WITH THAT DISTINCTIVELY FLORAL AROMA AND REMEDIAL RICHNESS THAT WORKS SO FLAWLESSLY WITH THIS TRADITIONAL SOUP, ELEVATING IT TO NEW HEIGHT
I’ve always pondered about almond, well, not specifically about what this word would mean to most of you, which is probably something like American sweet almond, with narrow leaf-drop shape and minimum coolosity inside what is already not-so-exciting trail mixes.
But I’m talking about what is also called “almond” in Asia. Same name, but entirely different characteristics. Asian almond is much smaller with flat heart-shaped profile, but most importantly, an immediate, elegant and floral scent separates itself from the American variety. You could identify that scent/flavour if you are familiar with almond extracts or some marzipans, unique, subjective, and hard to describe. Why both “almond” and yet so different? Well, because they aren’t the same thing to begin with.
American almond is the kernel of a fruit in the drupe family (Prunus dulcis) (see comments for extra information), whereas Asian almond is actually the kernel of apricot. And it’s extremely important to note that in Asia, even the word “almond” comes in two different, and mostly, dangerous distinctions. Southern almond (Prunus armeniaca L.), sweet, floral and nourishing, is the common ingredient we consume in both dessert or savory dishes. Whereas another variety called northern almond/bitter almond (Prunus armeniaca Linne var. ansu Maximowicz), smaller with an even stronger, bitter “almond-y” scent, is actually poisonous if ingested in large-enough quantity, and is only used in small amount for medicinal purposes. The reason why almond extracts taste/smell like Asian almond and not American almond, is because the extracts are mostly made from bitter almonds (but relax, the extracts are treated in order to neutralize the poisonous elements).
So, a bit of some boring, nerdy botany talk. But how does it all apply?
Deliciousness is what.
Have you heard of soulongtang? The Korean ox bone soup that is milky white as a result of hours and hours of rolling boil, reaching a state of emulsion between liquid and gelatin, protein and other minerals – very much the same as tonkotsu ramen broth. Well, that process is interesting to replicate, if you are one such individual with admirable persistence and disposable free time. But in this rare reality where convenience and optimal result can actually coexist, we can achieve this rich and deeply nourishing soup in a fragment of the time it takes, by adding almond milk. But not just any other boring, fake-ass, vanilla-falvoured almond milk sold in cartons please. I’m talking homemade Asian southern almond milk, with that distinctively floral aroma and remedial richness and depth that, exceeding my own expectation, works so flawlessly with this traditional soup, elevating it to new height.
There’s nothing else I want more than the warmth and comfort of this dish, in this dark and uncertain time that is January 2017. Hope you agree.
IT HITS JUST THE RIGHT SPOT, ONE OF THE FEW LEFT IN OUR HYPER-STIMULATED MINDS THESE DAYS, WHERE IT STILL ACCEPTS OR EVEN CRAVES PURITY
As we know that there are plenty for the taking, but this is perhaps – as far as I know and hopefully true – Jason’s most obsessed of all perverse Japanese creations, the menchi katsu.
Menchi, meaning “minced”, and katsu, is anything “breaded and fried”.
It exists in many different forms and spirits, each and one of them equally bizarre to the conventional wisdoms of the west, but one in particular, the menchi katsu sando / fried ground pork patty sandwich, will send many scratching their heads inside a Japanese convenience store. That is because its pure genius can only be realized upon one fateful encounter – one that reflects truly on its seemly simple but in fact, delicate preparations, and the childish yet complex satisfaction it plays on your tastebuds – which, unfortunately, can be a rare occurrence outside of Japan. Actually, outside of Japan, this idea sounds more desperate than anything else. Why do we want to fry a disk of ground pork – by the way, an almost comically massive disk of ground pork – then leave it with nothing else, and I mean absolutely nothing else, but just some tangy brown sauce in between two pieces of flimsy, flappy white breads? You’ll question its painful simplicity, whether is from desperation, or, by choice. Why not add something else to it? Tomato? Bacon? Cheese? Fried egg? Jalapeno? Two hotdogs and a jug of Bloody Mary with a mini umbrella? Come on, anything, anything to satisfy this North American instinct to pile shit up.
But no.
I can’t explain it to you. You’ll have to experience it.
But I can’t take you to Japan. I can only bring the recipe home.
This recipe is my very controlled but slightly adapted, and perhaps,, in my opinion, enhanced version of the original. And when I say that, I’m mostly referring to the katsu sauce. Slight variations on this sauce are applied to a vast number of different dishes in Japan, like okonomiyaki and takoyaki to name a few. But most of the recipe in English that I found online is, well, lacking, if not insulting. Ketchup plus worchestire sauce, basically, with some soy sauce and sugar? Please. The sauce is much more complex and deserving of our respect than that, which requires several different angles of acidity and sweetness that adds up to be more than the sum of its parts. There is a depth that, I feel, cannot be achieve with the conventional balance between vinegar and sugar, which is where “fruitiness” comes in aid. Prunes. Blended into the sauce, they built volume and flavours into the back-note, then pounded and added as a thin film in between the sandwich, they added textures and subtle sweetness. This sauce plays brilliantly with the fatty richness – 35% fat if I failed to mention – of the menchi katsu, and brought both a voluptuous sort of moisture and adhesiveness to all parties.
You’ll realize why you don’t want to do anything else to it. It hits juuust the right spot, one of the few left within our hyper-stimulated minds these days, where still accepts or even craves purity.
This is not just a slapped-on emergency sustenance. There are thoughts and wisdoms, upon many generations, that evolved and stripped it down to its now, brilliant plainness. If you are going to make it into a Big Mac, at least call it something else.
THAT WOULD BE YOUR LAST THOUGHT, BEFORE THIS BOWL OF MAGIC POTION SUCKS YOU INTO AN UNSTOPPABLE WHIRLPOOL OF HAPPINESS.
Sorry I have been absent.
Boy, do I have a good reason.
Recently, I believe, we’ve all been experiencing a kind of peculiar surrealism in life. I don’t know about you, but for multiples times during the span of my day, I found myself staring at the mundane occurrences of my perceived reality – the sound of cars brushing through the street… radios in the background… my farts – like Neo, wondering if this was all just an elaborate Matrix. Am I going to be unplugged and wake up? Or am I trapped here forever? For one, Donald Trump is going to be the president of the United States. And for two, which is completely unrelated and sinks even deeper on a much more personal level, my body and wellness has taken an unexpected turn to a place where my mind is scrambling to cope.
Actually, unexpected may sound understated. Unfathomable, comes to mind.
I was diagnosed with a “condition” so to speak. I want to share everything with you. But the trouble is, I don’t know everything yet. Something along the line of cicatricial alopecia, but let me urge you to think twice before Googling it, and the truth is, there are still a lot more to find out before arriving at a conclusion, so there’s nothing too informative I could tell you at this point. It may come across as unnecessary and self-absorbed to talk about something without any provided informations, I get that, but I simply lack the talent to conduct business as usual, to roast a turkey, to make a pie, when my mind is in disarray. In two weeks time, I hope, I will be able to tell you everything. But before you frantically light up a cigarette, let’s just find comfort in the fact that it isn’t life-threatening, I hope, but let’s face it, not much more fantastic than that.
Meanwhile, on the other hand, something very fantastic.
This is a recipe that I have been developing for awhile. In Chinese, it is called wan-za-mian, meaning peas mixed noodles. It was one of my most missed and pondered upon, single food item that I’ve tasted in Beijing, even though it originates from Chongqing (a city next to Sichuan). It may look alarmingly laborious, that a bowl of noodle consists of 3~4 components, but oh gosh, nothing is more worthy of your time. The amount of liquid in proportion to noodles lurks in between two categories, too little to be called a “soup” but a bit more than just “sauce”, and therefore may I say, just perfect. It comes waddling towards your table in seemingly distinctive parts: the noodles half-submerged in soup, the soft and mushy stewed peas (which I’ve substituted with chickpeas) on top, the dark brown minced pork sauce made with sweet and spicy chili bean paste, and everything, I mean everything, glossed and covered under a layer of flaming rouge chili oil. Could this work? That would your very last thought before this mixture, under your anxious chopsticks, churns and folds into a spicy, oily, savory and deeply complex bowl of magic potion that sucks you, and your thoughts, into an unstoppable whirlpool of happiness.
Believe me. I felt like shit, and this thing still made me happy. Imagine what it could do to you.
I want to tell you about my trip back in New York in extensive details, I really do. But I’m jet-lagged… drowsy… sleepy but awake… awake but not really… and the only words I can pound out of my marshmallow of a brain right now, repeating itself in an almost undetectable frequency, are these:
If you also don’t know what Di Palo’s is, then maybe I’ll feel a little better about myself, but it’s the iconic Italian grocer standing on the same corner in Little Italy for more than 80 years which, for some unforgivable reasons, I had failed to visit in the entire seven years I lived in New York. But this time around, a friend brought me to its doorstep and introduced me to its porchetta sandwich smeared with dolce gorgonzola… Ridiculous, just ridiculous, as if the sheer volume of Italian salami’s and cheese it carried wasn’t enough to make me weep in regret, but I had to walk away with an audible sandwich? Yes, audible, as in even with just one bite, I could hear the sound of the chips-like skin crack under the pressure between my teeth, and tasted its fatty, savory and sticky meats mingle and be with the gentle funk of sweet Italian blue cheese. Right then and there, walking down the contagiously energetic sidewalks of New York in my joyous steps, I knew I had to recreate the recipe for you.
So here it is, as the ultimate redemption for never visited Di Palo’s in all my times living in New York, a seriously, seriously tasty sandwich. Just checking out the photo with the knife sticking out and the photo after that, you know how good the skin cracks. And if you think you see a nipple or two while browsing through the photos, yes they are. Just bonus materials, you’re welcome.
I promise, hesitantly, that I will talk more about my time in New York, no matter how complicated the mixture of emotions were. But right now, let’s just get the pork on.
AS THE ULTIMATE REDEMPTION FOR NEVER VISITED DI PALO’S IN THE ENTIRE SEVEN YEARS I LIVED IN NEW YORK…
I’ve fought consciously throughout my adult life not to fall for it, or at the very least, say it out loud, fearing I’ll sound like a girl wanting to model or a guy in a sports car. It oozes unoriginality. But in the end, excuse mine if you will, as we sat predictably at an open cafe at 6:30 am, watching this city in beige and pastel grey slowly waking up in a wash of golden summer lights, acutely aware of its both corny and extraordinary allure. Paris, I succumbed, is Paris for a reason.
But I knew that four years ago, when I visited Paris for the time time. This time, I wanted more. And I didn’t mean a private jet from somewhere like jettly.com to take me there (although a girl can dream, right?!).
I wanted more not from Paris, but from the country that it has instilled great bewilderment for inside my mind. If that was Paris, then what is France? An embarrassingly stupid question no doubt, for a pre-middle age woman to ask but frankly, I’m too old to pretend that I’m better. If I were destined with death-by-sugar then fuck it, bring out the ice cream-truck, and I want her every single available flavors including the weird ones against my best judgement. Not just to see her polished beauty but – almost out of both cynicism and total respect – I wanted to slowly cruise through her central veins, starting from Paris, then Burgundy, Lyon, Luberon, Marseille, then along her riviera that ends in Nice. What would I find on a road trip in France? Perhaps a side of her that looks no different than places just off of the New Jersey turnpike (and yes there are). Or perhaps more beautiful cliches? I will be able to travel through those perfectly imperfect ancient villages and chateaus freckling along her cheeks. Would I be able to have one? To find it unmistakably amidst all, to go back to it again and again? My favorite freckle of hers?
This isn’t the first road trip I’ve been on. I went on a big road trip in the US when I had just passed my driving test. I was very new to driving, I had only just learned how to buy car insurance, and I thought going on a huge road trip would be an amazing idea! Needless to say, it didn’t go entirely to plan, but I still had lots of fun. I remember one evening I pulled in for some food and ended up having a couple of glasses of wine. I didn’t even think that I was driving, which shows how knew I was to it! I had to use a blood alcohol concentration calculator and discovered I was over the limit. Thankfully there were some rooms at the place I stopped, so I just ended up staying the night there. It saved me a night in the car!
In the walk of a cook who fancies herself a genius, there is no pain more excruciating than to realize when someone else has out-genius her. If you were one of “her” (not saying that I am)(I mean genius? Who? Me?), careful, because this is gonna hurt.
Okay, fine, go have a super successful and ever-expanding sandwich shop all over New York City as if that was a dream of mine or whaaaatever. Dream-stealer…. And then sure, why not, go publish a refreshingly hilarious and strivingly honest cookbook that touches subjects beyond the otherwise self-absorbing stand-alone topic of foods, as if that was my personal 20142015 2016 resolution that is wilting faster than baby spinach in a hot skillet. Face-rubber…. But I don’t care, see, don’t care! But above all of his dream-stealing and face-rubbing behavior, which I have generously forgiven and let go, none has made me scream more in agony when I saw this recipe on page 168…
Pho mayo.
I’ll spare you the whole pretense of “I couldn’t imagine what it would taste like until I put a spoon in my mouth…blah blah blah blah blah”. Truth was, the minute I read through the recipe, I knew it would work. The combination of flavors and seasoning just made sense, guaranteeing, even just on paper, a creamy concoction that would embody all the magical essence of a bowl of pho. Pho, in mayo form. This realization sent my body into a self-strangling twist on my stone-cold kitchen floor, thinking, no, bleeding from the eternal question that haunts all mankind – Why, why wasn’t I the one who come up with this?
But I wasn’t. So that’s that. And by the way, this fabulous creation of what I call Summer Pho Bo Roll, is not in his book. Yeah, I took his pho mayo… used it to generously coat a truck-load of thinly sliced beef short ribs, bean sprouts and finely chopped Thai basil, then stuffed them into a hoisin sauce -smeared potato roll, topped with chopped onions and a revengeful squeeze of Sriracha sauce. It’s like eating a bowl of pho bo (by the way, the word “pho” on its own just means “rice noodle”. Pho bo (bo means beef) is what you are actually referring to), but no cooking! And it’s summer-friendly!
Dat’s right, Tyler, I stole your pho mayo. Now you know what it’s like to be hurt.
I’M REALLY MORE LIKE ACHILLES IN THAT… I CAN MAKE MAYONNAISE BEND TO MY WILL USING ONLY MY MIND BECAUSE ACHILLES COULD DO THAT. HOMER DOESN’T REALLY GET INTO IT THOUGH.
Just came home from an extra long weekend-getaway from Bangkok, my second time visiting this feasting sanctuary and wow, it is even better than I remembered. I’m not going to play expert and include a traveling guide with this post because when it comes to Bangkok, I’m not, yet. But I will however, include some links (with or without photos) to some of the memorable moments we experienced on this trip. It’s not a lot. After all, it was a 2 1/2 day quickie. Plus a noodle recipe that brings me back whenever I miss that city, which is to say, always.
Before you say anything, you’re right, this isn’t authentically anything. It isn’t a particular Thai dish, doesn’t even have a real title (the fact of the matter is, I didn’t have a clue what most of the dishes we ate were called), but what it is, is a recollected combination of flavours that brings me back to that plastic stool and folding table on a hustle-and-bustle street-corner in Bangkok, hitting the right notes. The aromatic broth… the strings of supple and chewy rice vermicelli… the crunch somewhere in between… the zing, what’s that?… but wait there comes the heat, then savouriness, sweetness, one after the other, tangled but distinct at the same time, intriguing but too consuming to investigate. That memory, to me at least, is not an absolution, but a chest of vibrant paints and crayons that splatters beautifully over a blank canvas, different every time but always a balance in perfection.
I went with a cheated version starting with store-bought chicken stock which I then built flavours on top. But you can of course, applauded, start with pig bones, beef bones, or any combination of broth-builder that you prefer, keeping in mind that as long as you get a grip on the major aromatics and template of flavours, chances are, your noodle just can’t taste bad if not delicious. Aromatics like lemongrass, galangal, pandang leaves, star anise, kaffir lime leaves… they are, together, a proven equation for a damn good reason. But what the hell is the “template of flavours” you ask? Which brings me to say…
Just stick with TheDon and TheHoly Foursome.
On every tables of every noodle-stalls in Bangkok, almost always and if not you’re entitled to get angry, are a fixed collection of condiments, the paints and crayons if you will, which ultimately determines the flavour profile of every individual bowl of noodles, different and deeply personal to every patron’s preferences. I call them, The Don and The Holy Foursome:
The godfather himself, kiss his hand, is a bottle of fish sauce – SAVOURINESS. Then, toasted and crushed chili flakes – HEAT. Blended fresh chili in vinegar – ACIDITY. Toasted and crushed peanuts and fried garlics – AROMAS and CRUNCH. A jar of sugar – SWEETNESS.
Always. Always. Respect them, but be playful. I always like mine with high pitch in heat and acidity, with a good dose on aromas and crunch, then subtle on sweetness, but I’ve also seen others dousing sugars over their noodles like it’s breakfast cereals. And, of course, a dash of The Don is always an offer you can’t refuse.
rice vermicelli, variety depends on your preference
Thai basils and bean sprouts
sugar and fish sauce to season
MSG
Instructions
MAKE TOASTED CHILI FLAKES: Mix chili flakes and vegetable oil together in a skillet until it resembles wet sand. Set over medium heat, stirring constantly, until they turn darker in color and smells fragrant. Transfer immediately into a bowl to cool (it will burn quickly and become bitter).
MAKE BLENDED CHILI VINEGAR: Over stove-flames or with a torch, char the skins of the chilis until completely blackened, then scrap away the black skins and seeds with a small knife and discard. Blend the chilis with vinegar and sugar in a blender until coarsely pureed. Set aside until needed.
FRIED GARLIC AND TOASTED PEANUTS: Combine finely minced garlic and vegetable oil in a small pot over medium heat, stirring constantly, until the garlics start to turn light brown in color (this will take a few minute)(*don't let them turn dark brown or they'll be bitter*). Drain immediately through a fine sieve and let cool. Reserve the oil. Once the garlics are cooled, pound them together with roasted peanuts in a mortar until coarsely ground.
MAKE THE BROTH: Blend a couple cups of chicken stock with lemongrass, galangal and pandang leaves until coarsely blended. Transfer into a large pot with the rest of the chicken stock, along with cinnamon stick, kaffir lime leaves, cilantro stems, star anise, reserved garlic oil, dark soy sauce, ground white pepper, light brown sugar and ground black pepper. Bring to a simmer and cook for 30 min, then add the fish sauce and meat balls, and cook for another 10 min.
Meanwhile, make the minced lemongrass chicken: Cut the chicken into small pieces then set aside. In a food-processor, blend lemongrass and ginger until finely chopped. Add the chicken, fish sauce, ground white and black pepper, and pulse until the mixture is finely ground (like sausage consistency). Add 2 tbsp of the reserved garlic oil into a skillet over medium-high heat. Add the kaffir lime leaves and cook until fragrant, then add the chicken-mixture, breaking it up with a wooden spoon, and cook until slightly browned on all edges. Set aside until needed.
TO ASSEMBLE: On the table, arrange a bottle of fish sauce, a small jar of light brown sugar, toasted chili flakes, blended chili vinegar, fried garlic/roasted peanuts, and a couple bunch of fresh Thai basils.
Cook the rice vermicelli according to instructions and divide into bowls, with a small handful of bean sprouts and a good pinch of MSG (that's how it's done, ok? that's how it's done). Pour the broth into the bowl through a fine sieve, then add a couple of meatballs and a good large spoonful of minced lemongrass chicken into each bowls. Adjust your own season with the condiments then slurp.
Notes
This broth can be built on store-bought chicken stock, or from scratch with pork bones and water.
Drifting over moving chaos, under the clouds of settling dusts, weeks… have passed. It’s been almost a month since my last post, the longest it has ever been.
This posting gap was considerable in blogging years, unplanned nor welcomed, and in many ways in fact, nerve-wrecking. But I wanted to do the first “official” post properly, to wait, to get all the shit that needs to be done in our apartment, one that we renovated ourselves 6 years ago before moving to Beijing, so I could include a proper introduction of our new life to your all in this post. Kind of… Friends, apartment. Apartment, friends. Now help yourself at the buffet.
But turned out, as it seems, that there is more work involved behind those House And Garden variety of apartment showoffs that I used to take completely granted for. After 4 weeks of grinding constructions, big and small, to touch up those little imperfections that, really, bothered nobody but myself… the apartment, is still not there yet. So I decided not to wait any longer. This post may not include apartment therapy – maybe in another week – but worry not, it’s still got food.
Now, for the first “official” post marking a new beginning in Hong Kong, I thought it was only fitting that we start with something iconic to this city.
Every city needs a hero. Best yet, an nourishing one, dependable, non-judgmental, and accessible to all under its shelter, big or small, rich or poor. One that doesn’t care if you were hustling sober through the high traffics or stumbling drunk on the stone-cold pavement, always and forever, as the city promises, the rescue that is steaming just around the corner. Dirty water hot dog in New York, jian-bing in Beijing. Here, this thing called curry fish balls is the food-hero that bonds between Hong Kong’s identity and its people who hold it dearly.
The fish balls, pre-fried, are boiled in a large tank of neon-yellow water which gets replenished as more fish balls are removed from the water, and served with a spoonful of curry sauce and hot sauce to standing customers huddling around the booth. This boil-and-sauce technique, I suspect, is catering more to a streamlined service with higher turn-overs than say, optimising flavours. The fish balls, without actually being cooked in the curry, are slightly bland and therefore have to draw all their flavours from the topical sauces instead of being a single, together, perfect entity. This makes sense for street vendors, of course, especially in this relentlessly expensive city where any means necessary to speed up services are justifiably, if not rudely, executed. But if we were to recreate this dish at home – and I would argue that it’s in the best interest to honor its complexity – we shall do things a little differently.
