SAVORY JUICES GREASED WITH RENDERED FAT RUSHED ARDENTLY OUT OF THE MEAT… A NOSTRIL FULL OF AROMA AS A MIXTURE OF CUMIN, CHILI, GARLIC, AND THE IRRESISTABLE SMELL OF CRISPED CHICKEN SKINS SENT ME INTO AN ANGRY SPIRAL OF REGRETS AND RESENTMENTS
In AA they say, there are twelve steps to recovery. Well, this fried chicken is my Step Nine.
Specifically, if you (hopefully) aren’t familiar, this is a stage where the recoveree make direct amends to people whom they had harmed, wherever possible, as a part of the process to obtain emotional balance and closure.
So here I stand, almost two years into my recovery from six traumatic years in Beijing, I am ready to talk about this fried chicken.
To start from the beginning, I first saw these fried chickens inside a supermarket a few blocks away from our apartment in Beijing. Calling that place a supermarket is a gross exaggeration whereas a glorified convenience store would be more appropriate, but for six long years, I passed by that supermarket about once a week on a conservative average, and I consistently dismissed the peculiar stall that was tucked in a dingy corner by the entrance with a sign that read, “Meixiang Fried Chicken“.
Peculiar indeed, not because there was a random fried chicken stall inside a suspicious convenience store, but that as ambiguous as it was, almost everyday around 3pm, there would be a line cued up at its greasy window, as long and meandering as my bafflement. Typically, a line exceeding 15% of the total crowd-size stretching the entire block, is a mathematic proof good enough to send me into investigation, but feeling prejudice towards this entire city in general, I thought either this fried chicken was an understated treasure, or these people were out of their minds.
TENDER EDIBLE CLOUDS MADE WITH CHICKEN BREASTS?!! WHAT IS THIS WIZARDRY, DANNY?!
Holy shit, did you watch Season Six ofMind of a Chef with Danny Bowien from Mission Chinese Food?
Did you see where his mentor Yu Bo, in episode two, turned a puddle of pink chicken-slush into pillows of fluffy-looking curds, something they call, chicken tofu?!
Did you gush outloud, tender edible clouds made with chicken breasts?!! No special curd-forming acid or salt required, virtually fat-free, and answers the prayers of millions of suffering souls of how to triple the volume of two pieces of chicken breasts without adding much more calories, but more importantly, transforming its woodsy nature into custardy, melt-in-your-mouth, weightless pillows of savory delights?!!!
Did you close your eyes and imagine exhaustively of what it’s like to cuddle the impossibly light and quilted bodies in between your tongues, a dream that feels unreal but known to be true?!!
Did you marvel?!
Did you cry?!
Did you say oh please baby Jesus dear Lordy, can someone please tell me how this wizardry is performed?!!
Well, guess what, you’re welcome.
And the spicy version drenched in chili oil, you’re double welcome.
A couple weeks ago, I wondered my way into a small break from cooking. For no particular reason than because, over one morning coffee, I felt it was called for. People talk about the ferocity of love and passion a lot, in all forms and sizes that drives humanity for what it’s worth, rising in salute for its consuming, inconvenient, majestic torment and glory. But what fuels it, what fuels love and passion, is often less marketable.
At certain points, what fuels passion is simply absence.
THE AU JUS… AND THE THOROUGHNESS OF ITS RAMPAGE DOWN THE RECEPTIVE PORES OF A TOASTED ITALIAN ROLL, DETERMINES WHETHER THIS IS A SANDWICH WITH PORK, OR,
A ROAST PORK SANDWICH
So I took a break, cruising. I didn’t think about cooking other than making basic sustenances. I rubbed my dogs‘ heads a lot. I binge-watched two Netflix original series eating junk foods. I rekindled with the familiar joy of ordering take-outs. Holding a brown bag of meal No. 2 and a large diet coke, I waited, on the curb, for the lights to turn.
To be exact, Philadelphia-style roast pork sandwich shop in Brooklyn. And by “bumped into”, I really just meant, like everything else nowadays, that I saw it on Instagram.
It spoke to me. I took one look at this monstrous, ageless battle of meat VS bun, and I felt the jolt of adrenaline seeping back into my veins. I wanted to cook this sandwich.
For the record, once again, I have not had a Philadelphia roast pork sandwich in my entire life. Hence, this recipe is not based on any single one of your particularly preferred joint, especially not Fedoroff’s. In fact, I’m dead certain that my approach to this beloved classic is as offensive to its disciples as inserting hot dogs onto a margarita pizza. No one intact trunk of meat to marvel over!? No searing before roasting!? Oh sweet mother of Jesus, ginger? Fish sauce!?
Why? First of all, it just makes more sense. To come to this conclusion, you have to be willing to let go of a few fairy tales about roasting. No 1, there’s no such thing as “locking in the juice”. Meats don’t get sealed. They’re not sexual scandals. Legitimately, they can get seared/caramelized/browned for more complex flavors, but if you think that’s going to stop their juice from leaving the mothership in the oven (the antidote to that would be super low temperature but that’s not the story today), I’m afraid this is the adult’s equivalent of realizing there’s no Santa claus. Besides, why make the futile effort to “seal”, when au jus, or aka, drippings is exactly what we are gunning for?
Oh geez, in between life in general and an unexpectedly eventful visit to my OBGYN which involved an adorably named chocolate cyst, I’m going to quickly leave you with, nonetheless, a recipe for my favorite thing to eat these days. This is a dish inspired by a restaurant called Neighborhood in Hong Kong’s central district, which serves predominantly French bistro-style dishes with a spritz of Japanese infusion, and in this case, classic beef tartare served with fresh sea urchin roe on top. For the record, I have NOT had this particular dish at the restaurant. It wasn’t offered on the menu by the time I visited, and so I created my own rendition at home. The major difference is that their standard beef tartare is mixed with chopped raw oysters, which I omitted because fresh oysters just isn’t something that Hong Kong markets excel at, and for the many times that I’ve pushed my luck, I wish I hand’t, so.
But, having said that, you’ve got to try this. I would want to sell you on how the creamy sweetness and foie gras-like richness of the sea urchin blend almost biblically beautiful with the irony savoriness of the beef tartare, and how the infusion of the two, including the cold and silky touches it feels on your taste buds, comes to a marvelous clash with the warm crunches of the toasted baguette. And I could go on.
But the truth is, if you’re my kinda people, it had us at hello.
THE EXPERIENCE IS BETWEEN EATING A SALAD AND DRINKING A COLD GLASS OF GATORADE
I don’t eat salads.
I think that’s quite self-evident on this blog. But even a non-salader like me feels a tinge of excitements as pomelo season approaches, the citrus giant with enormous and voluptuous pulps that burst with sweet, floral and faintly bitter juices resembling a lemony grapefruit. For the record, I’m not a fan of grapefruit, which is why I’m not particularly excited about pomelo’s potential as a stand-alone fruit course. But what gets my buzz going is its potential to be a fantastic savory treat.
Pomelo is rarely too sweet, and it carries an uniquely floral and bitter note that blends wonderfully with other more robust or rich-tasting ingredients that seek a refreshing medium. Take herbs salad for example, flavorfully too sharp and aggressive most of the times to be a dish on its own, but together with pomelo, it becomes a juicy and rounded symphony tapping on all the right notes in a cascading, orchestrated tempo. First thing that hits the senses is the pungent saltiness of the fish sauce and shallots anointed with olive oil, which escalates along the individually distinctive sharp bites from the assorted fresh herbs, too sharp, almost, if it isn’t immediately awash with sweet and quenching juices with the rupture of each pomelo pulps. The experience is a marriage between eating a salad and drinking a cold glass of gatorade.
A refreshing and guilt-free lunch on an overheated autumn day, but I know that it cries to be an equal partner alongside heavy and rich pre-winter dishes like roast pork belly or braised short ribs. And next year, you’ll be counting the days for its arrival.
I KNOW IT DOESN’T LOOK MUCH. I PROBABLY WOULD’VE BYPASSED IT IF I WASN’T STUCK IN AMSTERDAM. BUT I’M GLAD I WAS. AND I KNOW YOU WILL, TOO
I’ve been to Amsterdam. For a total of 18 hours. I don’t know what people do during an overnight layover in a city they know nothing about, and I knew nearly nothing about Amsterdam.
However, pancake, seems to be a thing.
What did I know about “Amsterdam pancake”, or as I later found out, pannenkoeken? Not much, really, aside from that it’s starkly different from the verticality of common stacked pancakes, in fact, it’s one of the flattest stand-alone foods I’ve came across. And in my long years of hunting for culinary clues, when something spreads so unseemly, so 2D, so unornamented to a point of bleakness, yet is still adored as “a thing”, further investigation is warranted. And rest assured, I was not disappointed. To clarify upfront, during the only few hours of daytime we had, we only tried Amsterdam pancake once, from an unresearched, random cafe close to our Airbnb apartment, and had only a single pancake with cheese which we shared. All in all, what I’m trying to say is, I am no expert. But from the moment since the waitress placed something that looked exactly like this in front of us, as unflatteringly as it came, and I tore a small corner from the edge and put it faithfully in my mouth, I couldn’t stop thinking about it.
Chewy. Chewy was the first word that came to mind. But soft though, really soft. A combination of textures that, from the start, was already far more interesting than any of the spiritless associations of common pancakes, say, pfff, fluffy. Flavor-wise, it wasn’t exceedingly eggy like Dutch baby or french crepe, nesting comfortably in the natural and mild sweetness of wheat flours and milk. I also couldn’t stop thinking about how daringly minimal it presented itself on the table, a bare blanket of confidence with nothing else but a few slices of melted Dutch gouda on top, almost making a statement, declaring its independence from BS, secure with assurance. It felt playful to eat, interacting, but comfortable, like having a conversation with a soft-spoken but funny stranger who underdressed with ease, while the whole time I wondered if it was too weird to ask if we could be friends for life.
And that’s exactly what I did. All eight times of trials and errors. It felt funny going after something, with this much effort, when I wasn’t even sure if it’s a classic representation in its category. Is this thepannenkoeken? I have no idea. But I don’t really care. I just want to find my way to back to that particular one that I really liked. It was expectedly tricky to replicate that softly chewy texture which I hold as a key to its charm, leading to a combined conclusion of both wheat flour and potato starch in the batter.
I know it doesn’t look like much. And I probably would’ve bypassed it if I wasn’t stuck in a city full of it. But I’m glad I was. And I know you will, too.
SOUTHEAST ASIAN AROMATICS, KOREAN CHILI PASTE, INDIAN SPICES, GREEK YOGURT, ITALIAN SUN-DRIED TOMATOES, CHINESE ANISES, AND IN THE END, A LITTLE PUSH OF ALL AMERICAN CHEESE. AN OTHER-WORLDLY CURRY THAT TASTES LIKE THE PINNACLE OF HUMANITY
I’d like to introduce you to world peace curry.
Why? Because curries are better than humans. Curries know how to coexist in unity. Even though at a glance it feels like an impossibility, a chaos without logics, a discord of competing self-interests and cultural clashes, but curries always find a way to be the most delicious repeal of our disbelief. Don’t believe me? I put it to the test. An unlikely coalition of southeast Asian aromatics, Korean chili paste, Indian spices, Greek yogurt, Italian sun-dried tomatoes, Chinese anise seeds, and in the end, an intrusion of American cheese?! It should end in war but instead, it rejoices slowly and bubblingly in a lusciously rich, creamy, intensely aromatic, complex yet beautifully balanced alliance of flavors, savoriness and tang. It tastes like the pinnacle of humanity, our best hope for world peace even against our cynical judgements. And also, perhaps most importantly, the best you’ll ever put in your mouth.
I haven’t eaten tuna for almost 10 years. Except one time in Hawaii when/where it was responsible. Unless you’ve been living under a rock, or conveniently turning a blind eye, you should know exactly what I’m talking about.
It is estimated that by 2050, a large number of species of wild fish, tuna especially, will be gone. That statement was made more than a decade ago. It still stands. Are we better than locusts? The question is, are we worse?
So why am I, a hypocrite on all accounts, posting a recipe that involves tuna? Because I see it now no longer as a question. But instead, an opportunity.
I first came across the inspiration of a “tuna-sando sauce” from an espisode of Mind of A Chef on Gabrielle Hamilton, where she made the Italian dish maiale tonnato, thinly sliced pork served with a mayonnaise-based sauce flavored with canned tuna. I was instantly intrigued. It was one of those instances where, without actually tasting something, I felt certain about its sublimity, the velvety texture of a sauce that is the sum of all that is awesome about a tuna sandwich but minus the bread and the gritty mouth-feel, the silky-smooth grown-up twin of a childhood favorite, the 2.0 of that inexplicably enticing flavor that have satisfied all palates across the world. Plus served with pork? I knew it’d work. It’s genius. Especially, in my imagination, with a thick-cut slab of marbled pork chop that is deeply and glisteningly caramelized in browned butter infused with fresh bay leaves and garlics. I die.
So I spent two years, diligently, not making it.
After all, I’ve been celebrating my tuna-sobriety for a decade. Not even a piece of hard-core, fat-laden toro could break me let alone this soft porn. So I guess, that rounds us back again to why do it now. The answer is simple. Because I realized me not eating or writing about tuna is as helpful as a don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy. The world simply doesn’t care that I quietly don’t eat tuna. Over the years, I still see tuna sashimi continuously flying off of the rack from my supermarkets. I still witnessed the rise of tuna poke-bowls walked through walls of social responsibility without a drop of effort or tear. I still have friends who, I’m not sure whether intentionally or helplessly, order tuna again and again at gatherings despite my rejection. I’d be lucky not to get a lecture from them let alone changing their minds.
I realized, thing is, no one can stop the world from eating tuna. The world does not deal in the absolute, but only in compromise. If anything, one can only possibly hope that it’s consumed responsibly.
So I’m taking this post as a chance to say this. If you cannot not eat tuna, at least, make sure that it’s from a sustainable source. And if you can’t be sure, then seriously, don’t do it. It’s just fucking tuna, not a limb or dick. It isn’t all that hard to cut loose.
I dragged for two weeks before posting this recipe, because even with all the precautions taken to buy the tuna from a sustainable source or to talk to you about it, this could still be considered, on some level, a promotion to eat tuna. And there’s no way for me to be sure that nobody who loves the idea of a sauce that tastes like tuna sandwich as much as me, wouldn’t just grab a dubiously sourced can from their local grocery stores. So if that happens, it’s on me. Yet, so what if I don’t post this? Just a bleep of silence, one less tuna recipe out of a million and that’s supposed to be heard, let alone make a change?
So I chose to post it. Not only it’s an opportunity to speak to those who come here to decide what’s for dinner, but also, as a member of the food-blog community which touches this subject all too rarely, it’s an opportunity to remind us all again that, not just our actions but more so, how our inactions matter. Maybe you’re a food-blogger like me who’s never posted a tuna-recipe before. Or, maybe you’ve posted recipes of tuna because it’s a popular ingredient, maybe you know about the issue of overfishing and maybe you choose not to mention it, either because it’s off-putting or that you’re scared it will give your readers an incentive not to share it, and maybe, that will hurt your traffic and followers, or maybe, you just don’t give a shit. We’ve all been there. We all still do it.
But our maybe’s are deadlier than a nuclear bomb. Because it will play a part in rendering the ocean fishless. You think North Korea is scary. We should see what’s on our plates.
Look, am I a hypocrite? Sure I am, I’m no vegan. But not being able to do 100% is no excuse to do zero. Even a hypocrite can do the right thing. Starting with, we should at least give a fuck.
This recipe is good. Really good. And if you have the faintest hope to enjoy it for years to come, make this recipe responsibly. Or not at all.
