Frank W.
Yelp
I enjoyed Kasthamandap. I have one friend in New York City -- I have made him a legend at the workplace in explaining the bounds of professional relationships, and perhaps people perceive him as fictitious, but the point is he is useless to me and vice versa, so we are friends in a pure sense -- and we eat out from time to time. What we look for are ethnic restaurants that are good, interesting, and cheap. Jackson Heights, Queens, is about the best place in the nation we could be engaged in this endeavor. I cannot praise it enough. I love New York City, I love Queens, and I love Jackson Heights. This is where people, now as in the past as in the future one hopes, reinvent themselves, becoming Americans through and through. Yet you can find the food of your grandparents, from wherever they may have come. That is not possible anywhere else. Since this business has no reviews as of yet, it may be new. Occam's Razor would suggest that explanation.
I believe it is important to have facts on hand before forming opinions to share. Even with experience, however, I want to be mindful of lack of expertise: I have eaten this type of food three times in my life, and I lack the cultural background to appreciate what I am tasting. I do not want to be one of the arrogant critics, or for that matter arrogant people, who feel entitled to comment about this or that with no sense of the context. Food critics for local newspapers are among the worst offenders in this regard. Even those who pause to mention they are bereft of knowledge nonetheless proceed as if they are authorities, or they rely on stereotypes ("lots of Asians there, so it must be good"). Thank goodness for a new generation of food writers who are aware they have an opportunity and a platform to discuss not only what is set before them but also the consequences of such consumption. Soleil Ho, for example, has been a pleasure to read. I had to look up the name of this venue. It is an homage to a shrine in Kathmandu.
At Kasthamandap, we wanted to try the blood sausage. I rarely pass up blood. Although many cultures prepare a dish with blood, it has fallen from favor. They were out for that very reason, The waiter explained not enough diners order it. So it spoils.
Instead, we had the goat intestines, which were less goat-y and less intestine-y than I had hoped for, though they were savory and would be too much for someone who did not have the stomach for organs (are intestines organs? I guess so). I'd eat it again. There was a bit of quite spicy pepper, enough for a surprise in a couple of bites. I had the fish. My friend had the traditional dumplings. We also split the pani puri, the hollow shells you fill yourself, with a stuffing of potato, chickpeas, and onions. These were all good. I'd bet there were seasoned less than would be customary, to accommodate the palates of those who, like me, are not regular eaters of these menu choices. They were not bland; they were simply not as pungent as they potentially could be -- though my prior foray into this culinary realm suggests the condiments may be more subtle.
The waiters were friendly and deferential. The music deserves mention. I would guess was selected by someone who was exposed at a certain age and in a specific era to American pop culture, and who became enamored of it then, because it was an eclectic mix from the 1980s, 1990s, and early aughts. It was played at high volume. My friend thought it detracted from the ambiance, but I enjoyed it as incongruous, the sort of mash up that occurs when Top 40 hits are exported without context.
I would try Kasthamandap again, except there is so much to sample in the neighborhood. I recommend it warmly and fondly.
