A Teeny Bit of Salvation in the Kabab House; Real Puerto Rican Food in East Harlem

On Sept. 13, I finally managed to coax my ass out of the quicksand couch that it had been stuck in for nearly two days. Mustering up the courage to turn off the media coverage of riots breaking out in Kmarts with every new shipment of Old Glory, I was determined to head in to Union Square for some quiet reflection and perhaps some discussion of the week's events with those gathered there. I got on my bike, and then the 7 train. Everyone was glaring at the dust mask I was wearing, as if I were going to incite a mass exodus from the city for doing so. As I rode out of Queensboro Plaza, someone pointed out that I had a flat tire. Having already spent several hours of my Sept. 11 getting that tire fixed up (I was mentally prepared to bike to Maine if I had to), I was now beset with anger, which I projected upon my poor bicycle. I feel for the children on that 7 train, witnessing this unkempt guy with a dust mask losing his cool and cursing at his ride while jouncing it up and down. We're all acting a little strange these days.

I made a subway U-turn, hightailing it over to Astoria to the local bike store, and paid to patch up the old two-wheeler. That's when it hit me: I'm in northeastern Astoria, and I'm hungry. Kabab Cafe. If the Kabab Cafe can't awaken a set of depressed tastebuds, nothing can.

Ali, the owner and chef, and one of the most beloved figures on Steinway St., had an American flag displayed in his window. And he wasn't the only one?all along this strip of Middle Eastern businesses flags (and hookahs) dominated the windows of restaurants and cafes. It wasn't exactly a suitable substitute for Union Square as an outlet for my curiosity, but this neighborhood scene was enough to carry my previously detached self into this newly transformed, hyper-American version of America.

Thankfully, Ali's foul modammas was unchanged, in fact better than ever. Basically stewed fava beans, it's one of the more esoteric menu choices at Middle Eastern restaurants. I usually don't order it elsewhere, because once you've tried the version at the Kabab Cafe, everyone else's foul (pronounced fool) falls short of your new standards.

Ali's food is rich and soulful. Whether you order from the menu or just have him cook up a special for you, you'll get a sense of the difference between food that is lovingly prepared and proudly presented and food that is hastily thrown together with profit in mind. An ordinary plate of babaganoush is transformed by the presence of apple and cucumber slices, a dusting of rare spices and some exotic, mysterious deep-fried leafy green. And it's so smoky, acidic and intense that you have to pause to think about what you're eating and how it got that way. Egyptian food, much like Indian food, is prepared with secret mixtures of spices that are passed down from generation to generation. Most falafel shacks don't quite attain this level of cooking. Though it's easy to mistake the Kabab Cafe for a falafel shack, inside it feels more like an Arabic version of a jazz-on-the-hi-fi beatnik coffeehouse from 1950s Greenwich Village. It's also one of the few restaurants where it is possible to start up a conversation with the other patrons.

My sense of taste restored, my passion for eating renewed and my piece-of-shit bicycle back in operation, I'm now ready to get back to business.

Kabab Cafe, 25-12 Steinway St. (25th & 28th Aves.), Astoria, 718-728-9858.

La Fonda Boricua

Ever since that disastrous family vacation to Puerto Rico that resulted in the eradication of my parents' marriage, I have been craving Puerto Rican food. And a nuclear family. All I needed was a plate of roast pork (pernil) with black beans and white rice. For a while, I settled for Dominican food (which can be great), learning much about comidas criollas from the omnipresent yellow rice pushers named El Castillo De Jagua, El Gran Castillo de Jagua, El Rey De Los Castillos De Jagua and El Mejor Castillo de Rey de Los Castillos de Jagua y Los Viejos Yo-Yos. Eventually, my skin turned bright orange. I thought it was hepatitis A. As it turns out, I had consumed too much Adobo; too much orange chicken, orange rice, orange beans, orange eggs and not-so-orange orange juice. Even the interior walls and exterior signage at El Gran Castillo de Jagua are orange. It's like staring at the sun. Every morning on my way to the Q train I'd put on my Ray-Bans to protect my eyes from the rotating chickens.

After almost six years of searching, I have yet to find that nuclear family anywhere in New York City. However, I've finally found real Puerto Rican food. Up in East Harlem, the food at La Fonda Boricua is a celebration of color, taste and texture. And it stays true to its national origin; there are no pretenses of Cuban, Dominican or Pan-Latin cooking here. It's honest-to-God downhome chow that slowly and subtly will get under your skin.

The first thing you'll notice, if you love pork as much as I do, is the hulking mass of spiced, crackling, dripping meat in the window. They serve a lot of roast pork, which ensures the freshness of your portion: the secret to steam-table cuisine is to find a restaurant that does a lot of business, and La Fonda Boricua does a lot of business. When I first spotted them during a recreational ride on the 3rd Ave. bus (a great way to spend a sweaty August afternoon), they were a small, nondescript operation. By the time I returned, a few weeks later, they had blossomed into the double-sized, bustling El Barrio institution that they justly deserve to be.

You would think that a stylish restaurant with local art covering exposed brick walls would provide plush accouterments like menus. You're on your own here. And with several staffers lacking in basic English language skills, you may need to go up to the counter to have one of the friendly managers take your order. Here's how it works: platters are made up of one steam-table entree, a mound of rice (white or yellow) and beans (red, black, pink or garbanzo). I'd go for the roast pork, naturally. It is even better than it looks; juicy, peppery and full of garlic. There'll be fat, of both the gloppy and the crunchy variety, and if you're an intrepid eater with a quick metabolism, go ahead and eat all of it. In many cultures, it is considered an insult to be served exclusively lean meat. A good plate of pernil should have the same amount of schmaltz as a sky-high pastrami sandwich.

A plate of stewed chicken (red, not orange) was done very well?a cut above the standard version, though not revelatory. Fried blue snapper was a bit dry, and that didn't mix well with the salty nature of rice and beans. Speaking of which, I've not had better beans anywhere. Both black and red varieties have a very welcome complexity and an earthy, almost sour aftertaste. At other Latin American restaurants, beans get stuck together and mashed up while the bean juice evaporates, leaving behind a mushy, crusty, "Goya-oh-boya" nightmare. Here, each stands alone, plump and firm. Since most Latin American places don't carry chickpeas (garbanzos), I found them to be an exciting option, especially when coupled with the ensalada del pulpo (octopus salad). No matter the culture, chickpeas tend to transcend their preparations. That octopus, which will run you a few bucks more than the meat dishes (about $12 compared to $6.50), has a Mediterranean feel. It is simply prepared with sauteed onions and green peppers, is subtly spiced (mainly salt and pepper) and served cold. Very refreshing. A similar shrimp salad is also very popular.

Don't forget to order the tostones (fried green plantains). I had forgotten how much I loved these, a staple of that ill-fated family vacation to Puerto Rico. Those served at La Fonda Boricua are perfectly crunchy on the outside, soft and velvety inside, and utterly greaseless, served with a controversial garlic dipping sauce that my friend thought was too strong. I would be remiss not to order them again in the future.

I would also recommend the mondongo, or tripe soup, but I don't want to be one of those food writers who become obsessed with weird foods. And I can only stomach about two tablespoons worth of the stuff in one sitting. For what it's worth, La Fonda's mondongo is much better than the bowl I had at that downtown stalwart of Puerto Rican cooking, La Taza De Oro. Recent meals there have been less than stellar. Yet, tourists with guidebooks in hand are still eating there, and while they're getting a decent introduction to the cuisine, they're missing out on the good stuff.

La Taza De Oro's one of quite a few restaurants in this city that are generally accepted to be the best at what they do, but haven't been for years. A much better option is to hop on the 6 train, go one stop beyond the posh quarters of Carnegie Hill to 103rd St., enjoy the rockin' jukebox (free of that awful merengue), grab a seat at the counter next to Bernie Williams or whatever Puerto Rican celebrity is there at any given moment, and get fat. Finish off with a proper cafe con leche, made with heated condensed milk poured through a strainer, and if you have room for dessert, you won't need to stray far from the restaurant to find delicioso coco helado. Better yet, see if the guy selling homemade cantaloupe and lemon ices out of a cooler near the corner of 3rd Ave. and 103rd St. is still around.

La Fonda Boricua, 169 E. 106th St. (betw. 3rd & Lex. Aves.), 410-7292.