” It’s savoury-sweet kinda thing, you know, obviously, but also smokey around where a mixed aroma of coconut, butterscotch and bacon meet and greet. “
What in the world is pork floss?!
And where the hell do you get palm sugar?! Or both, for that matter?!
Ok fine, so I knew this is gonna be a hard pitch. And I’m probably not helping my case when I tell you that pork floss, invented by an anonymous Chinese likely on a night of massive insomnia, is a brownish cotton ball made of predominantly pork, which is cooked, shredded, then painstakingly dehydrated while being tumble-fried inside a wok until what used to be muscle tissues have then transformed into super fine, fiber-like fluffs. Whaaat?! And as if that’s not mind-bending enough, its flavor profile wonders in between savoury and sweet with a maple bacon or jerky-like porkiness oozing into your sensory space as your mouth grapple to understand this textural anomaly.
It’s really just like any other culinary ingenuities that took form initially as a means to tackle food preservation before refrigeration, but ended up being cherished by its culture even till this day. Stretching from southern China down to Southeast Asia, hey, pork floss matters. For every skeptics, there also stands a loyalists who would cradle and defend this “porky cotton” if you will, against the world’s cynical suspicion. I too, love this shit.
Having said that, pork floss is not a stand-alone item. It needs companies. And as it has been increasingly branching out from its traditionally more savoury roles towards making collaborative debuts in, of all things, sweet pastries all across Asia, I feel it’s time for this surprisingly multi-faceted talent to be introduced to a more internationally recognized platform.
Listen, I’ve made this flakey pastry about four times now. And each time, no matter how every single signs along the way was pointing towards an inevitable heartbreaking disaster, somehow, miraculously, it always turned out amazing. I’ve stuffed them with jam and cheese, with fruits and nuts, and this time, with bittersweet chocolate blended together with dark brown sugar and peanut butter plus a good chewy padding of sticky rice mochi on the bottom, and still I couldn’t manage to fuck it up. More crispy and shards-like than puff pastry, but more defined and layered than pie crust, comes together fast and relatively easy, and goes down even more so.
So, as someone with a very unlucky track record in the baking arena, I pass this recipe onto you. I’d say good luck, but something tells me you won’t need very much of it.
” A whopping 85% hydration… transforms into a gorgeously glossy and almost fluid blob of a dough that spreads willingly, and yields elastic translucent crumbs and a terrain of air bubbles. “
I am no master baker. But dude, you listen to me on this one.
Been to Florence? No? Well, okay… sorry I guess. But this message is no less urgently relevant to you than those who have, particularly, those who have visited what is rumored to be the greatest sandwich shop in the world, All’antico Vinaio right in the center of Florence. But what makes their sandwiches good you ask, some even say the best? One could certainly make a convincing case for its market-style array of every single charcuteries, cheeses, vegetables and spreads that the great region of Tuscany has to offer. But if you ask me, as it usually turns out in the subject of sandwiches, it is the bread. More specifically, schiacciata.
What is schiacciata? And do not mistaken it with focaccia don’t you dare. Schiacciata is a Florentine flatbread that characteristically is closer to, I’d say, a pizza bianca than anything else. Ever since my visit to All’antico Vinaio years ago, it wasn’t their truffle cream or fennel salami that haunted my restless keto dreams. It was the carbs. It was the fucking carbs. So last week, I finally decided enough is enough.
” Nothing about this makes any sense… Yet it’s going to change the s’more world as you know it. “
Mark my words. None of this makes any sense. Nothing about it suggests that it should work. Scallions and marshmallows?! If you now shelve this idea in the lightless skepticism inside your head, it will forever be just a reminder that I – the Asian chick who has been left unchecked for far too long in the internet wilderness – have finally gone mad.
But if you could just push aside your good senses (the little voice inside your head telling you that the third powdered donut won’t help you, yes that one, scrap it), this recipe will turn the s’more world as you know it, upside down.
Yes, scallions, possibly one of the least likely substances to be associated with s’more next to pickled herrings and petroleum, against all odds, has somehow proven to be a miraculously effective liaison between our taste buds and the buttery, slightly chewy sweetness of charred marshmallows. Yes! That is what I’m saying! But how could this be? Have I lost my mind? Well, I wish I could take the credit for this insanity but in cold hard reality, I did not, sadly, invent this. In fact, I have utterly stolen this idea from a Taiwanese cracker that is sold in all major Taiwanese airports, the scallion cracker nougat sandwich.
Yes, that’s a real thing, scallion soda cracker sandwich with a nougat filling. Not that the case for savory-sweet hasn’t been established elsewhere, but none has ever been so curiously bizarre, absurd to a point. Even the attempt to imagine the two flavors conjoining triggers a repulsion reflex put in place by millions of years of human evolution. So what kind of a sick person came up with this twisted though in their evil lair, I didn’t bother to look up in my bitter jealousy, but what’s for sure is that it has turned every skeptics, Taiwanese or not, into a believer that the age for scallions to join the company of confectionary has finally arrived.
So why don’t I just do a recipe for a scallion crack nougat sandwich, you ask? Well, if you have ever intended to make soda crackers at home you’d know that it is an unnecessary labor with negative returns. And homemade nougat, even more so. Try to stuff a little dollop of the latter inside the former and repeat 40 times? Yeah I didn’t think so either. Especially when there is an alternative for both that are not only easy and rewarding to make at home, but in my opinion, far more superior in textures, tastes, and last but not least, fun.
A foolproof scallion popover recipe that is pop-guaranteed with gorgeously crispy crust and a warm and spongy center, salty and buttery where just the right amount of scallion aroma permeates through its pores. Then its naturally hallow cavity gently holds together the liquified state of the caramelized marshmallows, unstable stringy and promising, until you take your first faithful bite to collapse its integrity, as the crispy and spongy savoriness of the popover clashes against the burnt and buttery candy-ness of the marshmallows. How unlikely so yet incredibly right.
And you too, from this point on, will forever wonder and marvel at the paradox that is the new s’more.
I’m sitting here, struggling with how best to explain to you all why this Japanese version of the burnt basque cheesecake is superior than the original in every single way possible, mentally auditioning all the angles I could cut into this subject that I think is going to change the way you think about cheesecakes in general. How it’s possibly the easiest cheesecake your kitchen-incompetence will ever behold… how it has complexities in its flavors that reminds me of a caramel flan… how its play between temperature and texture is brilliant… how the outer layer is rich yet airy while the center remains creamy and gooey, melting almost instantly around the heat of my tongue… A R-rated story on how cheesecake and ice cream had a baby? I considered that, too.
But it dawned on me that these are all just supporting facts, facts that you will witness, I’ve no doubt, as soon as you make one yourself in your kitchen. What really stands in between you and making this cake is not the certainties, no. It is the doubt, one single doubt really, the only elephant that needs to be removed first and swiftly before everything else could just fall into place. Because I know what you’re all thinking. Here, I’ll say it with you.
Isn’t this just an undercooked mistake?
No, no it is not. It is fucking not.
Is soft-boiled egg a mistake?
There. I don’t know how much simpler I could put it.
Now, welcome to the only cheesecake you’ll ever bake for the rest of your life.
if cheesecake and ice cream had a baby.
Long been a destination on my bucket list – and one that had taken us way too long to fulfill – we finally visited Marrakech in December 2018. I sort of did and didn’t know what to expect. A dancing mirage somewhere in between the Atlantic Ocean and Mediterranean Sea, the face of Marrakech carried mysterious, exotic and imaginative beauty in my mind, like a place only in story books, almost unreal.
But of course, in reality, Marrakech is anything but unexposed. We arrived to find an ancient city, like all the others of her kind left only with the pillars of tourism industry, whose beauty, flaws and dignity are laid bare for the world to entertain with. Her plastered skin glowing in pink and orange, her sometimes unequivocal display of chaos and neurosis, and her remedial serenity and reflective pools inside the earthen walls of her beautiful courtyard houses, all of which was once for herself, now all is but a reluctant theme park for foreign passers. This could be a difficult dilemma for any city, especially a poor one like Marrakesh, where her livelihood brings out both the best and worst she has to offer. Within the walls of Medina, it could feel like a pressure cooker of transactions. A request for directions, a photograph, a helpful hand, all of which seemed to need to become an exchange for euros, or worse, extortions. And there she stood in the backdrop, her face blushing in that beautiful gradation of earthy red hues, I wondered, if in sadness or apathy.
That sounded negative. For that I apologize, for who am I to lay judgment in my brief and shallow crossing with a city that is obviously complicated, and made our trip sound unenjoyable which it definitely wasn’t.
If you wish to enjoy Marrakech, in my experience, you have to choose a great riad to stay in. Riad is traditional Moroccan courtyard houses, but nowadays, mainly known as a synonym for Bed & Breakfast. Your riad is where you retreat from the outer disorientation and intensity, where you find conversations beyond bargainings, where it could feel like a temporary family even just for a few days. And most importantly for us, where the foods were great. When it comes to street foods, to be utterly honest with you, I wasn’t too impressed, at least inside the walls of Medina. We tried our best to avoid obvious tourist traps and focused on old establishments favored by mostly locals, but nothing stood up to the promise. On the third day, out of search-fatigue and the promising aroma lurking out of the kitchen every late afternoon that we could no longer ignore, we decided to stay in our riad for dinner at a more than reasonable pricing of 20 euros per person. What was served to us that night, had single-handedly reversed our perception of what Moroccan cuisine could and should be.
The dinner started with a few small bites of cold appetizers, each nicely balanced in texture and flavors that eased our skepticism. Then came a lightly spiced pumpkin soup that held so much more nuances of comfort than its creamed orange appearance suggested. “Is this typical in Moroccan meals?” I asked the manager. “Yes.” He smiled in amusement. “Pumpkin soup.” Of course. At this point we were sufficiently assured to not be surprised by any excellence that was not expected. But the main course, a bubbling tagine of fork-tender beef stewed in gentle spices and dried fruits with the occasional crunch of heart-shaped almonds, blew us away. It isn’t easy, I feel the need to point out, to cook foods that are unmistakably motherly and soft-spoken while standing up to all the required sophistication and depths one would expect from a paid dinning experience. Whoever cooked this meal, has a rare gift, but it wasn’t until the next morning that I decided to find out who she was.
see you next year, my friend
In a few days, we are going to pack our bags and head to Paris then Marrakech for our holiday vacation. I probably won’t see you much on this blog during that time, which is why I’m throwing you a fat-bomb now to sustain your optimal winter-time figure all the way untill a new year comes. What a new year if one can’t make a diet resolution to fail utterly at?
This is what I call, the Crazy Rich Asian Panettone, lubed up with 12 egg yolks, coconut milk, and an ungodly amount unsalted butter and unrefined coconut oil. This indecent level of fat not only keeps the crumbs sinfully moist, but also provides a backdrop of coconuty aroma where it pairs beautifully with speckles of dried mango and persimmons tinged with orange zests. It could serve as an awesome “self-enrichment” during the holiday seasons but also, as we all secretly desire, as an ill-intended gift for our frenemies whom we would like to see de-shaped on that first depressing day back to the office. Either way, we win.
So see you next year, my friend. You’ve been lovely.