Latin cuisine was a NY thing for me, despite having spent part of my childhood in Puerto Rico. Then for a while, lunch breaks at a corner spot in Sunset Park near the water where I had a painting studio in a crazy old industrial complex (now a “renewed” work-and-shop-and-eat gentrified monstrosity). Back up in Harlem in the old days when I was at Columbia (the ’90s) I’d grab the same at Floridita. Often just neighborhood spots supported almost exclusively by the local residents. I never braved the shrimp cocktail plates sitting in a dubiously “cold” display case.Īnyways, these little hole-in-the-walls were pretty much everywhere in New York. But then you had the tostones, the maduros, and you choose white or yellow rice, maybe risk a desultory iceberg salad.
Rotisserie chicken was the big draw for most people. Daily specials rotated throughout the week, but the main Dominican and Puerto Rican staples were always available. They warmed to me eventually and encouraged my feeble attempts at ordering in their language. No one spoke much English so I’d try out my paltry Spanish on the at-first-unsmiling ladies behind the counter who oversaw the steam tables. $7 would get you a heaping pile of rice and Habichuelas and Carne Guisada, packed into a circular, aluminum foil container with a clear, plastic-dome top. I’d shoot into Vega once a week or so and get food to go. You could always smell the plumbing, but that didn’t mean the food wasn’t great. A beverage fridge stood right inside the door filled with Jarisco and Country Club sodas and Coronas, and other super-sugared fizzy drinks. Dumpy, bare-bones interior with football matches and telenovelas on the multiple flatscreens. It’s closed now (isn’t everything that was good?), but just around the corner from our old apartment in Williamsburg, Brooklyn was one of those classic little Dominican joints.
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