This husband-and-wife team does business one day a week, with only two items, beef tripe soup and this beef-based black pudding. Many varieties of blood sausages, as they are also known, are prepared throughout the Caribbean. The texture of this Antiguan version, stuffed with chile-and-scallion-inflected rice, was reminiscent of a just-boiled Cajun boudin.
Since mine had been withdrawn from the pot immediately before serving, the contents could be squeezed from the casing with only light pressure from my fingers — no utensils needed. One link, scored for easy tearing and sharing, will set you back $5; the extra piece in the center was the proprietors' lagniappe.
Antiguan vendors Inside Cholo & Sons Bakery, 3825 White Plains Rd. (at 220th St.), Olinville, Bronx Saturday only
The all-beef Sabrett's dogs are the smallish sort, perhaps 10 or 12 to the pound; they're boiled, but probably not kept on a full simmer; and the cheese echoes the startling yellow of the truck. This so-called belly buster ($2.35) is also dressed with kraut, hot onions, and a particularly hot chili — hot enough that you'll snap to and take notice, whatever the hour.
JJ's Hot Dogs Truck parked on Bloomfield Ave. near Lake St., Newark, New Jersey Open every day, except on major holidays, till late www.JJsHotDogs.com
My first Italian knish, earlier this month at Ferragosto, traced its origins to Brownsville, Brooklyn. Back in the day, when "Brownsville was a veritable melting pot of many ethnicities," a neighbor's shared knish recipe was modified with Italian fillings. I've since learned of at least one current New York pizzeria that does much the same.
For this street-food version, a standard knish is sliced open, then dressed with griddled onions and peppers ($3) and an optional segment of sausage, hot or sweet ($2 more). In other words, here the knish itself stays the same; a familiar Italian sandwich is transformed by dispensing with the bread.
Dulce de papaya, piña, y pasas de uva (pequeño, $1.50). For her tiny stand — it's little more than a folding pushcart and a comfortable chair — the soft-spoken Dominican confectioner also prepares the granular style of dulce de leche.
Dominican sweets vendor Near the southwest corner of St Nicholas Ave. with 181st St., Manhattan Mid to late afternoon is your best best
A freshly pounded green papaya salad, one table over, would have been a healthier choice, but I couldn't resist the sizzle. I did, ultimately, resist the split grilled duck heads, which often are too much effort without a compensatory beer. (In Flushing, other styles of duck head are sometimes available at Tianjin Dumpling House, on the lower level of the Golden Mall, and at Prince Noodle House.)
(Updated with a savory bite). Earlier in the day, I would have ordered differently. Late on a hot sunny afternoon, my shaved ice ($3) was replete with candied winter melon, crushed peanut, condensed milk, and all the colorful jiggly add-ins you'd expect. For the clientele of the day, walkby customers at a typical Upper West Side street fair, this weekly popup ducked the issue of how to transliterate the name — yaykae thoke? yeykhe thohk? — with the easy-to-pronounce "Burmese frozen delights."
Around brunchtime, however, the more exciting prospects would be fresh paratha and vegetable fritters. The proprietor and his wife prepared these for many years at the Myanmar Baptist Church fun fair when it was held in a Briarwood, Queens, backyard. In recent years the annual fair has moved indoors, where propane is forbidden and the paratha are simply not the same. Burmese Bites returns those flaky flatbreads to the great outdoors, once a week.
On a return visit, at another far-flung Manhattan street fair: freshly flipped, folded, and griddled paratha (comped, regularly $4) with yellow peas. The gourds in the background, harvested from a relative's home garden, were destined for fritters.
On a hot day in another neighborhood, a double line of traffic at a long light might be an opportunity to trot out bottles of water; here it was an occasion for quenepas. Stripped of its thin green rind, the quenepa (keh-Nay-pah) reveals a pulpy mass that smacks of sweet lime and banana. Worked around in the mouth, it offers precious little juice and a rather large pit.
Buy quenepas for the road, and ultimately you'll be left with a bagful of rinds and pits, and sticky fingers to boot. If not refreshed, at least you'll have a good grip on the wheel.
Some like it runny: Though this pastry is named for a fish, inflected by parsley and capers, and accompanied by tabouli and a trio of sauces, the featured ingredient is egg. My Algerian-style tuna brick ($8) — often spelled brik, sometimes briq — was fresh from the fryer, and the folds of warqa, a stiff cousin to filo, were too hot to handle at first.
Eating brick with the fingers, and not with a knife and fork, is de rigueur, and by the time I managed a few bites, hélas, the egg had cooked through. A quicker-thinking fellow would have pushed aside the tabouli and cradled his brick in the lettuce leaf underneath.