” Together, each cylindrical chamber separates easily with a brisk crack where the melted cheese are harvested and mingles with the cream sauce laying bare. “
On October 22nd 2018, in the darkness of the night, I laid on my eyes on Margeaux Brasseries’s “honeycomb macaroni” for the first time, and heard destiny calling.
At first it seemed that our connection was immediate and reciprocal, even through the barrier of the computer screen, that there was an understanding without words, that we instinctively knew each other’s needs and wishes, requirements and rewards, that I knew how to make it happy, and it too, wanted to be mine. We would hit it off. We would be an item. We would hold hands at dinner parties and whisper secret jokes only we could understand. We would complete each other.
But apparently, it had other ideas.
Six days later after two catastrophic failures at making this dish, it became increasingly clear that the affection was one-directional only.
But could I blame anyone else but myself? No. Because I took it for granted. I made the classic mistake in a relationship when things felt so given, so seemingly straightforward, I forgot that it too, requires attentions to details. First time around, sounding even stupider now said out loud, I used a type of macaroni that was tree-sizes too small. If you enjoy weaving beads necklace for dinner, this is another way to pleasure yourself with. If not, it’s probably a good time to know that when macaroni is big, it’s not called macaroni anymore. It’s called ziti. Who knew.
I felt good about this new piece of knowledge. Perhaps too good. Emboldened by the sense that I had figured it all out, the second mistake was, if possible, even dumber. What had I expect from introducing a highly sticky material to another highly attractive surface? Left them alone for five minutes, I walked in on the inseparability between my old friend copper pot and my new love honey macaroni in the most interlocked position there is. What a cliche. Cliches hurt.
Two near-permanent breakups, I learnt my lessons. I gave it thoughts. I right all the wrongs. I paid the attentive devotion it deserves. Only on our third date, I bent my knees and made it a faithful proposition. And at the end of the kitchen aisle, shimmering, it stood as beautiful as I had imagined. It is named honeycomb macaroni for a good reason. Its tubular bodies, slender and uniform, huddles intimately with only gooey melted cheese as the mortar of its magnificent structure, like a bee hive made of carbs and dairy. Where in between the gaps, the cheese droops downward like thick syrup to the hot skillet in anticipation where heat, butter and starch await in forming a golden flat cap, a delicate, crispy and delicious linkage.
Such beauty doesn’t need the distraction of a loud sauce. Something simple, but thoughtful. Something understated, but not without declaration. So I “brewed” grounded and browned guanciale, the porkiest substance I know on earth, in a simple cream sauce brightened with nutmeg and cardamon. It was then strained like a tea, removed of the solid source of its deep aroma, leaving only a silky blanket of cream curiously imbued with the thickness of aged pork. Together, each cylindrical chamber separates easily with a brisk crack where the insulted cheese are harvested and mingles with the cream sauce laying bare.
It was an affair that ignited passionately, even if one-sided only, and ended in what will certainly be a lifelong companionship. Learn from my mistakes, and you will find yourself an object of your affection, too.
NO SEPARATION OF EGG WHITES AND YOLKS, NO WHIPPING THE WHITES AND FOLDING IT BACK IN, AND YEAH, NO MAYONNAISE EITHER.
If you use the internet, you’ve probably seen this. This super lofty, tall and wiggling souffle pancake, said to have originated from Japan, that will surely tickle the feathers of anyone who has a soft sentimental spots for stacked fluffiness.
I, for one, am not a pancake person. Or at least, not in its traditional form. But over the years, I’ve been patiently waiting for a game changer that would summon my inner fluff-craze that has been dormant inside my cold, pancake-less heart, and I thought, maybe, this is it.
Well, not quite.
Upon further investigation, I realized that the recipe for this pancake requires violating one of my many holy baking commandments – Thou shalt not ask for the separation of egg white and yolks, separate whippings, and folding them back in. I am not thy bitch. – carved into a plastic chopping board and hung onto my fridge in permanence to remind me of the gods’ wrath against disobedience. So typically, if I see such thing, I just walk away. But something, a small voice inside my head, an imploding honey cake from the old ages perhaps, held my foot in the ground.
Thing is, whole eggs whip up marvelously fine just as well.
If it’s air that we’re after, whipping egg whites separately isn’t always necessary. I thought, if I could just find the right ratio between flours and whole eggs that are whipped together with sugar until almost mousse-like in consistency, then I can streamline this recipe and turn this batter into a one-bowl, fuss-free and fool-proof epiphany that even I can’t fuck up.
And guess what, I did. A super tall, lofty, spongy one-bowl batter that doesn’t need separation of white and yolks, no folding the whites back in, and yeah, no mayonnaise either. My heart should be content. My inner fluff-craze should awaken and shine lights upon the golden gate that welcomes me towards pancake enlightenment. Right?
Well, not quite.
Thing is, like all other earnest yet disappointing pancakes that had come before it, flavor-wise, this pancake was still completely boring. Cottony fluffiness, yeah, but remind me again why I want to eat cotton again? I sat and stared, faithful, receptive, in waiting. A sign will come. It must come. All these journeys of questions and answers, flipping and flopping, reincarnations and repetitions, can’t all be for nothing. Pancake must mean something! It must!
I waddled my slumbering, meditating body towards the fridge for a diet coke, the thought-juice if you will, and out the corner of my eyes, there it was – A Laughing Cow (regrettably not a sponsor). Of course! If the gods intend a purpose for this pancake’s spacious and buoyant volume, surely, it would be for nothing else but, stuffing! And what is better to aid its mildly sweet and airy crumbs if not this exuberantly creamy and contrastingly salty cheese?
I put my theory to work, and it worked. An unlikely but wondrous pairing that is texturally light yet creamy, flavorfully sweet yet salty, a faintly vanilla sponge moistened with a mildly cheesy funk. In the end, excused by its entirely oil/butter-free crumbs, a slim waterfall of melted butter and a squirt of honey is appropriately commenced. Pancake, is that finally you? Oh where have you been…
DOLLOPS OF FRESH COW’S MILK CHEESE COCOONING IN BETWEEN TWO PAPER-THIN FILMS OF UNYEASTED DOUGH, AND BAKED INTO A BALLOONED AND BLISTERED PIE WITH CHEESE-FILLED UNDERGROUND CHAMBERS.
What is obsession? When is it helpful and when does it get silly?
Ever since that episode of Chef’s Table on Nancy Silverton, I’ve been dwelling, not upon, but inside this subject.
The episode, of course, celebrates a chef’s willingness to spend an inexhaustible amount of effort to close that last short climb between what is already a great dish to a conceivably perfect one. A distance too short and steep no doubt, for most to commit. But to Silverton, especially when it comes to breads, being obsessed is not a question of should or shouldn’t, but do you have what it takes? I am, however, at least not today, talking about the theoretical aspect of obsessions. Instead, I’d like to bring forth the physical one that I was sent into after watching her episode.
During that show, there was about a 30-seconds scene showcasing a flatbread-looking pie, a glowing golden-brown mirage. Captivated by that glimpse, nothing but a glimpse, without even knowing what “it” actually was, I plunged into a months-long pursuit from grasping what I saw to realizing it in my own kitchen. First, it took me a considerable amount of Googling to find out what I initially thought was a “thin double-sided pizza stuffed with mozzarella?”, to be something actually called focaccia di recco from her restaurant Chi Spacca, an extremely crispy-edged, flatbread-like creature that has nothing to do with either pizza nor mozzarella, or the typical focaccia for that matter. The dish is essentially dollops of fresh cow’s milk cheese cocooning in between two stretched, unyeasted, paper-thin films of dough, and baked into a ballooned and blistered pie with cheese-filled underground chambers. Mostly cracker-like crispy, partially soft and stretchy, all in all and bona fide gastronomic wonder unlike anything I have ever seen.
It, allegedly, took her two whole years to perfect.
Since then, I bled over bringing it into my reality. I don’t have anything else to elaborate other than the every words already written in the instructions, each summarizing hours and hours of theorizing, testings, failings, staring, and re-testings, presented to you, as shortly and concisely as I think what a normal human being has patience for. The result rewarded and justified every last drop of sweat and tears spent, and whatever difference there may be from the real deal, I confide in my belief to be a result of hardware issues (commercial oven VS. home electric oven). Except, maybe, whatever experience I cannot transcribe through words. And if so, then that my friend, is where only your obsession can take you. But it’s worth it, let me tell you. It’s all worth it.
THANK YOU, SEOUL, FOR CARRYING THIS LIMP SPIRIT THROUGH ITS STREETS, FEEDING HER WITH NOURISHMENT, GIVING HER SUNLIGHTS.
So, 7 days went fast. And we’re back.
This past week, instead of a “vacation”, was really closer to being on a emotional exile. After two years of relentless, losing battles against too much realities, I just wanted, no, needed to be casted away, to somewhere unfamiliar, string-less… without memories, where I don’t have to… function. Where I could just drift. If only for a little bit. So in a sense, it isn’t really fair, to the city that happened to be used as my emotional rebound. Seoul.
We spent two days in Seoul following Hong Kong (which was more like a business trip for Jason). It was, without saying, not nearly enough time to properly court a great city so rich and immersed in its cultures and cuisines, let alone in a state of mind that was… exhausted at best. I think next time we go on another trip, we will need to be more prepared. Even being able to compare van insurance from the comfort of your own home would have made life a little easier for us on this trip. A family friend recommended this to us, but we didn’t take up the offer this time round. But I know we will next time. Normally, I attack my travels with mannerless enthusiasm, seeking if not prying for all it has to give whether or not it’s being offered. But this time, I wasn’t really thinking about that, about work, the duty of a blogger, about the game. I was wondering without thoughts. If I saw something, I ate. If I felt something, I took a photo. At best, the memory was documented in loose fragments, then slowly pieced back together as I uploaded my mindlessness into digital form, computed at last . So I’m not even going to pretend that I was capable of any profound insights, opinions, or even recommendations for Seoul. I would not insult it like that. Nor can I say when to go to Seoul, since I wasn’t in the mind during my visit. Instead, this is a mirage of its potentials, not fully explored, but it lays the promise of future reunion.
But above all else, I should probably say thank you, to Seoul. For carrying this limp spirit through its streets, even if only for a couple days, feeding her with nourishment, giving her sunlights, though at times, she stared blankly into space. For that, I will always be grateful.
Oh and by the way, this chicken galbi thing it’s got? Basically boneless thighs marinated in gushing garlicky red, then caramelised inside a hot skillet then tossed with carbs and hot cheese. Sick. Just sick. Just something, I guess, to miss Seoul by.
MY MOJO (COULD HAVE) SANK INTO A MENTAL ABYSS SO DEEP, IT WOULD TAKE A KRISPY KREME-SUBMARINE TO RETRIEVE
Hello. Sorry. I think it’s been awhile. I don’t know if there was a guideline on the Successful Food Blogging Manual specifically on post-frequencies, but I’m sure an entire week of blankness and neglect would on the other hand, dominate the entire Troubleshoots Section (As well as questions like this: What to do when you accidentally publish an unfinished post?)(Answer: Call 911.)(And: What is a writer’s block?)(Answer: Eat a donut.). Well, the truth is… that I wish there was a more socially excusable answer for my absence, you know, dog theft, broken hips, dead grandparents… house fire? Because really, anything is better than what I’m about to confess, which is the silent gasps among food-bloggers, the leading Do-Not’s under the manual’s flashing red, Skull-headed Section that you should probably read before Getting Started (Side by side with: Bad-mouthing Jesus.)(And also: Cursing out children). But the truth is that, in the past week, as honestly as I can put it… I simply got tired of foods.
Yes, if you were a food-blogger, along with the acute urge to weep after a deflated cake (Answer: Ingest alcohol and blog about that instead) and recipe-deficit (Answer: Put down the donut and make that a sandwich), this complication too can happen. But different from how I’d imagine it, which should’ve been a natural and peaceful death following a long and beautiful journey, this temporary episode came prematurely due to a self-inflicted and unforeseeable cause. In short, I simply got tired of foods because there had been simply, too much fooding. Can there be such a thing? Yes. As briefly mentioned before, I partook in an annual Beijing’s restaurants review for a city magazine, thinking it was going to be the best blogging-perk ever, but after cramming almost twenty restaurants into the past mere four weeks (that’s 3~5 restaurants per week!), things started to get a little… overcooked. Like a bridezilla on her third wedding, I had managed to turn the single, most appreciated aspect of my otherwise ungrateful life, into just another demeaning chore. To say the least, it backfired.
Even though this miscalculated experiment, for my wellness sake, timely ended last Thursday, it has left me in a prolonged state of mental paralysis where I just wanted to suck my thumbs in peace and not having to come up with another word to describe a meal other than cursing it out. I wanted to just exist… on soda crackers for a month. Or so at least, fortunately, it only felt that way. To my surprise as well, thanks to a book here and there, it only took a few days for the cravings to cook again to slowly creep back in, and literally, exploded over this weekend. In hindsight, if the two dishes I made over the weekend had flopped, my mojo would’ve sank into a mental abyss so deep it would take a krispy krem-submarine to retrieve. But no, they didn’t flop. In fact, they were both smashing success, and one of them being what I’m about to tell you – the three cheese oyster gratin.
This recipe was inspired by what we didn’t have at Vin Vi, one of the better restaurants/izakaya we’ve dined at during this entire process, which was on their menu but unavailable the day we visited. I’ve always loved izakaya-style cheesy grilled oysters/kaki mayo, where shucked in-shell oysters are topped with a mixture of Kewpie-mayonnaise and cheese, then go under high heat to be melted into the gloriously broken, greasy, and unapologetic beauties that they are. Its absence from that meal (perhaps thankfully to that) had left a vacuum in my oyster-deprived heart that, even after the most vicious eating-fatigue, must be filled. But if there was one thing I didn’t like about kaki mayo, it’d be the pool of oil they often sit on, being the aftermath of post-high heat mayonnaise that had inevitably separated.
So I substituted the mayonnaise with a thick béchamel sauce infused with dry white wine and loaded it with shredded white cheddar, gruyere, and a daring pinch of freshly grated nutmeg. Then after blanketing the shucked oysters from all directions with this stringy goo, it was then covered again with freshly grated Parmigiano cheese, more freshly grated nutmegs (the key, people, the key), and a few/or many little nubs of unsalted butter. Baked under the top-broiler for 13~15 minutes, the sweet oysters had released their juices to be blended as part of the cheesy pool of joy, slightly shrivelled and firmed up but still supple to the bite, smoldering under a crust of golden and bubbly surface. I’d warn you that it was hot, but again it might had been too late. After all, even I, who have been subjected to an entire month of human-foie gras feeding regimen and was already at the stage of over-ripened-for-harvest, couldn’t resist to (huff~ huff~ huff~) tuck one into my mouth right out of the oven and part the burning white sea with a torn piece of crusty sourdough.
And guess what, it was worth the burn, worth the paralyzing month of restaurant-hammering that ultimately led to it, worth every dragging agony to crawl back to the kitchen to make it, and now the what’s-one-more bulge of fat sticking out from places I don’t even know exist on my body. Hey, my friends, if you ever feel tired of foods, going in or churning out. Take a couple days off, eat some soda crackers. Then come back, and make this. And I promise you, all shall be good again.
Rinse and clean the oysters to get rid of any impurities, gently dab dry, then set aside. In a pot over medium heat, melt the unsalted butter then cook the flour for 1 min. Whisk in the whole milk and dry white wine, and continue whisking until the mixture comes to a simmer and has fully thickened, then keep cooking for 5~6 min until reduced slightly and the alcohol has evaporated. Turn off the heat, then add the shredded white cheddar, shredded gruyere, grated garlic, sea salt, ground black pepper, ground white pepper and freshly grated nutmeg, and stir with a fork until the cheese has fully melted (taste and re-season with sea salt if needed).
Preheat the top broiler on high. In a shallow oven-proof skillet, spread 1/2 of the cheese sauce on the bottom, then arrange the oysters evenly and cover with the rest of the cheese sauce. Grate enough Parmigiano cheese to entirely cover the surface, then scatter a few extra nubs of unsalted butter here and there. Bake on the middle rack of the oven for 13~15 min, until it's bubbly and golden browned. Grate another generous pinch of fresh nutmeg over the top (do not be shy with the nutmeg!), then serve immediately with crusty sourdough.
Something that, as far as I can remember, has never before happened to this under-exercised but nonetheless, well-conditioned casing of white-meat. In the wee hours of this morning as a standard procedure, I rolled over in a complex twist and tango with my blanket and pillows as how it’s been professionally done in the past three decades, and in a turn of event, inexplicably…
… pulled my neck.
How the hell did that happen I have no idea, but I’m now muscularly decapitated. Not only speaking to you with the non-photogenic side of my face in a zombie-like tilt, but perhaps it’s worth mentioning as well, feeling… understatedly uncomfortable.
This is very untimely indeed. Because I have something that’s worth my every bit of literary effort to advertise, but somehow, sitting stiffly in front of a computer screen sounds and feels like a very bad idea right now. So if I seem… out of words about this absurd, three cheese mazemen, inspired by Ivan ramen no doubt, don’t think of it as I’m slacking off. Instead, think of this recipe as – and it truly is – beyond the reach of mortal vocabularies.
This recipe is actually a symptom of a condition that I’ve been suffering since I left New York, called cultural separation anxiety. Compared to a relatively chilled attitude towards culinary fads and hypes while I was still in New York, I’m now constantly obsessed about what’s happening in a food-scene that I’m no long a part of.
And recently, it sounds like this Ivan guy is creating a lot of ruckus.
Aside from the more familiarized styles of ramen that’s served in soup, or tsukemen as cooked noodles served with a dipping “soup-sauce” on the side, he seems to be popularizing a new style-hype called, mazemen. What the hell is mazemen, and why is it legit? Not only legit, but ingenious actually. It snugs comfortably between a soup-ramen, and dry ramen (noodles dressed with just enough sauce to coat), making it kind of like a one-bowl tsukemen, where noodles are sitting in a generous amount of intensely flavoured “soup-sauce”, plus toppings. It solves the eternal struggle of ramen-chefs and customers alike, to witness a good portion of the precious broth – the liquid soul of a chef who might have spent days forging out of his cradle of passion – being left wasted in the serving bowl… like a puddle of dead water, after everything else that took much less effort was otherwise consumed.
That shit hurts.
But with mazemen, just the right amount of highly flavoured soup is spared with each portion of noodles. Highly flavoured as in, things that would otherwise make a “soup” too intense to drink, is being unleashed in an all-out ramen-extravaganza. Like say, a soup infused with a three cheese combo? Seriously, ingenious! Might as well call it, a-mazemen!
But of course I understand that for most of you out there, the cradle of passion may not rock as violently as a ramen-chef. There’s no shame in that, right, speaking from a person who published a completely pirated version of the sacred spicy miso ramen, and this time, without even consulting Ivan’s cookbook, I’m not sorry to do it again.
Although this recipe may seem labour-intensive, believe me when I say that it’s already simplified and streamlined in 10-folds compared to a full-blown ramen operation (trust me, I have a book on that, and if you’ve read it, too, you’d appreciatively lick every single drop of soup from your ramen-bowl from now on). A relatively easy and cheater-base stock is created in a speedy 4-hours time (hey, compared to say… 2 full days?). Then every cheating soup-flavouring protocols known to noodle-pirates are implemented to bring this bowl as close to the real deal as I possibly can. Is it at least, inarguably awesome, as far as noodle-pirates are concerned?
You bet it is. I’m putting my neck on the line…
The stock-technique of Japanese pork-based soup ramen will conflict everything you think you know about making stocks, that’s if you were French at least. Forget what you know about low-and-slow of a bare simmer aiming at a clear stock. It’s all about boiling the mixture into submission and get it to a milky and opaque state. Then of course, lots of other steps and flavour-layering come after that (adding bonitos, konbu, dried anchovies and whatnots) but, we’re gonna cheat by using Japanese soup base.
It’s important to note that I start the base stock with homemade, unsalted chicken stock (flavoured with onions only) because I almost always have it in my freezer. If you are going to use store-bought, it’s paramount that you buy chicken stock without salt, AND without the flavourings of thyme, rosemary, parsley, bay leaf or any other western herbs. When in doubt, buy canned stock from an Asian brand. But then again, it’s quite difficult to purchase stock that’s completely salt-free. So if you want to just use water for the base stock, then add to the recipe of base stock: scrap-bones from 1 whole chicken, or 8 chicken wings.
The recipe for base stock will make for 8 servings, and can be made up to 3 days ahead and kept in the fridge in an air-tight container, as well as most of the toppings. However, the final preparation for the actual three-cheese-broth has to be done right before serving, so I only documented the amount for 2 servings. If you’re making for 4 people, double the three-cheese-broth recipe, and so on and so forth.
Most ramen restaurants like to serve ramen with sliced chashu (roasted/braised pork), but I beg to differ. I like minced pork. It’s kind of an accidental epiphany after my spicy miso ramen-express experiment, and I think it just incorporates better into the overall dish. But if you like large slices of pork, I also included a quick recipe for that.
1/2 tsp of freshly ground black pepper, plus more to adjust
2 tbsp (35 grams) of cream cheese
2/3 cup (80 grams) of soft white cheddar cheese, grated
1/2 cup (30 grams) of Parmigiano cheese, grated
1/8 tsp of freshly grated nutmeg, plus more for topping
2 servings of fresh ramen noodles
Toppings recipe follows
To make the base stock (can be done up to 3 days ahead): Combine pork back-bones, pork shank-bones (and chicken bones or wings if you are using), scallions and ginger in a large pot. Cover with cold water and set on high heat to bring to a boil. Cook for 4 ~ 5 minutes after boiling, then careful pour everything into the kitchen sink with cold water running. Wash/scrub off any scums and impurity from the bones (and chicken bones/wings if you’re using), as well as thoroughly clean the pot.
Return the cleaned bones to the cleaned pot, then add 12 cups of chicken stock (or water if you’re adding chicken bones/wings), shallots, carrot and black peppercorns. Return to high heat to bring to a boil, then lower the heat down to medium to maintain a constant (but not splattering) boil. Cook the stock for at least 3 hours, to 4 hours (depending on what you can manage. the longer it cooks the milkier it gets). Shred and break up any bones/meats during cooking once they have soften (to release more flavour), and every time the liquid is reduced below 2/3 (meaning less than 8 cups left), add 2 cups of water to bring it back. When you’re done, the base stock should be milky and opaque with bits of marrows and fat floating on top.
Strain the base stock through a sieve, and press on the scrap-meats and vegetables to extract as much liquid as you can. You should have 8 cups of base stock.
To make the three cheese broth (for 2 servings only): This has to be prepared right before serving.
Heat 2 cups of base stock with dried porcini mushrooms over medium heat. Cook for 5 min until the mushrooms have completely soften and released the flavours into the soup. Meanwhile, cook the fresh ramen noodle in another pot in boiling water. Add the grated shallots, grated garlic, Japanese soba sauce base, sea salt and black pepper to the broth and cook for another min. Then add cream cheese, grated white cheddar, grated Parmigiano cheese and fresh nutmeg, and whisk until the cheese has evenly melted (there may be stringy cheese that doesn’t fully melt, it’s ok). Taste and re-season with sea salt if need be (note that this is more of a “sauce” than “soup”, so it has to be boldly seasoned).
To take the sharp edge off raw scallions, soak the thinly sliced scallion in water for 1 min then drain.
Transfer the broth evenly between 2 bowls. Add the cooked ramen noodles, then top with pickled bean sprouts, thinly sliced scallions, parmesan and sesame pork, and a hot spring egg or poached egg (I’m using poached egg). Grate more fresh nutmegs on top and drizzle with togarashi oil.
To prepare the toppings:
PARMIGIANO AND SESAME MINCED PORK: (enough for 4 servings)(can be made up to 3 days ahead)
10.6 oz (300 grams) of ground pork-shoulder
2 tsp of cornstarch
1 tsp of black sesame seeds
1 tsp of white sesame seeds
1/2 tsp of salt
1 tbsp of toasted sesame oil
1/2 cup (30 grams) of grated Parmigiano cheese
Mix ground pork-shoulder, cornstarch, black and white sesame seeds, and salts together until even. Heat the toasted sesame oil in a non-stick skillet over medium-high heat. Cook the ground pork until no-longer pink, and break it up as finely as you can with a wooden spoon. Add the grated Parmigiano and keep cooking until the cheese is caramelized and browned. Set aside until needed.
SOY SAUCE GRILLED PORK NECK: (enough for 8 servings)(can be made up to 3 days ahead)
2 pcs (13 oz/370 grams) of pork neck meat
2 tbsp of soy sauce
2 tsp of brown sugar
3 cloves of garlic, smashed
Pork neck is an Asian-specialty cut. There’s only one small piece from every pig near the jaw, that’s perfectly marbled between fat and muscle. It’s the short rib of pig. But it can be hard to find, so if unavailable, you can substitute with pork belly (but trim most of the top slab of fat off).
Marinate everything together for at least 2 hours. Preheat the top-broiler on high. Remove the mashed garlic, then skewer the pork neck length-wise to prevent curling-up during cooking. Place 3″ under the broiler and cook until charred and caramelized on one side, then flip and repeat on the other side. Let the meat rest until completely cooled before removing the skewer. Slice before serving.
PICKLED BEAN SPROUTS: (for 2 servings)(has to be prepared right before serving)
1 1/2 cup (150 grams) of bean sprouts
1 tsp of salt
1 tsp of sugar
3/4 tsp of rice vinegar
Gently mix bean sprouts with salt, sugar and rice vinegar. Let sit for 10 min, then squeeze out as much liquid as you can from the bean sprouts. Set aside.
“MR. DARCY, THE CLOSETED FETISH OF MODERN FEMINISTS”
OK… OK so I lied. I didn’t go outside last week… As a matter of fact, I didn’t go outside for the entire three consecutive blue-sky-days… I’ve been home. I’ve been home all this time, alone by myself with Jason on a business trip… helplessly, drowning in a bloodbath of some of the ultimate, eternal cinematic achievements known to women. One. Classic. Hit. After. Another…. Twelve Years Of Slaves?… Neeuuu….
Ladies, bust out your most shameless, worthless, dirtiest secret stash… it’s home-alone chick-flicks extravaganza night.
Despite the level of embarrassment that I’m sure will hit me the moment I get back from Paradise (Tuesday!), I still decided to send this truth out there. The truth that once in a while, on some particular full-moons and/or… the night before a long trip away from home, there’s absolutely no excuse for my primitive behavior. And if that’s the kind of entertainment that delights you, here it goes.
