of hundreds of yards back even makes it past the intersection in the perpetual gridlock. Turning left is entertaining, as dozens of scooters fill the middle of the intersection, lined up in neat rows and columns. That takes too long, though, so try the savvy scooter's trick. Say you're headed south and you want to turn left to go east at a four-way intersection with four lanes going in each direction. The thing to do is turn right (west), quickly do a U-turn in the middle of traffic, and end up facing east. You get a green light before the poor saps in the southbound lane get a left-turn arrow, and you zoom by laughing.
Did I mention there are precious few sidewalks in Taiwan? Here's another reason it's handy to be on a scooter -- pedestrians can't run over your toes, but you can run over theirs when you zoom by them with inches to spare. It's all one street, and fair game for use by cars, trucks, scooters, sandwich stands, vegetable stands, pedestrians and the more than occasional stray dog. There is no "personal bubble" with this many people around.
Wednesday, May 22, 2002
Twenty-Four To Taiwan
A fitting way to start one's 24-hour Far East journey is to forget a notepad and rely on a barf bag instead.
Getting down quotations and observations is vital to the travel writer, at least to one burdened with a truly short-term memory. So when the chipper and puffy-cheeked attendant on my puddle-jumper from Lincoln ad-libbed, "And if your travel plans don't include going to Denver, the best time to tell me about it would be right about now," I had to grab the closest dead tree available. The margins of my magazine (the excellent newer volume, The Week) were thinner than The New York Sun, so I grabbed a sparsely decorated bag that looked like a pastry sack and scribbled away.
Haste in writing wasn't needed at Denver International Airport, where constant repetition fastened this oddly humorous line in my memory: "Unattended baggage will be immediately confiscated, and may be destroyed." Well, isn't that what you pay them to do to your checked luggage, anyway, if they don't lose it first? Hard to imagine much harm coming to our articles, however: four big Rubbermaid Action Packers, which my sister-in-law and her husband will fill with their household items when they move back to the United States after three years in Taiwan.
Getting there really is half the fun for a plane buff like me, son of an Air Force office who can identify dozens of aircraft by their engine sounds alone. I'm beating dear old dad to the punch on this one, though, becoming the first Fulwider to fly the mighty Boeing 777. An average-size person is shorter than the landing gear on this behemoth, and a foolhardy person could stand inside one of the two massive turbofans.
There are 43 rows of seats, with the lucky folks in First Class getting their own jetway and bulkhead door. The vastly greater number of unwashed Coach passengers enter through a separate door (walking uphill to the massive plane), but we have five bathrooms from which to choose. And much slower service!
Each seatback has a six-inch viewing screen, with five channels of TV and four movie channels. The screen conveniently tilts forward when the inconsiderate short-legged oaf in front of you tilts his or her seat back into your knees. One day, seat-tilters will deservedly join smokers as social pariahs -- until then, all one can do is mutter and hope to sunburn the offender's neck with a heated glare.
Those seat-tilters are especially noisome on the 777, which features 2-5-2 seating. Can you imagine sitting on the in the middle seat of five? Getting to one of the lavatories over the laps to two people is difficult enough, but the seat-tilters ensure an even tougher journey by stationing themselves over the two laps you're trying to traverse. It makes for depressingly lengthy glimpses of the middle-seater's posterior region as she or he inches ever so slowly away, butt held high for balance.
For the flight to Taiwan we'd ordered the vegetarian meal because the last time we flew, a person next to us did the same and got a delicious-looking and smelling pasta dish, piping hot, a good half-hour before the rest of us got our lukewarm processed chicken product food substitute. But for our two meals and a snack on the 14-hour flight, we somehow got the vegan vegetarian variety, the most restrictive kind -- no eggs, no dairy. A vegan chocolate-chip cookie tastes mighty different, let me tell you. So we won't try that again, especially after seeing the cheesecake listed as a dessert with the first meal. (They handed out menus showing us all the stuff we'd be missing.) Hey, I'll give them credit for trying, but the miniature plastic-wrapped pita and the two discs of cold pureed something with lentils just didn't cut it as a midnight snack.
The first six hours of the flight flew by, aided greatly by Cuba Gooding Jr.'s hammy overacting in Snow Dogs. After that, things began to drag horribly, and I won't bore you with the details of my futile attempts to sleep. Some wine (free on United Airlines international flights) induced some all-too-brief dozing. But it was all worth it when we descended below 10,000 feet and could see the armada of container ships steaming for the U.S., laden with everything "Made in Taiwan." Then the most excitable of our 12 flight attendants began screaming, in Chinese and English, through the lavatory door at a passenger still doing her business five minutes before landing. This was the same attendant who ran up and down the aisles, frequently, to deliver breathless coffee status reports to her superior, so her fit of concern for the safety rules came as no surprise.
More black comedy greeted us just off the jetway. "Drug trafficking is punishable by death in the R.O.C.," read a large sign placed where no one could miss it. No, it did not say, "And welcome to Taiwan! Enjoy your stay!" in smaller letters.
Next up was the immigration line, one of the easier things to figure out as all the foreigners were in one line and all the natives in another. Don't get behind the woman who looks at your customs declaration form (the one they handed out early in the flight, with much explanation, while everyone was still awake) and says, "What's that?"
They hadn't watered us for a good two and a half hours prior to landing, so we had to find a place in the rather Spartan Chiang Kai Shek International Airport to buy beverages. The Coke machine (yes, America is everywhere) took only coins. There was just one human-operated food cart, so off I went to try out my English on a nice Taiwanese woman. Lesson Number One: You'll confuse people if you make the American sign for "two" with the index and middle finger raised. Turns out an upraised thumb and index finger mean "two" in Taiwan, and what I was doing means absolutely nothing.
Getting down quotations and observations is vital to the travel writer, at least to one burdened with a truly short-term memory. So when the chipper and puffy-cheeked attendant on my puddle-jumper from Lincoln ad-libbed, "And if your travel plans don't include going to Denver, the best time to tell me about it would be right about now," I had to grab the closest dead tree available. The margins of my magazine (the excellent newer volume, The Week) were thinner than The New York Sun, so I grabbed a sparsely decorated bag that looked like a pastry sack and scribbled away.
Haste in writing wasn't needed at Denver International Airport, where constant repetition fastened this oddly humorous line in my memory: "Unattended baggage will be immediately confiscated, and may be destroyed." Well, isn't that what you pay them to do to your checked luggage, anyway, if they don't lose it first? Hard to imagine much harm coming to our articles, however: four big Rubbermaid Action Packers, which my sister-in-law and her husband will fill with their household items when they move back to the United States after three years in Taiwan.
Getting there really is half the fun for a plane buff like me, son of an Air Force office who can identify dozens of aircraft by their engine sounds alone. I'm beating dear old dad to the punch on this one, though, becoming the first Fulwider to fly the mighty Boeing 777. An average-size person is shorter than the landing gear on this behemoth, and a foolhardy person could stand inside one of the two massive turbofans.There are 43 rows of seats, with the lucky folks in First Class getting their own jetway and bulkhead door. The vastly greater number of unwashed Coach passengers enter through a separate door (walking uphill to the massive plane), but we have five bathrooms from which to choose. And much slower service!
Each seatback has a six-inch viewing screen, with five channels of TV and four movie channels. The screen conveniently tilts forward when the inconsiderate short-legged oaf in front of you tilts his or her seat back into your knees. One day, seat-tilters will deservedly join smokers as social pariahs -- until then, all one can do is mutter and hope to sunburn the offender's neck with a heated glare.
Those seat-tilters are especially noisome on the 777, which features 2-5-2 seating. Can you imagine sitting on the in the middle seat of five? Getting to one of the lavatories over the laps to two people is difficult enough, but the seat-tilters ensure an even tougher journey by stationing themselves over the two laps you're trying to traverse. It makes for depressingly lengthy glimpses of the middle-seater's posterior region as she or he inches ever so slowly away, butt held high for balance.
For the flight to Taiwan we'd ordered the vegetarian meal because the last time we flew, a person next to us did the same and got a delicious-looking and smelling pasta dish, piping hot, a good half-hour before the rest of us got our lukewarm processed chicken product food substitute. But for our two meals and a snack on the 14-hour flight, we somehow got the vegan vegetarian variety, the most restrictive kind -- no eggs, no dairy. A vegan chocolate-chip cookie tastes mighty different, let me tell you. So we won't try that again, especially after seeing the cheesecake listed as a dessert with the first meal. (They handed out menus showing us all the stuff we'd be missing.) Hey, I'll give them credit for trying, but the miniature plastic-wrapped pita and the two discs of cold pureed something with lentils just didn't cut it as a midnight snack.
The first six hours of the flight flew by, aided greatly by Cuba Gooding Jr.'s hammy overacting in Snow Dogs. After that, things began to drag horribly, and I won't bore you with the details of my futile attempts to sleep. Some wine (free on United Airlines international flights) induced some all-too-brief dozing. But it was all worth it when we descended below 10,000 feet and could see the armada of container ships steaming for the U.S., laden with everything "Made in Taiwan." Then the most excitable of our 12 flight attendants began screaming, in Chinese and English, through the lavatory door at a passenger still doing her business five minutes before landing. This was the same attendant who ran up and down the aisles, frequently, to deliver breathless coffee status reports to her superior, so her fit of concern for the safety rules came as no surprise.
More black comedy greeted us just off the jetway. "Drug trafficking is punishable by death in the R.O.C.," read a large sign placed where no one could miss it. No, it did not say, "And welcome to Taiwan! Enjoy your stay!" in smaller letters.
Next up was the immigration line, one of the easier things to figure out as all the foreigners were in one line and all the natives in another. Don't get behind the woman who looks at your customs declaration form (the one they handed out early in the flight, with much explanation, while everyone was still awake) and says, "What's that?"
They hadn't watered us for a good two and a half hours prior to landing, so we had to find a place in the rather Spartan Chiang Kai Shek International Airport to buy beverages. The Coke machine (yes, America is everywhere) took only coins. There was just one human-operated food cart, so off I went to try out my English on a nice Taiwanese woman. Lesson Number One: You'll confuse people if you make the American sign for "two" with the index and middle finger raised. Turns out an upraised thumb and index finger mean "two" in Taiwan, and what I was doing means absolutely nothing.
Thursday, May 9, 2002
A Foodie Treks Through New York City
Here's how to eat the essentials: bagels, pizza, hot dogs and falafel
In Manhattan's Little Italy there is a man who has discovered a most effortless way to make money: Carry a really honkin' big snake through a crowd of people and charge them $10 each to be photographed with it. Makes me wonder why I spend endless hours slaving over a hot keyboard.
Six-foot-long reptiles are just one of the many splendors to be found in The City That Never Sleeps. On my recent trip to Manhattan, though, I wasn't looking for things that taste like chicken. I wanted bagels, pizza, hot dogs and falafel.
The proper New York bagel is purchased from a guy stooped over inside one of the donuts 'n' bagels carts you'll find on every second or third street corner. The bagel is about as big around as a coffee saucer and thick enough that people with small mouths (that does not describe me) can't quite get the whole thing in. It's already sliced and has about a quarter-pound of plain cream cheese smooshed (not spread, that would take too long) between its halves. It's not refrigerated; refrigeration for dairy products is highly overrated, and besides, the New York air has some remarkable preservative qualities.
You must order coffee with your bagel, even if you don't like coffee, so you can see how the laws of physics don't apply in the city. Your stooped-over bagel cart guy will put your java (which he brewed fresh a week ago, just for you) in a paper cup with a plastic lid, then place it upright atop your bagel in a small paper lunch sack. He'll do it in such a way that when you drop the whole package from waist height, the coffee will not spill. It's amazing.
Thirty minutes later when you're hungry again, find a pizza place -- some parts of town, like portions of the Upper West Side, are so backward that they have a pizza place only every third block. You'll find two or three pizza joints on a good-quality block. Ask for a "slicearegulartago." That's a slice of plain cheese pizza. (Check the per-slice price; if it's more than $1.95, it's foo-foo tourist pizza and you don't want it.) Don't order toppings. They're unnecessary, and expensive. Your pizza purveyor, who may actually be Italian-American, will pull a slice from a pan that's been sitting in a display on the counter for several hours and throw it (sliding it would be too slow) into the oven. This counter-sitting and re-heating is the key to New York pizza; it does something to the crust at the subatomic level that makes it delectably crispy and yet soft and chewy at the same time. It makes it New York Pizza, the kind you have to use bold letters to describe. I've had a slice of pizza in New York fresh out of the oven, and it just isn't the same. Ya gotta let it sit there and contemplate its pizzaness, its place on the island of Manhattan, and the ultimate sacrifice it will soon make in the stomach of a hungry customer. Respect it, and it will respect you.
I told you that you don't need to order toppings, because you don't. That would be stupid, when all the toppings you need are provided free for you right on the counter. Best of all, they come in convenient shakers. You've got your Parmesan cheese (Romano in the high-class joints), your oregano, your red-pepper flakes, your salt and -- if you're really lucky -- garlic powder! If you're really talented, like I became after three months living in New York and eating nothing but pizza for lunch, you can shake so much Parmesan onto your pizza that it's like getting extra cheese for free. The talent part comes in doing it fast enough to avoid getting The Evil Eye from the pizza purveyor. Once the top of your pizza is snow-white with Parmesan, turn it green with the oregano. Then red with the red-pepper flakes. Heck, it'll be like Christmas in July.
Thirty minutes later when you're hungry again, head for one of the two places that explain how people can afford to live in Greenwich Village: Gray's Papaya. This, my friends, is Hot Dog Heaven. Bliss on a Bun. For 75 cents you, yes you, can have a hot dog onto which a sweaty man in white will pile endless sauerkraut -- for no additional charge. The line stretches down the street as starving Greenwich Villagers, wallets empty from paying their $2,000 rents, wait for a little bit o' Heaven slathered with spicy mustard. But you don't just go to Gray's Papaya to get a hot dog for 50 cents less than you'd pay anywhere else in the city, you go to get, that's right, papaya juice. It's one of several exotic fruity delights they have; pina colada and orange juice are there, among others. The dogs are even better than the ones you get from Der Wiener Schlinger in Memorial Stadium in Lincoln, Nebraska. Yes, that good.
Thirty minutes later when you're hungry again, it's just a few blocks to Mahmoun's Falafel, also in the Village. Prepare yourself, for you are about to have a taste experience like none other. For the last hour and a half (you did eat in 30-minute increments, didn't you?) you have eaten but peasant food; tasty, but simple. Now you are about to consume the Pita Fulla Passion, the Mediterranean Magnificence. You enter the narrow doorway, and before you stands -- not much at all. And that's the glory of the place! Four long steps and you're at the counter. You order a falafel sandwich, pay two dollars (much cheaper than anywhere else in the city) and half a minute later it's in your hand, its vegetarian goodness ensconced in aluminum foil. You sit down on one of the 10 seats in the entire place, and think, "My walk-in closet is bigger than this." Then you unwrap the falafel and the aroma wafts up to tickle your nostrils and your fancy. In one bite are found fried balls of ground chickpeas and spices; tomatoes, lettuce and tahini sauce, a mixture of ground sesame seeds and oil. Not a single animal died in its production, yet it's a perfectly filling meal.
Here are the addresses for the restaurants mentioned above:
Gray's Papaya: West Village: 402 Sixth Avenue at 8th Street.
Mamoun's Falafel: West Village: 119 MacDougal St, between Bleecker Street to the south and West Third Street to the north.
Other restaurants to try in New York are:
Mocca Hungarian Restaurant: For central and eastern European cooking on a budget, this is the place to go. Roughly the same cuisine, of higher quality, is offered a few blocks north at Heidelberg. But why pay? Mocca's $6.95 lunchtime prix fixe menu, available from 11 a.m. to 3 p.m., is absolutely astounding. You get fresh bread, soup or salad, your choice from a generous list of entrees, and dessert. The service is phenomenally gruff and rude; your plates will be dropped onto your table, and you will not receive a single smile from anyone. But the food, oh, the food. It's heavy and delicious. We tried the Chicken Paprikash and the Wiener Schnitzel and found both above average. Allow time for a nap afterward. Upper East Side: 1588 Second Ave., between 82nd and 83rd streets.
Excellent Dumpling House: Chinese noodle dishes in astounding variety, many with delectably unidentifiable ingredients and all in servings that only the hugest of appetites could conquer. A favorite among people on jury duty because it's so cheap. We went late at night and were served quickly, but we hear it's packed during the day. The decor, dominated by baby-barf-green tile, makes the restaurant look like a gigantic bathroom. Chinatown: 111 Lafayette St., between Canal and Walker streets.
_____
This piece is adapted from one that originally appeared August 15, 2000, in Nebraska StatePaper. You can see the original article here.
Six-foot-long reptiles are just one of the many splendors to be found in The City That Never Sleeps. On my recent trip to Manhattan, though, I wasn't looking for things that taste like chicken. I wanted bagels, pizza, hot dogs and falafel.
The proper New York bagel is purchased from a guy stooped over inside one of the donuts 'n' bagels carts you'll find on every second or third street corner. The bagel is about as big around as a coffee saucer and thick enough that people with small mouths (that does not describe me) can't quite get the whole thing in. It's already sliced and has about a quarter-pound of plain cream cheese smooshed (not spread, that would take too long) between its halves. It's not refrigerated; refrigeration for dairy products is highly overrated, and besides, the New York air has some remarkable preservative qualities.
You must order coffee with your bagel, even if you don't like coffee, so you can see how the laws of physics don't apply in the city. Your stooped-over bagel cart guy will put your java (which he brewed fresh a week ago, just for you) in a paper cup with a plastic lid, then place it upright atop your bagel in a small paper lunch sack. He'll do it in such a way that when you drop the whole package from waist height, the coffee will not spill. It's amazing.
Thirty minutes later when you're hungry again, find a pizza place -- some parts of town, like portions of the Upper West Side, are so backward that they have a pizza place only every third block. You'll find two or three pizza joints on a good-quality block. Ask for a "slicearegulartago." That's a slice of plain cheese pizza. (Check the per-slice price; if it's more than $1.95, it's foo-foo tourist pizza and you don't want it.) Don't order toppings. They're unnecessary, and expensive. Your pizza purveyor, who may actually be Italian-American, will pull a slice from a pan that's been sitting in a display on the counter for several hours and throw it (sliding it would be too slow) into the oven. This counter-sitting and re-heating is the key to New York pizza; it does something to the crust at the subatomic level that makes it delectably crispy and yet soft and chewy at the same time. It makes it New York Pizza, the kind you have to use bold letters to describe. I've had a slice of pizza in New York fresh out of the oven, and it just isn't the same. Ya gotta let it sit there and contemplate its pizzaness, its place on the island of Manhattan, and the ultimate sacrifice it will soon make in the stomach of a hungry customer. Respect it, and it will respect you.
I told you that you don't need to order toppings, because you don't. That would be stupid, when all the toppings you need are provided free for you right on the counter. Best of all, they come in convenient shakers. You've got your Parmesan cheese (Romano in the high-class joints), your oregano, your red-pepper flakes, your salt and -- if you're really lucky -- garlic powder! If you're really talented, like I became after three months living in New York and eating nothing but pizza for lunch, you can shake so much Parmesan onto your pizza that it's like getting extra cheese for free. The talent part comes in doing it fast enough to avoid getting The Evil Eye from the pizza purveyor. Once the top of your pizza is snow-white with Parmesan, turn it green with the oregano. Then red with the red-pepper flakes. Heck, it'll be like Christmas in July.
Thirty minutes later when you're hungry again, head for one of the two places that explain how people can afford to live in Greenwich Village: Gray's Papaya. This, my friends, is Hot Dog Heaven. Bliss on a Bun. For 75 cents you, yes you, can have a hot dog onto which a sweaty man in white will pile endless sauerkraut -- for no additional charge. The line stretches down the street as starving Greenwich Villagers, wallets empty from paying their $2,000 rents, wait for a little bit o' Heaven slathered with spicy mustard. But you don't just go to Gray's Papaya to get a hot dog for 50 cents less than you'd pay anywhere else in the city, you go to get, that's right, papaya juice. It's one of several exotic fruity delights they have; pina colada and orange juice are there, among others. The dogs are even better than the ones you get from Der Wiener Schlinger in Memorial Stadium in Lincoln, Nebraska. Yes, that good.
Thirty minutes later when you're hungry again, it's just a few blocks to Mahmoun's Falafel, also in the Village. Prepare yourself, for you are about to have a taste experience like none other. For the last hour and a half (you did eat in 30-minute increments, didn't you?) you have eaten but peasant food; tasty, but simple. Now you are about to consume the Pita Fulla Passion, the Mediterranean Magnificence. You enter the narrow doorway, and before you stands -- not much at all. And that's the glory of the place! Four long steps and you're at the counter. You order a falafel sandwich, pay two dollars (much cheaper than anywhere else in the city) and half a minute later it's in your hand, its vegetarian goodness ensconced in aluminum foil. You sit down on one of the 10 seats in the entire place, and think, "My walk-in closet is bigger than this." Then you unwrap the falafel and the aroma wafts up to tickle your nostrils and your fancy. In one bite are found fried balls of ground chickpeas and spices; tomatoes, lettuce and tahini sauce, a mixture of ground sesame seeds and oil. Not a single animal died in its production, yet it's a perfectly filling meal.
Here are the addresses for the restaurants mentioned above:
Gray's Papaya: West Village: 402 Sixth Avenue at 8th Street.
Mamoun's Falafel: West Village: 119 MacDougal St, between Bleecker Street to the south and West Third Street to the north.
Other restaurants to try in New York are:
Mocca Hungarian Restaurant: For central and eastern European cooking on a budget, this is the place to go. Roughly the same cuisine, of higher quality, is offered a few blocks north at Heidelberg. But why pay? Mocca's $6.95 lunchtime prix fixe menu, available from 11 a.m. to 3 p.m., is absolutely astounding. You get fresh bread, soup or salad, your choice from a generous list of entrees, and dessert. The service is phenomenally gruff and rude; your plates will be dropped onto your table, and you will not receive a single smile from anyone. But the food, oh, the food. It's heavy and delicious. We tried the Chicken Paprikash and the Wiener Schnitzel and found both above average. Allow time for a nap afterward. Upper East Side: 1588 Second Ave., between 82nd and 83rd streets.
Excellent Dumpling House: Chinese noodle dishes in astounding variety, many with delectably unidentifiable ingredients and all in servings that only the hugest of appetites could conquer. A favorite among people on jury duty because it's so cheap. We went late at night and were served quickly, but we hear it's packed during the day. The decor, dominated by baby-barf-green tile, makes the restaurant look like a gigantic bathroom. Chinatown: 111 Lafayette St., between Canal and Walker streets.
This piece is adapted from one that originally appeared August 15, 2000, in Nebraska StatePaper. You can see the original article here.
Wednesday, January 16, 2002
UNMC First to Test New Drug for Deadly Leukemia Type
LINCOLN - Doctors gave Edward Silver two months to live last February, before a new treatment under study at the University of Medical Center gave him new hope.
Now UNMC has pulled a bit of a coup among medical centers by winning the exclusive contract to conduct additional tests on a new drug for treating acute myelogenous leukemia, a particularly deadly cancer that afflicts mostly elderly people.
Silver received just one pill of the new drug in the UNMC clinical trial's first phase, and he said it worked wonders.
"I tell you what, for a couple, three weeks I felt pretty damn good," the 72-year-old from Ord said. "After that it went downhill like it always does."
Now Silver can get the new drug regularly as the clinical trial moves into the next phase. UNMC is seeking up to 30 participants for the trial.
The new oral drug's name is being kept confidential to preserve the proprietary interests of its manufacturer, Pharmacia Corp. division Sugen Inc. It's part of a new class of drugs called receptor tyrosine kinases (RTK) inhibitors, which appear to play an important role in the disease process. Leukemia cells in most patients express RTKs, or growth receptors, which, when interacting with their respective growth factors, cause leukemia cells to multiply.
Dr. James Foran, principal investigator of the UNMC study, said the drug might be a potential additional treatment for what frequently is an incurable disease. Even people responding well to intensive chemotherapy have life expectancies of just 8-12 months, he said.
"So it's a tough disease," he said.
The Leukemia and Lymphoma Society estimates leukemia killed about 21,500 people in the U.S. in 2001. Of those, about one-third died from acute myelogenous leukemia. AML is a rapidly progressing disease that originates in a cell in the bone marrow, and causes uncontrolled growth of developing marrow cells that affect the body's ability to fight infections.
Foran said about one in four patients under 60 years old with AML can be cured, but the disease in those 60 and over is much more difficult to cure.
The reputations of UNMC and some of its individual researchers helped win the medical center the honor of being the first one in the U.S. to test the new drug, Foran said.
"We think it's a bit of a coup," he said.
UNMC is recognized internationally for its expertise in diagnosing and treating leukemia and lymphoma, and is one of the busiest bone marrow and stem cell transplant centers in the world. Dr. Jim Armitage, now dean of the UNMC College of Medicine, launched the program in 1982.
Foran once worked closely with a hematologist who went on to head the AML drug effort at Sugen.
"He was confident that we'd be able to do it," Foran said.
People eligible for the study are those diagnosed with AML, ages 19 and older, whose treatment has failed or who are not eligible for conventional chemotherapy. Those who have not yet received any treatment for their disease also may be considered for the study. Participants will receive treatment at no extra cost on an outpatient basis in the Lied Transplant Center at UNMC in Omaha. Participants can continue to see their own doctors. They may refer themselves, or be referred to UNMC by their doctors.
For more information about the study, call Maribeth Hohenstein at (402) 559-9053.
_____
This story originally appeared in Nebraska StatePaper on January 16, 2002.
Now UNMC has pulled a bit of a coup among medical centers by winning the exclusive contract to conduct additional tests on a new drug for treating acute myelogenous leukemia, a particularly deadly cancer that afflicts mostly elderly people.
Silver received just one pill of the new drug in the UNMC clinical trial's first phase, and he said it worked wonders.
"I tell you what, for a couple, three weeks I felt pretty damn good," the 72-year-old from Ord said. "After that it went downhill like it always does."
Now Silver can get the new drug regularly as the clinical trial moves into the next phase. UNMC is seeking up to 30 participants for the trial.
The new oral drug's name is being kept confidential to preserve the proprietary interests of its manufacturer, Pharmacia Corp. division Sugen Inc. It's part of a new class of drugs called receptor tyrosine kinases (RTK) inhibitors, which appear to play an important role in the disease process. Leukemia cells in most patients express RTKs, or growth receptors, which, when interacting with their respective growth factors, cause leukemia cells to multiply.
Dr. James Foran, principal investigator of the UNMC study, said the drug might be a potential additional treatment for what frequently is an incurable disease. Even people responding well to intensive chemotherapy have life expectancies of just 8-12 months, he said.
"So it's a tough disease," he said.
The Leukemia and Lymphoma Society estimates leukemia killed about 21,500 people in the U.S. in 2001. Of those, about one-third died from acute myelogenous leukemia. AML is a rapidly progressing disease that originates in a cell in the bone marrow, and causes uncontrolled growth of developing marrow cells that affect the body's ability to fight infections.
Foran said about one in four patients under 60 years old with AML can be cured, but the disease in those 60 and over is much more difficult to cure.
The reputations of UNMC and some of its individual researchers helped win the medical center the honor of being the first one in the U.S. to test the new drug, Foran said.
"We think it's a bit of a coup," he said.
UNMC is recognized internationally for its expertise in diagnosing and treating leukemia and lymphoma, and is one of the busiest bone marrow and stem cell transplant centers in the world. Dr. Jim Armitage, now dean of the UNMC College of Medicine, launched the program in 1982.
Foran once worked closely with a hematologist who went on to head the AML drug effort at Sugen.
"He was confident that we'd be able to do it," Foran said.
People eligible for the study are those diagnosed with AML, ages 19 and older, whose treatment has failed or who are not eligible for conventional chemotherapy. Those who have not yet received any treatment for their disease also may be considered for the study. Participants will receive treatment at no extra cost on an outpatient basis in the Lied Transplant Center at UNMC in Omaha. Participants can continue to see their own doctors. They may refer themselves, or be referred to UNMC by their doctors.
For more information about the study, call Maribeth Hohenstein at (402) 559-9053.
_____
This story originally appeared in Nebraska StatePaper on January 16, 2002.
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