” 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.
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?
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.
IF LIKE ME, YOU’RE TURKEY-LESS OR DUCK-LESS, DON’T LET THAT STOP’YA
GRAB YOUR NEAREST LIMBS OF ANY SORTS AND GO TO TOWN!
Life is going through some dramatic, if not crazy, changes. And I’m mastering the art of adaptation. I know I threw a bomb out last post without any proper context, and perhaps have gotten some friends worried. I thank you all for the comfort, support, and unrelenting kindness that you gave this stranger who talks on the screen. It is a compassion that I may even lack in comparison, embarrassingly, and such realization has helped pulling myself away from my emotional blackhole in a strange way, shown me perspectives. If that makes any sense. Still a bunch of gibberish, I know.
I promise I will explain everything next week.
Meanwhile, holy shit, Thanksgiving was last week? Where have I been…
Well, this recipe was a whiff of fairy dust springing out of the ashes of post-Thanksgiving conversations. Being genetically anti-turkey, I was dissing Thanksgiving leftover sandwiches on Instagram when this guy, rightly so, shut me up with these three little words – “turkey legs confit”. OK, you win, and for the first time in my life, I’ve never felt so empty in my turkey-less habitat. If you were like me, turkey-less, duck-less, goose-less or any fancy two-legged-less, don’t let it stop’ya. Grab your nearest limbs of any sorts and go to town! Chickens, why not! In fact, any bone-in meats cured in ground bay leaf-salt then melted down slowly inside its own grease, is one of those things that guarantee to not suck .
Keep in mind that recipes of this sort is a vehicle-recipe, meaning it’s more like a tool, and it’s up to you where you want to be taken. For me, I like to stay pure, especially when it comes to a dish whose glory lies within its singular yet complex, condensed, unadulterated poultry-ness. Drowning it out with an avalanche of insecurity would mean wasting all those hours to get them to be independently fantastic. Crisped up real good in some thyme-infused grease, then tossed together with a brightening note of Dijon mustard and white pepper, these chicken-bombs will take nothing more to sing other than some creamy cheese and crispy sourdough breads. Soaked and pan-fried inside that confit-grease of course I don’t know why you ask.
It’s getting cold. Keep your lips moistened with that precious grease. Next week, we talk.
4 whole chicken legs (hopefully from good flavorful chickens)
5 tbsp (71 grams) coarse sea salt
5 fresh bay leaves
5 cloves garlic, smashed
enough chicken fat or olive oil to cover
4 sprigs fresh thyme
2 tbsp Dijon mustard
1/2 tsp ground white pepper
SANDWICH:
slices of sourdough bread
soft/mild cheeses such as brillat savarin, or brie
finely diced scallion
Instructions
MAKE CHICKEN CONFIT: Place coarse sea salt and fresh bay leaves in a food-processor, and run util evenly ground together into "green salt". Rub the salt evenly over the chicken legs, with just enough to generously cover the surface, then let cure for 2 hours.
Preheat the oven on 285 F/140 C. Rinse the chicken legs to remove the green salt then pat dry with a clean towel. Place them inside a baking container that will fit the legs snuggly and tightly (the less empty space there is, the less oil you'll need), then fill with enough chicken fat or olive oil to cover the legs. Scatter the garlics around, cover, then place on a sheet-pan and bake for 3:30 hours. Let cool completely inside the fridge. Can be made a few days ahead.
To serve, carefully remove the legs from the oil, then place them skin-side down first in a large non-stick skillet. Heat over medium-high heat and cook until the skin-sides are golden browned, then turn and scatter the fresh thyme inside the skillet to infuse the oil, and slightly brown the meat-sides as well. Transfer the legs into a large plate (keep the oil inside the skillet). Remove all the skins and meats, and discard the bones. Toss the meats with Dijon mustard, ground white pepper, and 1 tbsp of the fat. Set aside.
MAKE SANDWICH: Generously smear both sides of the breads with brillat savarin (or brie), scatter the scallions around, then a good pile of chicken confit. Inside the same skillet, leave enough confit-fat to generously coat both sides of the sandwiches, add the sandwich, and toast over medium-high heat until golden browned and crispy on both sides. Serve immediately.
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…
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.
I guess I am currently in the middle of what one would call, a blogger limbo.
We have “officially” moved out of Beijing, so to speak. But in the next 3 weeks when our apartment is under renovation, we are going to be staying in a hotel where the closest thing to a cooking vessel is the bathroom sink with hot tap water (hotel sous vide?). How do I create something delicious when the mere act of making fruit smoothies posts challenges? Then I realised, the answer lies just around every corner in this city.
Cantonese-style roast pork. Something as abundant in Hong Kong as Starbucks are in New York. This awesome thing, is everywhere. Even if you didn’t live here, chances are you’ve seen it in your nearest Chinatown, a staple in Cantonese cuisines.
Typically served with rice, which I’ve always had my doubt on. I mean, it is a great piece of roast pork, with salty yet juicy flesh and gloriously blistered skins. But on its own, and paired with yellow mustard, in my opinion, it just isn’t the most flattering companion for steamed rice. It is however, the most perfect yet most under-utilized sandwich candidate, practically an half-way porchetta sandwich.
Here’s what you do. You chop up a whole box of these porky awesomeness, then you make a “dressing” out of minced scallions, ginger and red chilis, with pungent savouriness from fish sauce and a tang that cuts through the grease from red wine vinegar. You let this “dressing” seep through the nooks and crannies of an unapologetic pile of the chopped roast pork, into the thirsty holes of a toasted crusty roll that catches it all. Then you cap everything up with a few slices of provolone cheese, and you draw your finishing touch with a smear of yellow mustard.
Porky, crispy, drippy and zero-cooking involved. What can I say? Hotel meal.
YOU LET IT SEEP THROUGH THE NOOKS OF AN UNAPOLOGETIC PILE OF CHOPPED ROAST PORK, INTO THE THIRSTY HOLES OF A TOASTED CRUSTY ROLL.
After what seemed as long as forever, but now, feels as short as a blink of an eye, five weeks of traveling in and out of 6 different countries, I am now, finally, back home.
It is difficult, if not impossible, to sum up a journey as long as this one in one post. It began in Hong Kong, then Taipei then back to Hong Kong, then it departed towards London, then Madrid, and Lisbon, then finally, passing by Germany, back to Hong Kong, then back to Beijing. It was a zig-zaging montage of cityscapes, sounds, smells, flavours, stimulations… but also disorientations, sense of aimless drifts, dubbed by a relentless seasonal flu somewhere at end. How do I tell such a story I have no clue. I suspect I would be inadequate but I shall try.
I shall try, starting with Lisbon.
Why Lisbon? I don’t know. I guess there are moments in life that didn’t feel particularly monumental at the times, but somehow, years and years later, they stay with you whenever you feel like looking back. Lisbon, in the best sense, felt as such. There are cities where we go to feel the future. New York, London, places that strut at the tip of our times, erecting glories built in glasses and steels, forward. Lisbon, as rare as it is precious, is not that kind of city. Lisbon, to me at least, comes into the scene as an ageing beauty. Her allures permeates in a lingering perfume of melancholy, on the surface of every faded tiles, behind every half-closed wooden windows, cut deep into every folds of her stone-paved labyrinth. She is old. She is complicated. There are a lot of bygone glories, loss and pain in her untold stories, some remembered only objects that cannot speak. I found myself striken by a sense of wounded dignity at her unguarded moments. In fact, sometimes her unpolished cheeks marked with spray paints and the crumbling of her once beautifully tiled facades, like a ripped silk dress, made me feel impolite to stare. But, I guess, that’s why Lisbon felt so unique. Holding her own, almost carefully, with a flustered sense of self-esteem… she sits quietly, a city by the sea.
A place like her leaves an impression. She made me wonder about the life she’s had. She made me want to dig deeper. She made me wanna do things that I’ve never done to any other places, beyond the politeness of walking through her streets and allies, beyond gorging the foods that she cooked. I wanted to get more intimate. Closer. I wanted to hear her sing. And if there’s one thing that I think you should do in Lisbon, however cheesy it may be, you should hear Lisbon sing.
And she sings Fado.
OF COURSE, WE HAD TO FINISH THE MEAL WITH A SANDWICH. WE JUST HAD TO. THAT’S HOW IT’S DONE.
BUT THIS TIME, WE WEREN’T SORRY THAT WE DID
First of all, it might help to mention that I am not a music person. I have almost zero song downloaded to my smartphone, and in the 7 years I’ve dwelled in New York, a trip to New Orleans, I have never stepped a foot inside a jazz bar. Curried goat, yes, but Bob Marley who?
So no, I don’t usually do this.
But to come to Lisbon without listening to a bit of fado, a music as burnt into the soul of this country as anything can hurt, is a regret that I wasn’t planning to walk away with. However, before I go on, I warn you, that a fado experience in Lisbon can prove to be borderline awkward if you have some kind of personal distance-issues. Chances are, as we were, you’d be seated on a stool tucked in between the elbows and knees of total strangers, so crowded it’d be difficult to reach down to your phones to take a selfie. Chances are you’d be forced to share foods, and drinks, too, oh hell, conversations even. If you got problems with any of those things as I almost do – oh fuck did I mention that they smoke indoors, too – chances are, it would be uncomfortable.
But again, chances are, you would regret it if you didn’t.
A young woman in her 20’s came into the tiny spot reserved for performers, professionals and amateurs alike. Carried only by a couple of guitarists sitting a feet away, she started singing… no, more like… pouring her heart out on the floor. There was so much passions, longings and losses that I felt through a song that I didn’t understand. Her body moved like a stringed puppet, cringed, shaken, pulled by the very own emotions in the melody that she sang. Her voice, at times almost inaudible, at times piercingly loud, communicated words without any translations. It felt… brave, almost, bleeding this much feelings to a wall of strangers staring within an arm’s length. Just when I thought I got a sense of what fado was, after her, came an old man in his 80’s. He was more talking then singing, waving and pointing his hands in every possible gestures, sometime as if in an argument, sometime as if in mourning. It was comical but not funny. It was crude but endearing. I can’t say I know fado, but if you ask me, the beauty of it is not in the perfection of vocal skills, but in the generosity of common strangers, singing their hearts to you on a sleeve.
We left the bar a bit in awe, with a couple of new German friends who were forced to share their chorizos with us. Walking home on her crooked slopes echoing her voice in heart-strung melodies, Lisbon felt more mysteriously beautiful than before I got to know her.
