Staten Island Restaurant Tour, Part XVI: Chinar on the Island (Old Town)

From Staten Island to Brooklyn.

The Verrazano-Narrows Bridge was the star of Old Town when I went for the latest episode of the Staten Island Restaurant Tour, my rail-centric comfort-food tour of New York’s most private borough. Though I must add that the Uzbek rice pilaf at Chinar on the Island was a worthy costar.

Worthy of a supporting actor nomination.

The story began with a brief detour to the Barclay Center in Brooklyn, which is nowhere near either Upper Manhattan where I was coming from or the neighborhood I was heading to in a northernish part of Staten Island’s East Shore. Subway snafu. I don’t want to talk about it. But I did get some free live music while I waited for the R to take me where I should have gone in the first place.

Bringing music to the masses.

It was not a hot time in the old town tonight, but rather, an unseasonably warm day in Old Town this afternoon. Originally known as Oude Dorp, or Old Village, it was originally settled by the Dutch, French Protestant Huguenots, and French-speaking Walloons. It is the home of the Staten Island Advance, the borough’s most powerful media outlet.

I have arrived.

I received a vigorous greeting from one of the island’s mercifully fenced-in pets. Small or large, they always give me their “what you doin’ here?” bark. This one was large.

And not friendly.

My route took me down Old Town Road, onto Quintard Street adjacent to Ocean Breeze Park — which I’d seen from the other side on my recent visit to nearby Dongan Hills — and finally down Olympia Boulevard where it intersected with Sand Lane.

I have arrived again — at Chinar.

While a walk to South Beach was a tempting prospect, my need to go to the bathroom trumped it. So this time sightseeing came after tasty grub at Chinar on the Island, presumably so named to distinguish it from another Chinar in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn. There are many restaurants with the same name worldwide. Chinar means different things in different languages. In Persian, the mother tongue of Iran, it refers to a plane tree. In the language of Kashmir, which falls in both India and Pakistan, it is the Sanskrit name for a goddess.

Classy handcrafted signage.

I was greeted with a sparkling smile by the guy manning the bar. It’s always great when you walk in the door and get treated like a celebrity, even when you’re decidedly not. Here’s the view from my seat. Centrally located indoor trees seem to be a decor trend in Staten Island restaurants — I’ve seen them once or twice before. Perhaps in this case they were meant to evoke a grove of chinar plane trees?

Theory unconfirmed at presstime.

The bread was so fresh and warm, its aroma wafted out of the basket before I’d even opened the black swaddling. One thing that distinguishes a quality restaurant is its relationship with a quality bakery.

Bread that appealed to three or four of the five senses.

Heavy on the dill and light on the salt, both of which I appreciated, the Uha sturgeon soup seemed to feature a chicken broth that probably didn’t come from a can, along with carrot, potato, and goodly lumps of expensive fish. It was delicious! Google describes the restaurant as Russian and Mediterranean, though when I inquired, I was told it was Georgian, Russian, and Uzbek. As someone who is a little bit German, a little bit Anglo, a little bit Scot, and a little bit Irish, though born in the United States, I get this.

Uha soup.

I had asked if this was an Uzbek restaurant (Uzbekistan being an independent Central Asian nation since 1991 and former Soviet republic) because of the Uzbek pilaf. It was graced with green flecks that were probably cilantro and red flakes that might have been red pepper though it was not fiery. The chef didn’t skimp on the tender meat. Did a fluffy creature that goes baaaaa contribute to a few lambswool sweaters before becoming my lunch? It wouldn’t have contributed to my cashmere ski cap — cashmere is from goats. Whatever the case may be, as an occasional but unrepentant carnivore, I am grateful for its sacrifice. I usually have lamb only on my birthday but my visit to Old Town somehow felt like a special day.

Uzbek rice pilaf — the food porn shot.

That it was a special day became even more apparent when I got to South Beach and marveled at its gazebo and view of both the Verrazano and what might be either Lower Bay or Gravesend Bay, depending on how you read Google Maps. They both communicate with the Atlantic. How I would love to hold hands with my sweetie under the gazebo. Or both of my sweeties. Or all three of my sweeties. But today, as on most of these jaunts, I was traveling solo.

The bridge and the gazebo.

Unlike Midland Beach, which I visited in the New Dorp episode, South Beach has a boardwalk! My urban feet approved. Its sensuous softness notwithstanding, sand is disorienting to feet accustomed to pavement. It interacted hallucinogenically with the progressive lenses in my glasses, though the camera lens didn’t feel the love in quite the same way. I’ve never dropped acid, so I wasn’t worried about a flashback. Just enjoying the natural high of a beautiful place in an underexplored borough in a city that is amazingly diverse in all the best ways.

How the lens saw it.

This dude was energetically digging in the sand. I didn’t intrude to ask why.

Does he need a reason on a day like this?

A jetty jutted out into whatever bay this was.

Folks out enjoying the weather.

It was in spectacularly dangerous condition. Did I obey the sign? I did not.

I was on a blogging mission, you see.

Father and son on the jetty.

A family moment.

Panorama shot, with slight tilt, on the jetty. As I hazardously and uneasily rotated with the phone camera, I was conscious of the fact that I could end up in the water, or on the moss-covered rocks, or maybe trip in those alarming canyons in the barely steel-reinforced concrete surface and fall on my face.

I’m a blogging fool.

Bridge in the distance as waves lap on the beach. A lady checked her phone. I recalled my walk on New Dorp’s Midland Beach when my phone buzzed in my pocket. It seemed a shame to look away from magnificent works of nature to contemplate human folly, but sometimes you just have to.

Bridge. Sand. Surf. Phone.

Tracks in the sand.

I hope this was a Parks Dept. vehicle. Beaches are not made to be driven on.

I said, I’m an anxious city dweller. The bridge said, hush. The waves said, rejoice and be glad in me.

I have a variation of that slogan in my bathroom.

A retired inkstained wretch can’t afford the fancy houses in Dongan Hills from the last episode. If I move to the island someday, perhaps I’ll end up in this public housing project a short walk from the beach. I’d miss the Upper West Side, but it wouldn’t be the worst thing that could happen to me. That would be another Thanksgiving with my family.

South Beach Housing, a NYCHA development.

Previously on the Staten Island Restaurant Tour:

Part I: Angelina’s (Tottenville)

Part II: Fina’s Farmhouse (Arthur Kill)

Part III: Laila (Richmond Valley)

Part IV: Il Forno (Pleasant Plains)

Part V: Breaking Bread (Prince’s Bay)

Part VI: Woodrow Diner (Huguenot)

Part VII: Il Sogno (Annadale)

Part VIII: Riva (Eltingville)

Part IX: Marina Cafe (Great Kills)

Part X: Do Eat (Bay Terrace)

Part XI: Canlon’s (Oakwood Heights)

Part XII: Prince Tea House (New Dorp)

Part XIII: Inca’s Peruvian Grille (Grant City)

Part XIV: Colonnade Diner (Jefferson Avenue)

Part XV: Baci (Dongan Hills)

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