As country roadside burrito stands go, they don’t make ‘em better than Bubby’s. This teeny trailer with its green, hand-drawn “Burritos” sign appears sometime in May, near a farm stand at the intersection of Route 199 and 9G in Red Hook, NY (upstate, not Brooklyn). The vegetarian menu boasts just four items, all made-to-order: burrito with guacamole ($6.50), burrito without guacamole ($5.50), cheese quesadilla ($4.00), and auguas de frutas ($1.00). The guac burrito is a satisfyingly fat bundle of rice, beans, lettuce, tomato salsa, cheese, sour cream and guacamole wrapped in a toasted tortilla. Everything tastes fresh, and just a bit of chipotle hot sauce, available at the counter, adds some welcome heat. A couple of picnic benches suffice for seating, and the crowd–if you dare call it that–is a mellow mix of locals, daytrippers and Bardies (hippie-ish students from the art school up the road). The husband and wife team that run Bubby’s split their time between upstate NY and their cafe in Mexico, so come autumn the trailer disappears, not to return until next summer. HIghly recommended stop for lunchtime munchies if you’re in the area.

Bubby’s Burritos
intersection of Route 199 and 9G Red Hook, NY
open during the summer Tues-Sat 11-5
If the weather is stormy, or portends storminess, they may be closed. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.

Perhaps the most eagerly-anticipated fruit export in years, boxes of Indian mangoes have started cropping up in a few city delis, after a 20-year ban. Most Americans have only tasted Mexican or Guatemalan mangoes, whose stringy flesh and faint sweetness pales next to the Indian variety, kinda the way that canned fruit cocktail stacks up to fresh produce. The FDA’s concern over pesticides used by Indian farmers halted the mango trade until George W Bush lifted the ban in 2006, as part of larger trade and nuclear cooperation agreements. Currently, only 2 of the 1500 varieties grown in India (which produces 50% of the world’s supply) are allowed in the US, under condition that they be treated with irradiation to eliminate seed weevils: the alphonso and the kesar.

I tried an alphonso, fondly known as the king of fruits, after my snacking associate spotted some in a box at Dual Specialty Store, an Indian deli on First Avenue. The mango’s flesh was firm but more creamy than pulpy, and the outer layers had, in addition to an intense mango taste, notes of floral and spice. Towards the middle the mango turned sweeter, more honey-and-vanilla, dribbling juice that ran down my wrists. Eating mangoes is a messy business, best enjoyed with someone you love.

So of course, it was back to Dual for more mangoes. I picked out two green ones, wrapped in styrofoam nets, hoping that they will ripen to golden yellow. Since they were an exorbitant $3.50 each, I also picked up a more reasonably-priced $1.50 Mexican mango, which was bigger and promisingly shaded vivid red and gold. Compared to the Alphonso it fell flat. There was no complexity, little flavor, and pulpy bits. The man at the counter said they were running low on the alphonsos, but they would be getting some kesars in soon (sure enough, the first sea shipment left Mumbai on June 12 and is due this week). And then, since mango season ends in June, and there are still few importers, there will likely be no more til next year. For now, Patel Brothers in Jackson Heights might be another likely source. Get them while you can, because mango fanatics will be snapping them up.

Dual Specialty Store
91 First Avenue between 5th st. and 6t st.
11am-midnight

As a kid, I ate a lot of cereal. I knew the exact number of minutes it took for Rice Chex to get soggy. I knew how to eat Fruit Loops without scraping the top of my mouth on their sandpapery sugar coating. I could pick all the crunchberries out of a box of Cap’n Crunch, and leave it looking untouched. Even so, I had my limits. It usually crossed my mind to slurp the milk from my bowl when I’d finished my cereal, but there was something just faintly repellent about it, enough to keep me from doing it most of the time.

So sipping a plastic cup of cereal milk ($4) at Momofuku Desert Bar was, for me, a bittersweet dose of nostalgia. If you were the type of kid who did not feel conflicted at all about drinking milk steeped in Frosted Flakes, you probably shouldn’t miss this.  Fortunately there are enough items on the menu to keep the rest of us entertained.

The cookies ($1.75 each), for example, are top-notch examples of junk food fusion. The conflake-marshmallow-chocolate chip cookie puts the breakfast staple to better use, adding buttery crunch to its edges, while melted marshmallow centers remind me of the gooey hearts of rice krispie treats. It’s better than its vaguely saltier cousin, the compost cookie, which fuses chocolate and butterscotch chips with potato chips and pretzels. The corn cookie and blueberry cookies are both delicious, like the butter-soaked caps of muffins, but I’d skip the comparatively unexciting peanut butter cookie. Soft serve ($4) in unusual flavors, including sour gummy and red licorice, is another speciality here, and every customer is entitled to a tiny free sample. Even though I never liked gob stoppers, I can’t get enough of the fireball flavor. Individually-unwrapped ground-up gumballs add a touch of dimestore cinnamon, tempered by cool ice cream. Their website announces some new flavors, like rosemary and apricot, available starting June 17th.

The cakes ($5/piece) are a little more hit-or-miss. I found the dulce de leche cake and the tea-jelly-and-lemon Arnold Palmer cake overly sweet with little payoff. But both the banana cream-and-hazlenut crunch cake and simple pecan-based “crack” pie were almost worth the caloric sacrifice.

(photo by gothambill)

And then of course there’s always the showstopper, the pork buns ($9/two buns) made famous from David Chang’s other hotspots, Momofuku and Ssam Bar. It’s been a while since I’ve been to Momofuku so it’s hard to remember how the Milk Bar’s buns stack up. But most certainly, these tender, fatty slabs of pork belly folded on sweet, spongy steamed buns with pickled cucumber and hoisin sauce are the most decadent things on the menu.

If you’re planning to visit, prepare for weekend lines, loud music, and standing-only tables, but when all is said and done, a ten-minute wait goes quickly when what you really want is a conflake cookie and a taste of free soft serve. The best time to visit is early evening, but check their website since they are sometimes closed for private parties.

Momofuku Milk Bar
207 Second Ave (entrance on 13th Street)
Mon-Fri 8am-12am, Sat-Sun 9am-12am

Mayahuel feels like a tequila sanctuary that’s stationed halfway between glitzy LA and old Mexico–quite a trick, considering it’s entrance is affixed to East Village’s Indian Row. While dodging hosts hawking $8.95 curry specials, you’ll spot a squat, corrugated roof jutting out above a heavy, monastery door that’s slammed shut against your peeping eyes. Only the sound of a cocktail shaker escapes from the high, barred windows. Inside, cell-like booths encased in more bars and old brick, chintzy chandeliers, a harem-red lounge under cathedral lights upstairs, and our lady of Guadelupe in the basement, add up to a church-dungeon whorehouse ringed in spanish tile. If it sounds tacky, wait. After a few drinks it seems completely natural.

Like at Death & Company, owner Philip Ward’s other venture, the best seats are at the bar. The bartenders, now within badgering range, helped my alleviate my lifelong ignorance of tequila and mescal while making mixology magic. I also left with a new favorite cocktail. The whoopsy daisy ($13) uses blanco tequila, joven mezcal, pomegranate molasses and lime in proportions both potent and delicious. The watermelon sugar ($12), another tequila-mescal concoction, tasted like a refreshing spiked punch, with a cayenne and salt rim that added a peppery zing (recipe on Gothamist). The michelada ($9), a beer cocktail with spicy sangrita, a mixer of tomato, orange, and chilies, impressed me somewhat less, but añejo ($18), aged tequila served neat, was smooth and smokey, reminiscent of scotch.

There’s a menu featuring snacky tapas things like tacos and plantains but since the tab was creeping up towards $30 apiece after two drinks, it was soon time to flee in search of a cheaper harbors. I suppose if you’re going to serve $13 cocktails in the teeth of a recession they’d better be friggin special, and I felt the ones as Mayahuel were. Fortunately, there’s plenty of inexpensive Indian grub down the block when you run out of money.

Mayahuel
304 East 6th Street between First and Second Avenue
Daily 6pm-2am

After a disappointing burger at Back Forty, I wondered if maybe a non-fancy place, one that doesn’t give a damn about fresh greenery or artisanal cheese, would pour more love into its beef patties. I turned to the crowd-wisdom of Yelp.com to help me find a solid East Village burger joint and the reviews of Royale sounded promising. Located on Avenue C, on a stretch once out of the stumbling powers of weekend warriors who come to party but that is now dotted with cute nightspots, Royale has an understated appeal. Inside there’s a bar, baseball on TV, classic rock pumping out of the Wurltizer, and beer in a can on the menu. I’m sorry to say that I was distracted from a thorough perusal by the soaring rock opus that is Journey’s “Don’t Stop Believin‘,” (imagine if Pavlov’s dogs played air guitar, and you have an idea of the spell I was under). I barely had the wherewithal to order a Bacon Royale ($7), can of pork slap ($4) and basket onion rings ($4).

In maybe ten minutes, a toothsome stack of medium-well angus beef, crispy bacon, cheddar cheese, lettuce, and tomato was placed before me. On the first bite a dribblet of hot grease ran down my wrist–a juicy, burning harbinger of sweet burger-scouting success. The batter on the onion rings could’ve used a bit more crunch, but I liked how they were sliced thin enough to bite through. No slab of onion becoming dislodged from its battered casing and slopping on your chin here! The pork slap was malty, gingery, and mild like a beery dessert in a can. I don’t think this is the holy grail of burger places, but this is relatively cheap and totally satisfying grub, attainable late, and probably even tastier when you’re drunk.

Eastvillagepodcasts compares Westville and Royale

157 Avenue C near 10th Street
Sun-Thu 4pm-2am. Fri-Sat, 4pm-4am