If you’ve known me for more than five minutes I’ve probably asked you: what would be your death bed meal? No pressure or anything but a person’s answer to that question says a lot. Are you going to go the nostalgic route and name the chicken noodle soup that your grandma used to make for you when you were little? Maybe you’re into luxury and all that jazz and when you’re ready to meet your maker, you’re going for filet mignon, foie gras and a lobster tail because why the hell not? You learn a lot about a person based on how they would treat their death bed meal. And naturally, because I find this question to be so enthralling, I expect you guys to care about my answer to it. Only, I don’t have one. I have like 5 million and they all say a little somethin’ about me and where I came from. Which is why this page is here: so I can wax poetic about my favorite foods in the world. Bon appetit!
Grandma’s vareniki
I grew up making vareniki in my grandparents’ tiny apartment in the most Russian-Jewish corner of Columbus, Ohio. My twin sister and I spent a lot of our childhood with our grandparents in that somewhat run-down, immigrant-filled apartment complex, as our parents were still paving their way in the United States as recent Soviet refugees.
Vareniki are Russian dumplings stuffed with mashed potatoes and caramelized onions, served with sour cream. Dyeda Feema and Baba Lola would always be screaming at each other (lovingly, of course — by screaming I mean communicating normally and not angrily but very loudly and aggressively, as Russian grandparents do) while simultaneously force-feeding me and my twin sister whatever food had been made earlier that day. My sister and I would be focused on the task at hand: using little mugs to make circular cut outs in the dough laid before us, placing a teaspoon of filling inside the round of dough and carefully pinching the varenyk shut. The entire apartment would be filled with the scent of cooking onions, garlic and smoking meats. Jars of pickling cucumbers and tomatoes, grown in my grandpa’s magical backyard garden, would be littered throughout the small cluttered apartment, the walls adorned with stern-looking photos of my grandparents and relatives. When I was little, I wondered why no one was ever smiling in the photos. When I was older, I learned about The Holocaust, an atrocity that all but took the lives of both my grandparents, and never had to ask again. Varenyky are one of my death bed meals, and every time I eat them, I’m transported to the rickety kitchen table at my grandparents’ humble apartment. I can almost smell the cooking onions.
Mom’s shrimp pasta
Almost every summer since I was 11 months old, my family would vacation in Hilton Head Island, South Carolina. Unsurprisingly, my best memories of these times have to do with food. Every year, my mom would pick up giant local shrimp from a little stand on a back road (don’t ask how my mom knew about this little stand, you could put the woman on Mars and STILL she would hunt down the best quality products and deals around and probably call every single one of her friends to tell them to visit the Kroger on East Broad because they’re having a good deal on cherries. I digress). We’d take the shrimp back to our rented condo and that’s when the real fun would begin. I was mesmerized watching my mom peel and devein the shrimp. I’d watch her build a cream sauce from scratch, always from memory, always experimental (oh, not thick enough? That’s okay she’ll add some flour. Too thick? No worries she’ll throw some milk in there) and always delicious. My mom’s method of cooking is quite telling about her as a person. At 28 years old, she and my father, along with their 5-year-old daughter (my older sister), left the Soviet Union with only $90 in their pockets, hoping for a better life in America. As refugees they had to adapt to their circumstances, selling Russian tchotchkes on the streets of Italy along the journey to make money, building a life from scratch while raising three children. And just like the creamy shrimp pasta my mom made from memory each year on vacation, despite the uncertainty, the lives they were able to provide their children and the home they’ve built for themselves turned out just right. As an adult, I prefer my shrimp pasta in a scampi sauce but really I’ll take it in any form — because I’ve learned to adapt. And that, my friends, is death bed meal number 2.
Spicy Village’s big tray chicken with hand-pulled noodles
Choosing a favorite noodle dish is a bit like choosing a favorite child, which is to say that all parents have one but they don’t necessarily want to admit it. If you search for subtle clues, though, you’ll probably figure it out. So here goes.
There’s something about the spicy big tray chicken with hand-pulled noodles from Spicy Village in Manhattan’s Chinatown that gives me butterflies. Noodles are humble by nature, and this dish is no exception. This cult favorite is literally a tray of braised hunks of chicken floating in a broth so aromatic and flavorful you just KNOW you’re about to have a religious experience when it hits the table. The broth is packed with cilantro, Sichuan peppercorns, chili, star anise and potatoes and if you’re wise (like I think I am) you know to order it with some springy, stretchy, chewy hand-pulled noodles.
Spicy Village represents my love for all things NOT fancy, NOT high brow, NOT branded/trendy/vibey/etc. When I first moved to NYC I would find solace in spending my days in Chinatown. The rest of the city was intimidating but in Chinatown, I could sit down and have a humble bowl of noodles and somehow the bustling, intense and scary city would calm down, even just for a moment.
Sapp Coffee Shop’s jade noodles
If any city made me fall in love with hole-in-the-wall restaurants, it’s Los Angeles. And if there’s any restaurant that made fall deeper, it’s Sapp Coffee Shop in LA’s Thai Town and their famous jade noodles.
It was 2015 and I had just moved to Los Angeles after graduating early from college with a marketing degree that I had no specific use for and a hunger for…well, everything. I didn’t have a job and I didn’t have a clue. So what did I do? I ate. I spent my days hunting down the best dishes that Los Angeles had to offer, often times using LA Times’ late Jonathan Gold’s masterful critiques on the city’s food scene as my guide. My voracious research and taste buds brought me to a remote corner of Hollywood Boulevard in Thai Town. Sapp Coffee Shop was an entirely new experience for me. The restaurant was simple: wood tables, no music, plain dishware, simply-plated food. There was a coconut juice station near the cash register, right next to a cart with sticky rice in banana leaves and other takeaway goodies. The primary language spoken inside the restaurant wasn’t English, and it felt homey and unpretentious. As instructed by the great Jonathan Gold, I strayed from my typical order of drunken noodles or pad Thai and instead requested the jade noodles. The dish was striking, made up of jade green noodles and bright pink barbecued pork along with roast duck, sweet crab meat, peanuts, cilantro and scallions. It was sweet, salty, herbaceous and sour. I finished my bowl in three minutes flat.
These days, visiting a hole-in-the-wall noodle shop by myself is a regular occurrence. Hell, I even bring a book and make myself cozy, often times spending 2 or more hours nursing some noodles and dumplings. But Sapp Coffee Shop was the first noodle shop where I felt truly at home, made friends with the staff, visited over and over again and ate my way through the menu. I can’t visit LA without a trip to my precious coffee shop and when I do, jade noodles are always on the menu.
