16 | BOROMAG.COM | AUGUST 2013 FOOD Women making roti in back of Dhauligiri Kitchen Your new passport to Jackson Heights “Can we stay just a little while longer?,” begs the silver-haired woman at the table next to us. Her friend—who has just slipped a copy of their receipt and change into her purse—lowers her oversized ruby-red-framed glasses just to clarify she is scowling. Reducing her voice to a not-so-quiet whisper, the silver-haired woman hush-shouts over the now noticeable lack of background music, “I just really want to see what they are getting. He seems to know what he is doing.” It becomes awkwardly apparent the woman is talking about my two friends and me—the only other occupied table in GangJong, the tiny key lime green Tibetan-Indian-Chinese restaurant at the triangular intersection of Broadway, Roosevelt and 74th Street where Colombian and Peruvian restaurants collide with South and East Asian mom-and-pop joints, creating the sensory overload that is so uniquely Jackson Heights. Deciding it less uncomfortable to engage than ignore the hushed chirping of the two fifty-something-year-old ladies, I lean over to address the intrigued whisperer. “For what it’s worth, I actually have no clue what I am doing, which is why I am here.” “But you ordered the ‘ambassador plate’ without even glancing at the menu,” she disappointedly retorts. She and her friend had stumbled upon GangJong by accident, having deemed their intended restaurant around the corner too busy for speedy service. I gesture to a grapefruit-sized sticker on the glass case at the front counter, which reads, “Ambassador $10: Don’t know what to try? Let the chef decide.” “See,” reprimands the wilted friend. “Now can we please leave?” Rather than discouraging the silver-haired lady’s curiosity, however, it appears to only fuel it. “Now I really want to see what comes to their table.” Surrendering, the lady with glasses plops her purse to her side, sinking down into her seat in defeat. Moments later, a steaming stream of colors and scents pour from the kitchen. My friends, less eager to chance it on a chef ’s choice surprise platter, have ordered dishes with names they recognize—though even their platters appear exotic. Chow mein is a large plate of fried noodles, loaded with a mound of glistening peppers, prawns, beef, chicken, and a wobbly-yolked fried egg sprinkled with chives. Fried rice consists of a heaping mound of long grains studded with giant medallions of meat and seafood, whole slivers of red and green peppers and another egg. And then the Ambassador Plate arrives. The plate before me is arranged with three pairs of homemade dumplings in different colors and shapes—actually called momos in Tibet—along with a dome of white rice, whole wheat roti and a steaming cup of goat curry. I have already been sipping a creamy, sweet mango lassi.
BM082013
To see the actual publication please follow the link above