The Catskill Chronicle

By Jude Waterston

For years, my sister Janet, and I, enjoyed the occasional breakfast at the Palace Diner on Main Street in Flushing, New York, about a five minute drive from her apartment in Queens. The diner, a local mainstay since 1976, was also the scene of three family reunions, of sorts. Uncles, aunts, and various cousins (on my dad’s side) met there for lunch after funerals and unveilings (in a nearby cemetery) of said aunts and uncles as they, in turn, passed away.

 

The final gathering was for my Aunt Rose. Blessed with superb mental recall, two of my female cousins regaled us with anecdotes about the family, especially about Rose who had been difficult, bitter, and not just a little dotty. In her youth, she had demonstrated notorious behavior, and Ronnie and Marylin took turns relaying her myriad bizarre exploits, one of which involved her getting shot (in the head, no less) by a mobster’s son for having an affair with his dad. Upon witnessing the entire family in hysterics, this dining experience ended with the waitress saying, “You guys are having such a blast. What are y’all celebrating?”

Having exhausted the family’s elders, with the exception of my 94 year old dad, it had been years since Janet and I had been to the diner when, about a year ago, we passed the site and noted, with surprise, that it had seemingly overnight become an upscale Chinese restaurant, Lake Pavilion, known for its vast selection of dim-sum (small bite-sized or individual portions of steamed or savory fare, mainly dumplings containing various fillings, served for breakfast or lunch). As someone whose tenet is “variety is the spice of life,” I prefer sharing a bunch of appetizers when I eat out, so as to try as many different dishes as possible. Dim-sum perfectly fits that bill. Over the years, I’ve had dim-sum in the Chinatowns of Manhattan, Flushing and Philadelphia.

Partaking of dim-sum is an unusual and sometimes exasperating experience, particularly for non-Chinese-speaking people. Firstly, the restaurants are often huge banquet halls where a hostess stands at the front of the room, microphone in hand, calling out to waiting patrons as seating becomes available. Most tables are set for eight to ten people, so one has to be willing to  sit with strangers. The general procedure, once at table, is that you are brought a pot of steaming tea and sometimes a tiny dish of hot mustard, chile paste, or soy sauce. You are then left to your own devices as the parade begins. Servers, always female, move through the aisles of the crowded, noisy room, pushing large unwieldy multi-leveled carts laden with bamboo steamers, metal cauldrons, and white porcelain plates with such offerings as clams in black bean sauce; stir-fried Chinese vegetables doused with oyster sauce; barbequed pork; gelatinous chicken feet; pork buns; congee rice porridge; green pepper halves stuffed with shrimp paste; beef balls; roast duck; sticky rice studded with bits of Chinese sausage; turnip cakes; tofu in many guises; and dozens of types of steamed or fried dumplings.

The service, if it may be called that, is typically brusque, impatient, and sometimes downright surly. As a rule, English is not spoken. So, as a cart approaches and the bearer calls out in Chinese the name of the available dishes, there is (for us) a mad scramble to try to discern what to point to and ask for. Additionally, if you do not eat pork or shrimp for whatever dietary or religious reasons, you are hard-put to find out what exactly is inside a particular item, such as the aforementioned dumplings. And, for mysterious reasons, crumbled pork or miniscule shrimp are tucked into just about everything, even “vegetable dumplings.” The carts can often hold half a dozen or more different choices, and one is suddenly panicked to make a decision, on occasion discovering that what has been set before you is a bewildering surprise. Sometimes the movement of the carts slows down, as servers return to the kitchen to refill, but at other times there is a maddening rush of food going by. It is not a relaxing affair, but it is full of adventure (if you like that type of thing) and unbelievably inexpensive.

It was with a mixture of excitement and trepidation that Janet and I first entered Lake Pavilion. It was not a banquet hall, but the room was vast, nonetheless. It was not even 11:00 in the morning, and the place was teeming with diners awaiting table assignment. To our surprise, we were eventually ushered to one of the few tables for two. We were the only Caucasians in site.

Janet is allergic to shrimp, so I was particularly concerned with attempting to make sure we didn’t order anything in which it might be hidden. The first cart stopped before us, and I half-stood to survey the bounty at closer range. The server, to our surprise, patiently offered one thing and another, trying in halting English to convey what was what. “No shrimp!” Janet and I piped up simultaneously. We survived the first cartload with a small assortment of savory, delicious dishes. Though the meal can feel hectic, one can also pace oneself by letting a cart go by with a wave of the hand. On our first visit, we must have tried nine or so dishes, and when Janet found the inevitable tiny specks of shrimp, she simply pulled them out with her chopsticks. The servers were unusually solicitous of us. At one point, a young woman we’d ordered from more than once, stopped another server, passing in the opposite direction, to clarify. “Pork inside, no shrimp!” she announced with a broad smile.

We returned to Lake Pavilion a number of times during our three month winter hiatus in which we close our house upstate. We were almost always the only non-Chinese patrons. A couple of the cart women seemed to recognize us and, the last time we were there, one, in particular, went out of her way to take care of us. “I love you. See you tomorrow!” she exclaimed at the end of the meal.

Tomorrow morning we are heading to Lake Pavilion for what will most likely be our final visit until we close the house again next year since dim-sum is not served at dinner-time and we will not be around anymore for the early or midday meals. We are both already missing the special experience we had there. It’s rare that two middle-aged white women would become dim-sum darlings.

Pan-Fried Tofu with Soy Scallion Sauce

Serves 2

For a little kick of heat, I like to use Korean coarse red pepper flakes (which you can buy on-line at various sites, and which has a fruity-hot flavor. A good substitute would be a small amount of hot chili sauce, either sriracha or chile garlic, both of which can be found in Asian markets or well-stocked supermarkets, or on line. Sold in plastic jars, both have a symbol of a rooster on the front.

 

14 ounces firm tofu

¼ cup soy sauce

2 tablespoons rice vinegar or apple cider vinegar (or use a mixture of both if you have them)

1 tablespoon honey

2 tablespoons water

2 tablespoons Asian toasted sesame oil

1 teaspoon Korean coarse red pepper flakes (or a suitable substitute)

2 tablespoons toasted sesame seeds

¼ cup chopped scallions, white and light green part

1 tablespoon canola, safflower or other neutral oil

Carefully remove the tofu from its package and slice it into 1/2-inch thick slices, approximately 3 1/2-inches long. Cover a plate with a double layer of paper towel and lay the tofu on the toweling. Cover with another double layer of toweling and press gently to remove moisture. Set aside. In a medium bowl, whisk together the soy sauce, vinegar, honey, water and sesame oil. Place the toasted sesame seeds in a mortar and pestle and grind until crushed. Add the red pepper flakes, crushed sesame seeds, and scallions to the soy mixture. Mix until combined. Heat 1 tablespoon canola oil in a medium non-stick skillet over medium heat. Add the tofu pieces and fry for about 2 minutes on each side, until nicely browned. Transfer tofu to a serving platter and spoon sauce over tofu. Serve immediately.