Wordplay for Dummies: Marrow Bones

I've been hitting the pavement hard for the last few weeks looking for a home. A city flat, some ridiculously priced collection of a couple hundred square feet in which to dwell.

Which is how I found myself at a god-awful development known best to South Slopers as a thief of all things neighborly. Before I can debate the horror of modern condo development, I'm stymied by the seller's grammatical indifference. The condo is named the Vue, which is a cutesy reference to their key asset (cuz it sure ain't the rusted nails coming out of the brand "nue" baseboard).

But it didn't stop there; the Vue's marketing information goes on and on about their infinite views. Infinite? Really? Does this building look at a sideways-leaning figure eight? Because views can't last forever (especially with the new building codes on 4th Street -- ba-dum-cha). I've fallen into the thesaurous trap from time to time but I've never printed my bettises on multi-million-dollar collateral. Then again, the real estate business has never been commended for its restraint.

Ah, words. They're on my mind now that I'm trying to sell a book. Complete with images of my ninth grade English teacher who once found it appropriate to write "This is DOY!!!" on a paper I'd written about Elie Weisel's Night. Appropriate? No. Insulting? Oh, yes. An insult using the lingo of the teenyboppers? Impressive, but sadly fell on ears that were already hanging on every word. Ouch, Mrs. Smith.

Last night, as I walked from midtown meeting to Union Square (because I could, because it was dusk, because Manhattan is a wonder), words were top of mind as I passed by a series street-meat vendors all named "Rafiqui's."

This chain-peddler has quietly taken over Manhattan. I found it hard to resist his spicy lamb scent as I walked past Rafiqui #12, but then I remembered my first freaky Rafiqui.

I should preface by that by admitting that a tasty combination of lamb and chicken with white sauce and hot sauce wrapped in a warm, thick pita was only $4.49. Bite 1: Good. Bite 2: Okay, the tomatoes were off, but my fault for not ordering better. By bite 3 I was removing bits of cartilage (or at least I hope it was cartilage) from my mouth. Haute cuisine it was not, nor had I expected it to be, but once food goes into my mouth, I don't intend to remove it.

Rafiqui makes ordering simple; the poster on the side of his cart offers six options: Lamb, Chicken, or Lamb/Chicken on pita, or Lamb, Chicken, Lamb/Chicken on rice. Echos of that other great American entrepreneur who felt that Americans could have any color they wanted as long as it was black.

And how did he title the options? "Rafiquis Simple Selection"? "Rafiquis Real Meals"? Oh no. Instead, it was "Rafiquis Most Favorites". It's almost hard to say that line without rolling your R and putting on some sort of an accent. But for Rafiqui, favorite just wasn't ample. I often wondered, in high school, how certain girls could have 24 best friends. How does that work? Well Rafiqui got it, and has opened up a successful business selling four things, six different ways, and having them all be his "Most Favorites". Good for him.

And then, like an oasis in the ocean, I see Anthony Bourdain's mecca, Les Halles. The wonderful thing about Les Halles (or at least about the more congested, authentic, and delightful former incarnation of Les Halles) is that a passer buy can also visit to buy a raw hanger steak, wrap it up, and cook it at home. Part restaurant, part restaurant-quality butcher.

I glided through the door, and asked the perky pretties in front if I could still buy meat to cook at home. "Nine to five" was my humourless retort. Weird. Sort of cuts down the spur-of-the-moment, on-the-way-home shopping experience. Should be open until 9, at least. If only Bourdain wasn't halfway around the world eating lightbulbs made of moondust, he'd understand.

Though saddenned, the moment could still be retrieved if only I could imagine my delight had I walked in fifteen minutes prior. Les Halles is a meat lovers bistro -- hangar steaks, offal, sweet breads. He had to have marrow bones. If only... I could have purchased a dozen, roasted some, frozen some, given one to the dog, and still had some for soup. Last time I bought marrow bones, they were 50 cents a pound. Oh, savory bliss.

"So you're closed. That's okay. For the future...do you have marrow bones?"

The host-ettes twisted their hair and rolled their eyes, like goddamn Violet Beauregardes. They were gum chewers, naturally.

"What's thaaaaat?" They scowled. "Weird."

No, marrow bones are not weird. They're a delight. What's weird is that these nincompoops were working at Les Halles and had no idea what a marrow bone was. But at time where "vues" are infinite, and hyperboles are modified with other hyporboles, I suppose I can't expect brilliance on Park Avenue.

Marrow Bones: You Know You Want Them

Marrow bones (3 for a snack, 6 for dinner and a heart attack, or roast a whole tray's worth for a party)
Salt

Preheat the oven to 425F. Season the stuff in the bones (the marrow) with salt. Put the bones on a roasting pan and place in the oven. Cook the bones until they're browned on the edges and warmed through, about 20 to 25 minutes for room temperature bones, depending on the size.

You can also enjoy these tossed in soup, especially vegetable soup. No one need tell the vegetarians.

Note: If you're preparing these for dogs, they're best enjoyed frozen.