Tamales Ebenezer

Don’t expect any change back after you buy tamales from these street sellers, who flog Tamales out of a little basket at hours so early that only a New Yorker would ever be awake. They don’t give change, and are very stingy in general, especially around Xmas time. Hence the name «Tamales Ebenezer» which is of course a short form of their full name, «Tamales Ebenezer Scrooge.»
What to get: a Tamale, genius.
What else: Demand your change.
I’m only kidding of course. They’re lovely people, these Ebenezers. Nothing like Scrooge McDuck at all. Speaking of duck, you should always DUCK when in the Bronx, especially if getting a Burek at «Duck-​a-​genie» Burek. There are a few places in The Bronx that I will make a pilgrimage up here for. Ebenezer is one, Burek is another, along with Gyro King, Greek Express (for a Gyro), El Atoradero for Mexican, S & S Cheesecake, and Louie & Ernie’s Pizza.
If it was «Tamales Ebb And Flow» then sometimes they’d be here, sometimes they wouldn’t. Which is about right.
So basically, Tamales Ebenezer is at 353 E 138^th, in South Bronx which is a largely Hispanic neighborhood (like Spanish Harlem just across the Harlem River), and it’s not actually the store — which is La Merced Mexicana — but it’s an old woman and her son and a few others rotating, who come out here whether it’s freezing snow or scaldingly summerly hot, and they sell Tamales out of a basket to the early morning crowd. Get a Tamal Rojo (the red kind) if they’re not sold out, or a Tamal Verde (green of course). Unbelievably good.
If it was «Tamales Ebonics» then it would be very popular with rappers and soul artists.
And my word, these tamales are heavenly. They have dripping luscious red spicy sauce inside, which is why in some regions of Mexico they call them «Tamales On Their Period.» Don’t blame me, I didn’t come up with that, they did. OK, I did, but don’t tell anyone. Seriously though. We’re talking melt-​in-​your-​mouth, tender meat, dreamy corn, wet and juicy, just the way a Bronx girl should be. Oh wait, I mean a Bronx Tamale. But you know what I mean.
If it was «Tamales Ebay» then you’d be able to buy them online, unfortunately… you can’t.
One of the undiscovered gems in all of New York City, and one of the highlights of visiting the Bronx. You have to be up here early to get one, but it’s well worth it.
If it were «Tamales Elbows» then it would sell pasta… or new joints for your arm. But it doesn’t.
A word of warning, it took me several attempts before I even found it. But I found it, oh, how I found it. And it was worth all of the failed attempts. So come and find it for yourself and when you do, spare a thought for the awesome Lawrence C, who put this place on the map, on Unilocal,and without whom, I never would have found it. That’s why I love Unilocal.
And if it were «Tamales Ebola» then I would not advise coming here. Thank goodness it’s not.
Please come and get a Tamale here, before it goes away forever.

Under the railroad tracks, in the south Bronx, in the driving rain, at 7:15 on a Monday morning. The happiest moment of my day.
This thanks to a post on the blog The Eaten Path, a rhapsody on a street tamale vendor I could visit as a detour on my way to work. Why not, right? Here was one darned good reason: the weather report that morning. Well, I never back down from a self-​appointed food task. Still, as the 6 train crawled up from Midtown, through the UES and East Harlem, under the Harlem River… Doubt echoed in my head — would the tamales even be there?
The subway disgorged me into unfamiliar territory. Opaque clouds hung overhead in ominous shades and contours, spilling large raindrops that pelted me angrily. I shivered in my yellow raincoat, by far the brightest color I could see in the dismal weather except maybe the NYPD blue of the cars of the 40^th Precinct at the station beside me.
I trudged onward. Projects loomed above while locked-​down storefronts provided a blighted eye-​level view. I wasn’t totally clear on where the tamales would be. «In front of La Merced Mexicana,» was the only guidance I’d found online, from a possibly out-​of-​date source. Ah, there was La Merced’s awning… But no people in front. I fought with my disappointment.
Then I looked again. What at first glance I took to be a pile of trash on the sidewalk was perched on a rickety wooden table. Odd place for garbage. A gust of wind momentarily ruffled a black trash bag into revealing what was inside, a metal steamer. Pulse quickening, I examined the scene more closely and found, quietly sitting on La Merced’s stoop, a young man and older woman. The mother/​son I’d read about. They were here.
I rushed over. «Tamales?!»
“Si,” the son said. The words cut through the sound of pouring rain and reached genuinely grateful ears. «Chicken, pork???»
The blog post came back to me. They offered regular tamales and a popular Oaxacan version with mole that often would sell out by 9AM. I accordingly ordered a chicken tamale oaxaqueno («tamal rojo»). He reached into the big steamer and took out a burrito-​sized bundle covered in foil. I handed over $ 2. The mother took it with a hint of a smile.
Only the end-​times weather kept me from eating it on the spot. As it was, I needed shelter, so I headed back the way I came, passing the police station, until I found a raised set of LIRR tracks to hunker under. While unwrapping my food, I noticed a parking lot across the way filled with NYC taxis. «So this is where they roost,» I thought.
Then the tamale stole all my attention. Removing the foil revealed a tight swaddling of banana leaf. Its intoxicating aroma cut through all of the auto and train exhaust. More fiddling, and the banana leaf unfolded like an origami parlor trick, uncloaking the interior in a burst of steam.
So simple in appearance, the tamale. The masa corn meal is often just another bland layer in the Russian doll construction, but here it was creamy yet fluffy, redolent of the corn from which it had been ground. Shot through with flavorful (but somehow not spicy) ancho-​infused oil, it would’ve made for a complete meal in itself.
But the stewed dark-​meat chicken within kicked it to a whole new level. Strong but yielding, moist as can be, it even called to mind the word I usually reserve for uni and pork belly: unctuous. The sheer temperature of the foodstuff prevented me from swallowing it whole, so I was forced to savor my bites. And savor I did.
So often do I quest in NY for the pinnacle of various food arts, from burgers to sushi. Rare is the specimen which is so primal that it seems to render any further searching moot before I’ve even begun. To this august list I add Tamales Ebenezer.
Probability of return within 1 year: 80%, though maybe 100% if I get myself revved up about their «tamal verde» with spiced pork