By Jude Waterston
The members of my family are, in general, adverse to surprises and certainly to unexpected parties in honor of our birthdays. However, we have nothing against spending that auspicious day in an unusual or even exciting way; we just want to be in on the planning.
To celebrate my fiftieth, a few years back, my sister, Janet, and I took a trip to Mexico. We chose Oaxaca as our destination for a few reasons, foremost being its renowned reputation for having authentic cuisine based on indigenous dishes. Food and cooking occupy the majority of my thoughts and actions. What better destination than one known as The Land of Seven Moles for the intricate, labor intensive chile-based 
sauces which are the basis of many meals and can be comprised of as many as over two dozen ingredients? And where else can you pop into the local food market and sample the likes of spiced fried grasshoppers and smoky maguey worms?
In the following years, Janet and I began, for the most part, to skip the ritual of eating out on our birthdays. The lull was brought about for a few reasons. Searching out a special eatery became less appealing, partly because of the great expense such a meal entails, and then there is the difficulty in finding a place where the sound level isn’t deafening, and the clientele are not furiously playing with 
their phones. Witnessing twenty-year olds texting their friends while at the dinner table or photographing themselves eating spicy ramen noodles is not a draw. Additionally, because my own cooking skills are not too shabby, Janet and I were finding it harder to locate menu items that knocked us off our feet.
I do remember a lovely meal last February, when I was pining for an unusual dining experience to commemorate my birthday. We were steered to Hangawi, a tranquil retreat on 32nd Street, in the heart of Koreatown. Koreans love their meat, and plenty of it, so it was strange, indeed, to find ourselves being nurtured and pampered in a 
serene vegetarian restaurant where silken tofu, assorted dumplings, roasted kabocha squash, grilled mushrooms, fritters, mountain roots and greens were revered and prepared in glorious and unexpected ways. The evening was enchanting.
This year Janet was to hit a milestone. She was turning sixty, and I naturally starting asking, as long as a handful of months prior, how she would like to spend her birthday. Before the recession, we had dreamed of that trip to Southern Italy we’ve yet to take, or a return to Mexico or even New Mexico, where we’ve had a couple of truly memorable vacations. As time passed, it became clear that, even with frequent flyer miles, we wouldn’t have the funds to leave the country, or perhaps even get out of the neighborhood.
I pushed, instead, for having a fantastic dining experience in the city. “I don’t have the need you do to eat out. It doesn’t mean that much to me,” Janet said. It’s true, my sister is more than happy, even prefers, to have me prepare one of a handful of her favorite dishes when her birthday swings around in 
early December. “Just make me French onion soup, with lots of cheese,” she’ll say, or “I want duck breast with mango chutney sauce.” “Let’s have cheesy creamed spinach on egg noodles, please,” she has implored more than once. “But I make those things for us anyway,” is my usual, somewhat frustrated, retort.
I couldn’t believe we were at this stalemate when such a momentous occasion was at hand. I know Janet doesn’t like a fuss made, nor to be the center of attention, but I wasn’t proposing a big party with friends or even an intimate dinner with those closest to us. Stubbornly, I mentioned various restaurants I’d recently heard good things about or old ones we’d enjoyed. She turned them all down flat.
I felt slighted, to be honest, and I believed she’d eventually cave in. I prodded further, which is my nature, and even went so far as to say, tauntingly, “Fine, you can just sit in the dark with some dry toast. Is that what you want?” Then, “Do it for me,” was another ridiculous ploy I tried. Finally, it dawned on me that Janet eats out regularly with clients and friends, as opposed to me, who is on a tight budget and rarely has the ready cash to spend. When this light bulb went off, and I mentioned it to her, she said that was it, exactly, adding that she really does prefer that I cook for her the dishes she has come to love from my repertoire. So, it was I who caved in, after all. “Fine, we won’t go out. We’ll sit in the dark together,” I conceded.
That is until hurricane Sandy hit the area; my apartment in the Village went dark and cold; and I spent more than a week in Janet’s spacious apartment in an area of Queens unscathed by the storm. I will note here that during that time I happened to make both French onion soup (with obscene amounts of Gruyere cheese), and cheesy creamed spinach, also laced with copious amounts of both Parmigiano-Reggiano and yet more Guryere, which we ate over buttered wide egg noodles. There was no duck breast to be had in Queens, or I would have whipped that up too.
One morning during my stay, I happened (innocently enough, I swear) to mention to Janet that a woman I work with who lives in Corona, Queens, had told me that a Brazilian restaurant Janet and I had been frequenting for years before it unexpectedly closed, had been reopened with a new name and owners. It has remained a churrascaria, or Brazilian rotisserie steakhouse, where waiters ceremoniously come to customers’ tables with massive metal skewers balanced on cutting boards. Upon arrival, using very sharp knives, they offer slabs of various 
cuts of beef, pork, and lamb cooked to your pleasure. They may also have on hand tiny quail, chicken hearts, sausage, bacon-wrapped chicken breast, and even hunks of corn on the cob and caramelized grilled pineapple.
Surprisingly, Janet said, “Great! I’d love to go there, and we can make it my birthday celebration if you like.” “I like!” was my response. Rainhas Churrascaria (108-01 Northern Boulevard, Corona, Queens (718-779-8808) has not changed much physically from its former incarnation, but the food was better and the staff more polished.
The salad bar is vast, and takes center stage in the midst of the huge restaurant. There are bowls of various fresh greens along with myriad salad dressings; 
peel-on shrimp; separate tubs of carrots, hearts of palm, beets, crisp, par-boiled string beans, celery, sliced bell peppers, olives, cold seafood salad, egg salad, potato salad, tuna salad, guacamole and chips; plus bowls of pico di gallo (a piquant, chopped salsa of tomatoes and onions) and chimichurri sauce (a favorite with grilled meats; it is a mixture of finely minced garlic, onion, parsley or cilantro, olive oil, and a touch of oregano and vinegar).
Surrounding the salad bar are various stations, laden with chafing dishes, offering oxtail stew; black beans; a hot seafood mélange of mussels, shrimps, and calamari; two kinds of stewed chicken dishes; roast potatoes; fried yucca; sweet plantains; spaghetti; and two types of soups.
Once we had piled our plates high from the salad bar and returned to our seats, a waiter indicated a little square card on our table. One side is green and written on it are the words: Yes, please. The reverse side is red and, like a red traffic light, it indicates the diner is taking a break from the meat circuit. It reads: No thank you. We ordered a pitcher of white sangria and flipped the card green-side up.
The meats are marinated and seasoned before being grilled and are terrifically tender and tasty. We partook of beef tenderloin; skirt steak (a favorite); flank steak; barbecued pork rib; beef chunks wrapped in bacon; and pork tenderloin medallions with a parmesan crust. We could have also had little pork sausages; slabs of ham; lamb; chick breast chunks wrapped in bacon; and more, but you have both to pace yourself and eventually realize you’re about to overdose on protein and may have to have your cholesterol checked pronto.
The evening was a success; 
we left happy and beyond sated and, more important, I had finagled a special dinner for my sister’s sixtieth birthday.
Postscript: On the actual day of Janet’s birthday, December 5th, we had plans to spend the evening together. To my utter surprise and delight, she agreed to go out yet once more to commemorate her birth lo those many years ago. We dined at Lavagna (545 East Fifth Street, off Avenue B), a charming Italian restaurant in the East Village with a delectable menu and a cozy ambiance. I was so thrilled, it could’ve been my birthday!
French Onion Soup
Serves 2
2 medium onions, peeled, halved, sliced wafer thin
3 tablespoons butter
2 tablespoons flour
4 cups chicken or vegetable broth, or water
¾ cups white wine, vermouth, or cooking sherry
1 teaspoon sugar
Salt and freshly ground pepper
2 slices French or Italian bread, each ¼ inch thick
¼ pound Gruyere cheese, thinly sliced
Melt the butter in a large saucepan over medium heat. Add the onions and cook, partially covered, stirring occasionally, until wilted, 10 minutes. Add sugar, uncover, and cook until golden and caramelized, 10 – 15 minutes. Add flour to pan and stir well into onion mixture. Add wine, raise heat to high and bring to a boil. Immediately add broth, salt and pepper and bring to the boil again. Lower heat to a simmer and cook soup, partially covered, for 15 minutes. Preheat the broiler of the oven. Near end of cooking time, toast the bread until golden. Ladle soup into ovenproof crocks. Place a slice of toast on top of soup. Cover the bread completely with cheese, overlapping the lip of the bowl. Place under the broiler until cheese is melted and bubbly, a minute or two. Serve immediately.
The Catskill Chronicle 
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