This week, bites with BFFs. We also welcome Guest Gulletier Gaby Gignoux-Wolfsohn to the table.
Sunset on New York
by Gaby Gignoux-Wolfsohn1
"What's it called?" Dizzy asked. "I don't know, but I know where it is." I had asked my friend Dizzy to get peanut noodles with me. The best peanut noodles I've ever had at a place I've been to countless times but still have trouble remembering the name of. I couldn’t think of a better person to join me for this meal. Throughout eight years of friendship in the city, we’ve had countless experiences: dancing, concerts, dinners, breakfasts, hikes, and one impromptu threesome. Dizzy is a powerhouse of a person: an organizer, a craftsperson, a writer, a thoughtful, caring and daring friend. And now, they are moving across the country. Bringing them with me to Chun Bai Wei to eat peanut noodles seemed like a perfect addition to a list of last experiences we would share together in this timeline.
I worked in Sunset Park for four years, teaching lessons on cooking and food justice to elementary-aged kids. The job was physically and mentally exhausting, but it filled my days and I would always come home with stories. Before our weekly staff meetings, we would have fifteen minutes to grab food. Most of the other staff would (smartly) pick up sandwiches from the bodega around the corner. Instead, I rushed the five-minute walk from 43rd and 7th Ave to 8th Ave and 45th every time. As we sat down to discuss the week's happenings, I would impatiently unpack my piled-high container of piping-hot peanut noodles and a cup of broth and begin slurping them down. The texture is silky smooth, each noodle soft enough to feel almost as if it's melting in your mouth but still containing enough bite. The peanut sauce is the perfect balance of salty, sweet, and umami flavors. One of my favorite things about these peanut noodles is that they are topped with a hefty helping of pickled gai choy—mustard greens.
I couldn't contain my joy driving into Sunset Park with Dizzy. I interrupted them to point out one of my favorite hand-painted signs: a roaring lion advertising axle alignment. I pointed to where I used to get groceries for class and smugly claimed I'd never gotten a ticket at the metered parking, so there'd be no need to pay. I always paired my peanut noodles with a can of my favorite coconut milk. The one with the sexy lady dressed in all white, twisting her arms around her head and holding the very can she's displayed on. I insisted Dizzy get one as well. $12 for two plates of peanut noodles with sour vegetables and two cans of coconut milk. Dizzy took one sip of their coconut milk."It's so good, right?" I said. "It's milky," was their only reply.
Our broth comes first. A clear chicken broth, too salty with scallions in it. I guzzle mine. My stomach growls in anticipation. The noodles arrive. They are always unmixed. A plate of sauce with the noodles and gai choy on top. Dizzy and I have different mixing techniques. I try to mix it all at once while they do it one bite at a time. Their method wins for having less sauce left over at the end of the meal.
I've been thinking about the places our feet and stomachs and memories take us. The familiar places we start walking to without even realizing that's where we’re going. Chun Bai Wei Inc. on 45th Street and 8th Avenue is one of those places for me. I'm hyper-aware that I will look back at these noodles with intense nostalgia.
As we eat our meal, I can't help but fixate on Dizzy's reaction. They confirm just how good they are, smiling and exclaiming, "Wow." I clumsily ask if the sour vegetables are gai choy (they are). We tell the server how much we love them, thank them, and leave. Back out the door into the oppressive heat, sweat instantly dripping down our faces and backs. We stop for papaya shakes at Ba Xuyen, just down the street, and head to the park. We lay there under a giant tree, and Dizzy decorates my stomach with grass. I can't stop smiling. The kind of smile you have when your belly and heart are full and when you're with one of your favorite people, having eaten one of your favorite things. I welcome the nostalgia with open arms.
Name drops: Chun Bai Wei Inc., Ba Xuyen
Makes Me Want A Hot Dog Real Bad
by Greg
Hopes were high for absolutely writhing at a queer pop dance party during Pride; however, my friends and I were turned away at the door this Friday for not having bought tickets ahead of time. You would never know we had been planning this for a month.2
With a bevy of ticketed Pride events happening, chances seemed slim for getting in anywhere else—but we were out, had glitter on, and needed to let loose. The gay urge to dance pushed us on and we decided to try our luck at the nearest gay bar. I’m not sure what the usual scene is at Animal, but we entered to find a sea of mesh, roving eyes, and minimal body movement. After a recon mission into a seething mass of shirtless torsos, my friend Josh and I became landlocked. Pushing our way back to our friends felt like being in a reverse car wash. The music blared, but not a single gay was feeling the rhythm of the night. By the time we found our group nestled in the patio, I was ready to move on, but my friend Todd was filled with an excitingly unfamiliar zeal. Fire was in his eyes. He fearlessly marched into the hive and cleared a corner for us to gyrate in.
The DJ set wasn’t quite what we were imagining, but we made it work. Five homosexuals moving like inflatable tube people at a car dealership versus a room of offline Barry’s Boot Camp cadets. We danced until our clothes were drenched in sweat. When the constant edging of eighteen-minute untza-untza tracks wore us down, there was only one thing left to do: answer the primal call of late-night fries. H & H Reserve was a stone’s throw away, and off we went.
By this point, what started as a party of eight had dwindled down to pack of four hungry boys. Fries may have been the draw, but the moment we spotted hot dogs on the menu, the taters were quickly demoted. These weren’t just any old hot dogs. They were Chicago-style hot dogs from Dog Day Afternoon. Loaded with onions, ketchup, pickles, peppers, radium green relish, and a hefty dusting of celery salt. They were, simply put…enormous. Fitting a bite into one's mouth could be classified as a choking hazard. When I did manage to chomp down, I heard the telltale sound of a good hotdog. A satisfying, clean snap. Fourth of July be damned, let's file a motion to move hot dogs to June. The fries did manage to hold their own—crispy and served with a small but mighty ramekin of garlic aioli. I can’t think of a better meal to be had in the wee hours.
The joy and exhilaration I expected to feel on the dance floor was within reach at a café table around the block. I have rarely seen Todd awake past 10 p.m.. Usually the first to fade, here he was at 2 a.m., sparkly and radiating vivacity. I glanced at my friend Dylan and admired his bright smile and boundless spirit. I turned to Mark and appreciated how his eyes always reflected a knowing twinkle. The energy between us reminded me of that 90s arcade game, The Cyclone; a circle of neon gates connected by a racing light. I tried to hold onto the deep, electric warmth of laughing, soaked in sweat, and gobbling weenies together. Now, that’s Pride.
Name drops: H & H Reserve, Hotdogs: Dog Day Afternoon
A special thank you to this week’s illustrator, Ruthy Kim3. See her work here.
Gaby Gignoux-Wolfsohn is a co owner of sea & soil, a worker-owned bakery and sandwich shop where they bake, cook, experiment with fun flavor combinations and talk to lots of cool people. They are happiest in the ocean.
Spontaneity seems to gets harder to come by with each year passing thirty.
Ruthy Kim is an illustrator and designer based in Los Angeles, and she loves creating artwork that brings a smile to people's faces and fills them with joy and hope. She shares stories through illustrations that celebrate joyous moments in life. When she isn't drawing, she's at church praising God.