When the sun gets hot in NYC, I board the F train headed south. the ride is arduous and time-consuming, passing through all the Brooklyn avenues of the alphabet. I exit the final Stillwell Avenue station, and I smell it immediately. Sandy bottoms. Salt water. Freak shows.
A day at Coney Island.
Sure, Coney Island isn't a world class waterfront. Not anymore. There's broken glass in the sand. I never see any
surfers on the waves, and the housing projects immediately off the beach are some of the poorest in Brooklyn. But the city's first luxury hotel opened here in 1879. In 1884, the world's first roller coaster debuted. Its famous son, the Cyclone (b. 1927) still stands. And in 1923, Coney Island built its most legendary feature: the boardwalk. World class or not, this stretch of planked wood is so well known they wrote a song about it. And they have arepas. Arepas!
cup of horrible pina colada. It's all premixed in a blender; they pour in the mix and dump cheap rum on top. The giant cup is yours to keep, plus a short section of straw good for one free refill later. When the sun starts to dip, I get a soft serve and stand in line for the Cyclone. For the ride home, I munch funnel cake and spend the better part of half an hour getting powdered sugar off my legs.
This last Sunday, I broke my routine. A sign at my corn dog spot advertised a corn bread and mozzarela delight called a "mozzarepa." It looked like two stacked pancakes with melted cheese goodness in between. For only $2.50, I sealed the deal: fried sweet corn joy and dripping dairy, all on one plate with a little plastic fork. That night, I skipped the Cyclone for the Top Spin and had the time of my life.
The next day, I couldn't get the mozzarepa off my mind. What should have been a one night stand turned into an obsession; before I knew it, I was at the corner store, buying mozzarella and corn bread mix. I cooked golden corn flapjacks and stacked them generously with cheese. It was like dinner with the panting loser when your real love
won't return your calls.
Neither the Food Network site nor Wikipedia gave me results for "mozzarepa," so I turned to Google. The results generally disappointed, though Chris Kula (http://www.chriskula.com/) offered the priceless description: "fried cornbread that is 'raped' by mozzarella." The Gothamist had an excellent feature on NYC street food that shed actual light on the mozzarepa, describing it as a variation on the arepa.
The arepa, according to Wikipedia, is a Venezuelan maize flour cake, though common in other Latin American cuisines. It can be fried, grilled or baked. Once it is cooked, it is split open and stuffed with various delectables like cheese or beans. In the olden days, making the dough took sweat and tears. The maize had to be soaked,
peeled, and ground with a mortar and pestle. Fortunately, in 1960, the Venezuelan company Empresas Polar introduced Harina P.A.N. Other pre-cooked arepa corn flours have since been introduced, but Harina P.A.N.
remains the most popular--so popular that, like Kleenex, its name is synonymous with its product.
Though rent prices are ridiculous, New York City living does offer great perks, and my local supermarket had Harina P.A.N. for less than five bucks. Tuesday night dinner was arepas with mozzarela, cooked
according to this recipe. I teared up at the taste. Eating in my living room isn't as entertaining as
Coney Island munching, but my tastebuds liked the arepa better. So much better, in fact, that I woke up Wednesday with the hunger still inside me. What else could I fill an arepa with? Who should I look to for inspiration?
The answer exists at 7th St. and 2nd Ave. in Manhattan, in the New York-living-room-sized Caracas Arepa Bar.To the best of my knowledge, it is the only arepa-specializing-eatery in the city. The space barely squeezes fifteen guests at a time, but they all leave with full bellies, adoring tongues, and (surprisingly) thick wallets. I ate their last night, and each arepa was less than $3-$6, a price not far from the humble $2.50 mozzarepa.
My companion tried a meat empanada and the "la Gato," arepa stuffed to the brim with plantains, avocado and cheese (pictured); I ordered a "domino" (black beans and cheese) and "los muchacos" (chorizo, cheese and jalapenos). The cook fried the arepas to protection, sliced them open, and emptied them of their golden innards for the filling. Not unlike a mini corn
pita. All three absolutely floored the both of us. The arepa alone was delicious, but the fillings upped the ante. The final bill was mere icing on the cake: with two beers at a paltry $4 each, we each barely spent $15--a miracle in this city.
Next time I hop the south bound F train, I'll be sure vary my routine. Fried boardwalk food might seem trashy, but it all had its beginnings elsewhere. I lucked out and found a real treasure, as affordable and far more delectable. (Erich Kuersten was the "companion" mentioned, but this bit of arepa reminiscence comes to you courtesy Yukari Rymar.)
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