An afternoon in Jackson Heights and Little Manila, Queens
New York isn’t merely the city that never sleeps. It is in fact a mindblowing, jaw-dropping international food paradise. And while pizza, halal carts, pastrami sandwiches, bagels and other celebrated forms of local nourishment should be on your culinary itinerary when visiting, in a city with a population as spectacularly vast and varied as New York, true eaters should not limit themselves to such standard fare. Yes, Manhattan alone may have a gamut of establishments offering topshelf versions of every type of cuisine you could possibly want, a venture out of the city’s most popular borough reveals gastronomic delights that may be even more interesting.
Brooklyn is chockablock with everything from West Indian jerk pork, Pakistani biryanis, Uzbekh plov, Trinidadian roti, and Uyghur lamb skewers. The Bronx is home to the original Little Italy, and Dominican and Puerto Rican eateries are plentiful there, where these Latinx Caribbean cuisines are collectively referred to by locals as “Spanish food.” But when it comes to the sheer level of diversity of food, languages, and cultures, there is simply no debate. Queens wins.
The New York City borough of Queens holds the Guinness Book of Records title for the most ethnically diverse urban area of the world, with at least 160 languages and dialects, from Chavacano to Cretan, spoken. There is a collection of dynamic neighborhoods in Queens, from Ridgewood to Flushing (which also feels essentially like mainland China), but in terms of melting pot intensity, the zone known as Jackson Heights in Western Queens may take the cake.
Getting off the F train at Roosevelt Heights station, I’m almost surprised that I don’t have to walk through passport control, as the landscape has transformed completely. I am now in the ‘independent nation’ of Jackson Heights, a foreign but equally bustling world from the gleaming concrete jungle of Manhattan just a few stops before. For a good twenty blocks outside the station down Roosevelt ave, it feels like Tijuana or Guatemala City. English is virtually non-existent. Signs for legal immigrations services, seafood cocktails, and cell phone providers are all in Spanish. The sidewalks are lined with Ecuadorian and Mexican eateries, ceviche stands, and bargain clothing of all shapes and sizes. Notably, there are many dive bars manned by skimpily dressed barmaids from Bogota or Medellin, pouring beer and entertaining lonely Hispanic locals, reggaeton on full blast. Walk the other direction and the Latin influence trickles off and the scene becomes decidedly South Asian; Tibetan chilli chicken and dumplings, Bengali kebabs and Indian sweetshops are common. Even further down is the strip of road known as Little Manila.
Just a few months ago, the intersection between 70th and Roosevelt was officially named Little Manila Avenue, paying homage to the Filipino community who established businesses and moved to the area in the 1970s. Visitors will be greeted by posters featuring a familiar, cheerful-looking cartoon bee, the iconic mascot of Jollibee, a fast food brand rapidly making a name for itself throughout the world, but especially in America, where its famous fried chicken and unorthodox take on spaghetti have gained a cult following amongst the local population. It is mid-afternoon and the Jollibee Jackson Heights outlet is crammed with a mixed customer base. Groups of elderly Filipinos enjoying merienda, white and black American families sharing buckets of Chicken Joy, Mexicans laborers standing in line, unsure of what to order. Other Filipino quick service restaurant chains like Red Ribbon and Max’s Fried Chicken also have set up shop in Jackson Heights.
Nearby, there’s a salon appropriately called Gwapa where middle-aged pinays are getting their weekend pedicures with a healthy dose of tsismis. The seductive aroma of pork barbeque wafts through the air as I walk past pinoy groceries, fish ball vendors and turoturos where Fil-Am couples scour for dinner to take home. Feeling peckish, I stop for a meal of crispy pork sisig, laing and garlic rice at Renee’s Kitchenette, a beloved Kapampangan-owned eatery, famous for the aforementioned sisig, silogs and grilled meats.
Noticing me snapping away with my phone like a wide-eyed tourist, a trio of eccentric, pensioned men selling nuts and vegetable lumpia pull me over and start chatting in Tagalog. Once pleasantries are established, it becomes clear that the men are tipsy, enjoying happy hour while people-watching and slinging peanuts. From behind their street cart, they offer me a cold-looking bottle of Modelo, which I eventually accept. Their Filipino accents are incredibly thick despite having been away from the old country for 40, 50 years. One of them introduces himself as famed Filipino singer Freddie Aguilar. The other says he is a doctor and a psychic. I’m unsure if this is nonsensical drunkspeak or if they are serious. The men invite me to a live Gary V concert that evening which I politely decline. It’s getting late and time for me to part with my inebriated countrymen. I board the F train armed with a bag of freshly baked pandesal and plenty of leftovers.
