Patty Great, Patty Great
On Crown Heights' Nostrand Avenue, a corridor of impeccable Caribbean cuisine, there's a block-long stretch I call the Bermuda Triangle of Patties. Here is where hunger is lost to half-moons of flaky crust bulging with heavily spiced fillings, like a calzone taking a Jamaican cruise.
Patties are found the city over, notably at the Golden Krust chain. But chomping a beef or chicken patty at Golden Krust is akin to munching a McDonald's burger: It's reliably uninspired utilitarian sustenance. Not on Nostrand. This block offers patties stuffed with everything from fish to soy to spicy ground beef. Consider the crust a blank slate, a tabula rasa of tastiness. In the Bermuda Triangle of Patties, three kinds of tastiness reign supreme.
The Triangle starts at Original Vegetarian. It's an incense-scented hallway filled by molasses-slow reggae music and construction-working Rastafarians, dreads covered in colorful head wraps. Behind a Plexiglas window stands a white-aproned counterman. Sometimes.
"Hey, hey, anyone there?" I frequently shout. The chefs often kick back in the kitchen, doing things that make them burn incense. Any wait is worthwhile, however, if a heat-lamp-warmed case contains fresh-baked, carrot-orange soy patties ($2/each).
"One patty, please, and could you slice it open?" is the appropriate way to order at Original Vegetarian.
The counterman will grab an aluminum foil sheet and knife open the patty, oyster-like, as if he's performing delicate surgery. A hurried incision would cause the crust to crumble into delicious, crunchy goo. After sliding the counterman two bucks for his efforts, note the curried green, fragrantly flavored filling. It's more savory than spicy; this makes it a perfect candidate for nose-clearing Scotch bonnet pepper sauce. Just a dab'll do; any more causes a five-alarm tongue fire.
Instead of dampening the flames, cross the street and fan them at the second pillar of the Patty Triangle: Cheffy's. This is a functional eatery: a couple booths contain assorted moms and kids, bobbing their heads to hip-hop beside Jamaican maps and posters. Sitting on the countertop, like a grocery store's impulse-buy magazine rack, is a clear display case. It's filled with patties stacked side by side like library books.
I recommend checking out the curry chicken ($1.25) and the jerk chicken ($1.50). The curry is a fiery package. Real, identifiable poultry chunks (no McNugget mish-mash) are bathed in a fine island curry. The patty itself is occasionally dry (especially if bought in the late-afternoon), but the curry chicken's zip wins out. Same goes for the jerk: zesty, midnight-dark chicken cocooned inside a light crust. One bite causes jerk sauce to ooze onto fingertips, making for a messily delicious experience. Eat it sitting down and ask for extra napkins.
When the last crumb is licked up, exit Cheffy's. Make a 45-degree right turn, and walk straight for the last piece of my personal Bermuda: Nick's Bakery. Now, I understand your possible reluctance to visit Nick's. Those first two patties are sittin' pretty heavy, right? But to make hunger vanish like Amelia Earheart, please finish your feast at this time-worn bakery. In the counter-only shop, rows of sweet, fluffy coco bread line the walls alongside glass-displayed, raisin-studded sweets. Side-step these and select one of two crisply baked patties: beef or spicy beef (both $1.25). Regular beef is a bit bland, so opt for spicy. And for God's sake, pay with correct change.
"What, you don't have a quarter?" the lanky, grandfatherly counterman will ask indignantly. It's his quirk: Once, I only paid a buck so he could avoid making change. Still, this curmudgeoness is all bark and no bite. Be bold, and ask him to bisect the beef patty and liberally dress it with the Carolinian hot sauce. It's a mixture of mustard, vinegar and peppers, less piquant than flavorful, and it makes a wonderful bedfellow with the red-hot beef: Your stomach will be warmer than a fireplace on a frosty December night.
That is, if patties are available. These shops fall prey to the mom-and-pop curse. Closed-on-Sunday schedules and capricious baking whims (patties are erratically absent at Nick's and Cheffy's, and Original's sell out early) conspire to make patty eating quite maddening. So call ahead to quell any concerns. Or don't. Adventurers have headed into greater unknowns than Nostrand Avenue armed with less than a MetroCard, a couple crumpled bucks and, most important of all, a curious hunger.
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