Suspenders and Shopsins: as timeless as the F word

Wearing sullen expressions, the patrons at Shopsins hunched over their food like punished Victorian children at the dinner table. Perhaps the cranky waitstaff scolded them for vacillating between menu items upon ordering time, a no-no at this NYC institution carved out in a corner of Essex Street Market. Or perhaps they simply cracked a smile and released a happy-go-lucky chuckle, cardinal sins to commit among Shopsins's somber kitchen crew.

Shopsins is as much of a culinary Manhattan attraction as Per Se, though instead of brushing your lips against spoonfuls of amuse bouche, you're bracing your cheeks against slaps of amusing, cantankerous dispositions. Led by chef and owner Kenny Shopsin, this offbeat diner dares foodies to tiptoe into its establishment and ruffle the feathers of its sour servers. This is a man who nonchalantly hollered, "Shut the F up Sam," to his grand baby,  heard crying in the background in the Shopsins documentary, "I Like Killing Flies." Who would believe that head curmudgeon Kenny possesses an ounce of surliness? Looks wise, the grandfatherly figure boasts a belly that rivals that of Santa Claus, positions his cap backwards and is clad in his signature suspenders, signs of a jolly soul. I actually met Sir Shopsin a couple of years ago when he was signing his cookbook/gastronomical guide appropriately titled "Eat Me" at the Strand. The larger-than-life personality threw out a few snarky remarks to the crowd, but was generally affable. "Nice suspenders," I boldly remarked, "are they your trademark?" He never quite addressed the question, but wrote a blase "Why do I like suspenders?" on the inside of my book.

The time had arrived to test Kenny's cooking chops and see if they measured up to the infamously brash behavior he so executes with grace. A trio of us, me, Ethan and Barry (our friend Sarah's dad who was visiting from Montreal), sauntered into Shopsins on a Saturday morning displaying confidence as cool as what Russ Tamblyn portrayed in High School Confidential. We were not to be daunted or sideswiped by Shopsins's moody shenanigans. By 9:30, the place was filled with customers, gobbling up their food in silence, enjoying each and every morsel yet eager to sprint home and pull the blankets over their heads while curling themselves into the fetal position. Since Shopsins takes no reservations (probably out of sheer spite), the wait is known to be painfully long. Fortunately for we ravenous gourmands, we were the first group to lead the queue. As the minutes ticked by, the line grew longer and longer, and suddenly, we felt as we were vying for coveted Rolling Stone concert tickets. A college-aged girl behind us with a genuine jaunty spirit about her said she was too scared to ask the staff if they do takeout. "I'll ask them," Barry offered, indifferent to the tongue lashing that could possibly ensue. "They don't," he said when he returned, still high spirited and unbruised. "One of our friends is running late," our newfound pal explained, motioning to the other two girls in her posse. "I hope they won't yell at us and still give us our table." Her giggle had a nervous tinge to it.

We beefed up this idle time to chat about a topic more crucial than the tepid economy and the aftermath of the BP oil spill: the restaurants we've crossed off our list and the restaurants on our must-have list. Candice and her co-horts Melissa and Yuiko share the same dining out mantra as Ethan and I: the place must be casual, reasonably priced, authentic and if possible, a bit on the quirky side. Which is what brought us to Shopsins. As we waited for our to-die-for place at the table, we studied the menu intently, so we could come dutifully prepared come ordering time. Shopsins's menu is dizzying to look at for a first timer. It's a laundry list upon laundry list of diner favorites, ethnic surprises and creative concoctions. In the world of diners, Shopsin's is a Renaissance man. The menu's type is tightly woven together, like text you encounter in a penny saver, and the comic book colors add extra pow to the already fun titles and descriptions, some which will make your innocent cheeks turn crimson. The "Blisters on my Sisters" category encompasses egg dishes on some form of bread, like the German version involving eggs with sauerbraten, potatoes, red kraut and Swiss cheese on rye. Customer favorites include the mac and cheese pancakes and the apple bbq duck wings. If you're feeling doubly frisky, go ahead and call for the "Slutty Cakes," pancakes filled with seductive ingredients of pumpkin, peanut butter and pistachio. Who could resist the allure of "Boner I" which rises to the occasion with hearty components like osso buco, poached eggs and polenta on toast? Also up for the taking is brother dish "Boner II," oxtail, poached eggs and pimento polenta also served on a base of toast. Other than the more elaborate entrees and combo trays, dishes at Shopsins are priced beneath the $20 umbrella.

With our selections snugly placed in our back pockets, our seats at the Royal Court known as Shopsins were finally available. We bid our new chums adieu and promised to later swap contact information. "Good luck," we bellowed out to them, as we made our way to the three stools that awaited us. They waved at us with wistful looks in their eyes. Dining upon the counter provided us an insider's look into the kitchen of Shopsins. It definitely conveyed that quintessential aura of a short order cook's station, minus the muck and grease. I was tempted to twirl about on my stool and release a long-drawn, "weeeeeee," but I shuddered at the thought of a whipping, especially with the menacing plastic alligator nearby practically nipping at my elbow. Shopsins absolutely forbids patrons to take photos of the establishment, but snapshots of the food are granted. Via my all-in-one iPhone, I managed to sneak in a few photo ops of Shopsins's eclectic look: a grab bag of general store, yard sale and toy shop aesthetics. Good 'ole Kenny was behind the window with his eyes cast down upon the dish he was preparing, oblivious or most likely standoffish to our close-range presence. Occasionally, big daddy would take a break from cooking and park himself on a chair in the front dining area, but he never once acknowledged his customers with so much of a hello or a nod.

Are you familiar with that phrase, jack of all trades, master of none? At just a cursory glance of the menu, folks most likely snicker and challenge the notion that Shopsins could craft such a plethora of dishes with great success. The three of us held those doubts as well until we feasted upon the food before us. We can't validate the quality of every item on the menu of course, but we can vouch for the "Petes" and the "Singapore." "Go easy on him," I casually warned to the fellow who took our order, his boyish looks made grim from the absence of a smile. "What do you mean," he snapped back? It was then at this juncture that I realized I put my foot in my mouth. What was I thinking, aiming my eccentric barbs toward the moodiest servers in all of Manhattan? "Oh you know, Pete, ha ha ha" I replied, my voice quivering. "I have a wry sense of humor." Ethan and Barry shot me a bloodcurdling look. The guy's expression didn't budge. His face remained stoic and he walked away in a slight huff, not having the patience to contend with such trifles. "I need to remember that not everyone gets or appreciates my brand of humor," I remarked with a shrug. My dining companions nodded and smiled in an "I told you so" fashion.

Back to the grub. As we enveloped ourselves in Shopsins's funhouse environment, we heard the chief curmudgeon grumble. "Singapore," Kenny announced as both a question and an exclamation. "That's that soy sauce shit." Such crassness is what makes both Kenny and Shopsins unique Manhattan attractions. A favorite dish of Ethan's, the Singapore is a more glamorous name for kaya toast, a breakfast staple consumed by Singaporeans and Malaysians. At Shopsins, the result is authentic enough. On one section, the ergonomically shaped dish held the "sandwich" of toast, cut in half and slathered on both sides with a luscious coconut jam. The shallow side of the plate contained the "dipping sauce," an outrageously head-tripping puddle of soy sauce topped with impeccably soft boiled eggs. Believe me, the pairing of the sweet and salty flavors is more satisfying than that of a chocolate-covered pretzel. "The Petes" is a series of garlic bread decorated with three poached eggs and a specialty topping. Both of the Petes that Barry and I ordered arrived as gargantuan sized breads covered in substantial cuts of meat and loaded with minced garlic and melted butter. Barry snuck in with the "Sneaky Pete," complete with Monterey Jack cheese, bacon, tomatoes and scallions. My adorable "Little Bo" Pete was adorned with lamb, mint and scallions. The eggs were poached to jiggly perfection and the lamb meat was tender to the bite. I could sniff the aroma of mint as soon as my plate clinked on the counter. Though the edge of the bread was burnt to a crisp, it produced the ultimate crunchy experience.

We ended our meal happy and unscathed, despite my earlier blunder. And our new fellow foodies still landed their table, despite their friend arriving late. We exchanged vital stats with another before we left and since then, have formed an unofficial foodies club. I'd love to approach Kenny Shopsin and personally thank him for bridging we gastro fiends together. To that, he'd probably let out a thunderous, "Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever, shut the F up."




Shopsins
120 Essex St.
New York, NY 10002
Ph: N/A (gasp!)
Web site: www.shopsins.com