From the New York Times website, ‘Clouds hover in the corner of Joe’s Steam Rice Roll, inside a narrow mini-mall in Flushing, Queens. A single rice noodle fills a steaming tray as big as a newspaper, one broadsheet, wobbly like custard and so thin that it’s nearly see-through. A brandishing of two bowl scrapers and it’s peeled from the metal, rolled into a long tube, chopped, and slipped onto paper plates. This is Cantonese-style Cheong fun, street food, and dim-sum perennial. The noodle is floppy and springy, with meat and maybe a fistful of bean sprouts and corn hidden in its folds and a chef’s adjudication of the necessary sweet soy sauce — sometimes just a stain, sometimes a deluge. You can buy it in its simplest form for $1.50 in Manhattan’s Chinatown, from carts that ply the sidewalks of Hester, Rutgers, or Centre Streets, or from the Sun Hing Lung tofu factory’s takeout window on Henry Street, although you have to get there before it closes by midafternoon. The versions at Joe’s, starting at $4, could almost be considered expensive. But they have an earthiness and elasticity that I haven’t found elsewhere. They flop but don’t droop; you can sink your teeth into them and slurp.’
Need to add Joe’s Steam Rice Roll to the QUNS and NY JSON files.
Joe’s Steam Rice Roll
Address: 136-21 Roosevelt Ave, Landmark Quest Mall # A1, Flushing, NY 11354
Phone: (646) 203-7380
From the New York Times website, ‘Clouds hover in the corner of Joe’s Steam Rice Roll, inside a narrow mini-mall in Flushing, Queens. A single rice noodle fills a steaming tray as big as a newspaper, one broadsheet, wobbly like custard and so thin that it’s nearly see-through. A brandishing of two bowl scrapers and it’s peeled from the metal, rolled into a long tube, chopped, and slipped onto paper plates. This is Cantonese-style Cheong fun, street food, and dim-sum perennial. The noodle is floppy and springy, with meat and maybe a fistful of bean sprouts and corn hidden in its folds and a chef’s adjudication of the necessary sweet soy sauce — sometimes just a stain, sometimes a deluge. You can buy it in its simplest form for $1.50 in Manhattan’s Chinatown, from carts that ply the sidewalks of Hester, Rutgers, or Centre Streets, or from the Sun Hing Lung tofu factory’s takeout window on Henry Street, although you have to get there before it closes by midafternoon. The versions at Joe’s, starting at $4, could almost be considered expensive. But they have an earthiness and elasticity that I haven’t found elsewhere. They flop but don’t droop; you can sink your teeth into them and slurp.’
Joshua Weissman (YouTube)