The Taste of Summer

FISH MARKET

111 South Street

(917) 363-8101

The taste of summer in the New York City, actually begins with smells. And they are not always good.

Hot garbage.

A road trip to a nearby campsite for grilling out, and seeing trees instead of building always begins with the smell of gasoline.

But the best smell, the one you want all summer long, is a hot steamed lobster. With plenty of butter.

I found heaven once, in Chinatown. Light and music were spilling out of the smashed window of a crowded bar, it’s spidered glass held together by as much hope as packing tape. An unsuccessful robbery attempt? I went in.

Behind the bar was a very busy barman, arms like an octopus, taking orders, serving food, clearing plates. I managed to snag a stool at the bar. Without a word I was greeted with a goofy grin and a plastic one-ounce cup was pushed in front of me, two of them, actually. One for each of us. Jameson down the hatch. It was the beginning of a delightful global adventure.

The bare bones bar was lit like a mess hall, a jukebox fought the football game for attention. I wasn’t feeling it had obtained the coveted “A” grade, but, you know, a stiff drink straight from a bottle is always safe.

The man behind the bar was wearing a softball jersey, “Jeffrey” printed on the back. I was having a bit of trouble catching his eye and hoped a personal touch would help. Besides, he seemed to have liked me enough to greet me with a free shot, so I gave it a whirl, “Hey there, is it Jeffrey? Or is that another man’s shirt?” He laughed, “I’m Jeff mostly, but Jeffrey on the field, more gravitas.”

I ordered a drink and said thank you for the free shot. “No problem,” he said, and adding a sly wink, slid me another. Whew, this could get dangerous. I was happy about the diminutive size of the cup this time, and would soon realize it was by design.

I watched as new people rolled in, the handle of Jameson was put to work. It was Jeffrey’s hello. Everyone who entered got a shot. A magical liquid Chef’s Amuse Bouche. I hoped though, for the sake of his liver...maybe it was his birthday or some special occasion.

I sipped my drink and watched food roll out of the kitchen, plated in baskets lined with sheets of wax paper, like you’d expect in any dive, or piled high on melamine platters with Asian designs worn off in spots. I couldn't stop staring.

Sure, there were chicken wings, but they were crackly and crispy and saturated in a gooey ginger-rich sauce that I could smell from five stools away. There were whole broiled lobsters sitting alone, steaming angry-red, which looked as fresh as if I’d walked to the edge of the harbor and plucked it out a’ la minute. I saw someone slurping drunken fish soup, one gobbling handmade dumplings and another eating a bright zesty curry dish.

What.Was.Going.On!? This was not the mozz-sticks-and-burger that the vibe portended. I mean sure, I’ve been to plenty a great Gastropub, it’s no new concept, but this was like finding a Unicorn next to a dumpster.

I asked to see a menu. The sections were very clear, a short perfunctory list of some American style dishes, followed by MAMA’S section. It was a panoply of Chinese and Malaysian cuisine.

Salivating, I thought caution be damned and ordered fried rice with Chinese sausage. It was in front of me so faat. A fragrant mound. I dug in. The best friend rice I ever tasted. Best. Proven, tested best. The crunchy crackle of the rice that had stuck to the pan rounded out a chorus of texture and combined to form a salty, spicy and nutty-sweet harmony. When I finished mowing down, I ordered my favorite dish of summer, steamed lobster. A small elderly woman cleared my plate and hustled off to the kitchen. Later she leaned at the bar and played video poker. It was then I overheard Jeff, “Thanks mom, great night.” I realized that MAMA’s menu is mom, in the kitchen cooking. Real deal, mom. The place kept getting better.

I left the bar that eve, warmed by whiskey, lobster, and a summer breeze, but it didn’t leave me. I knew I needed to go back, this time with more mouths. I gathered a group of friends, all skeptical diners. Having seen no visible signage, I couldn’t even send them off to Yelp to make their judgment calls alone. I pleaded to take them to a magic place. Let’s call it, “Jeffrey Fried Rice.”

Somehow, perhaps overcome by the experience, I missed the sign above the door, wooden and as old as the seaport itself: “Fish Market.”

When my party arrived they thought I had gone mad. Anxious toes tapped under the slightly sticky plastic-covered table. But oh, oh when the food came. They ate crow.

I’ve gone back time and again with groups large and small over the years. The look of the place never changes, Jeff and his mom are the décor. The effect is always the same, a wow factor that doesn’t disappoint. We are a merry band of “Jeffrey Fried Ricers” now. A foodie friend who claimed to know the best fried rice in the City challenged me to a “fried rice-off.” We went to all the grand dame palaces of Asian fare, plus the hits of Chinatown. I said I needed only to take him to one spot to settle the matter. It did.

We ate the rice, and a lobster a piece. It was, and is, heavenly.

Author – Valerie Feingold vegetable gardens, has raised chickens and fought racoons, all while living in BK. She is a consultant, writer and playwright who loves supporting the citiy’s rich restaurant culture.