Goodies First

Accounting for This Monte Cristo

Many regional specialties get bastardized beyond comprehension once they leave their home state. I wouldn't necessarily know that first hand since the only vaguely NW-specific food I can recall eating are jo jo potatoes (definitely no morels or cedar-planked salmon).

I think California might lay claim to the monte cristo (proper version, above) but it has been a bountiful favorite of mine for years, one that I rarely indulge in here not out of concern for my health but because NYC has done terrible things to the poor sandwich. I learned this lesson a decade ago when I used to frequent Odessa in the wee hours. This weekend I relived the shock and horror at Carroll Gardens' Hill Diner (the dearth of post-midnight options in the area is sad).

The monte cristo I've always known and loved is essentially a club sandwich on French toast served with jelly (strawberry if you're classy, grape if you're not) and fries on the side. I'm pretty sure there's a layer of mustard too. Sweet, savory and yes, a little weird but if you like poultry, pastry and powdered sugary bisteeya like I do, this isn't much of a stretch. Moroccan…Californian…whatever.  Some go as far as battering and deep-frying the whole thing, Disneyland-style, though I've yet to encounter such as beast.

My first clue that something was awry in New York was the sandwich's inclusion in the breakfast section, mingling with the omelets and pancakes. My version is lunch or dinner fare, tidy, not what I would consider overstuffed, and definitely handheld, which is why I balked when I was brought an enormous slab that nearly filled an entire plate. It seems that the NYC diner version (I've never had or seen one outside of a diner) is French toast—they have that part right—topped with thinly sliced turkey and ham and gelled together with a solid layer of melted swiss cheese, served open-faced. A pitcher of syrup is brought out with the confusing amalgam.

Not that I can't learn to love this gooey sugared package. I will say that this is a sandwich for these times; not only did I get post-Cyclones meal (beer and pretzels didn’t cut it) but also breakfast the following two mornings. Now that's good value.

After nearly forgetting about this sandwich—I think this was my first monte cristo of this millennium—my passion has been renewed. I am now determined to find a true monte cristo. There must be one lurking somewhere in the city. Anyone know anything?

Leave it to Martha Stewart to come up with a Ghost of Monte Cristo sandwich.

Example of normal monte cristo from LAist.com

Swaddling

There was a time in the not so distant past when I declared my love of all things Swad, which appear to be the house brand at Patel's. Anything Indian you can think of, and they make it. Even though I can get fresh chiles and lotus root, I still like stocking up on their frozen their frozen versions, plus exotics like cubed ratlau (purple yam).

Clearly, I'm not the modern all-from-scratch woman. I like to cook, but on a weeknight I'm not always up for scrubbing and peeling, or more accurately sourcing ingredients on the fly. I don't even know who stocks any Indian items in Brooklyn.

I've always been fond of Swad’s 99-cent boxes (which contain pouches) of sides that knock Tasty Bite out of the water for price and variety. And that's where my love affair has turned tragic. Two weeks ago I whipped up a quick mid-week meal of madras curry chicken supplemented by a package of paneer makhani around 9pm. It all tasted fine. About four hours later, just around 1am, I was hit with sharp and sudden stomach pains, no gentle nausea or indigestion. I was violently puking within minutes. Urgh. I blamed the frozen chicken breasts and wondered if I should start shunning grocery store meat, after all. The inexplicable thing was that James ate the exact dinner and he was fine. The only thing I ate that he didn’t was a mango (fresh, thank you) that had been sitting on the counter for a week. A reluctant fruit eater, I wanted to blame the mango for my distress.

Then last night it happened again. We had leftover lamb chops and I thought they would go well with peas but being too lazy to track down fresh peas (yes, even though they are in season) I grabbed a box of methai mutter malai from downstairs. Indian peas with fenugreek in minutes. James questioned my use of readymade food after the last incident but I figured that was a fluke. After my first bite, I became hesitant even though the puree didn’t taste off, and only ate two more spoonfuls.

This time I was puking by 12:45am. And yet again, James wasn't sick. What is up with you, Swad?! Is this tough love pushing me to the greenmarket? I'd go if I could walk to one. That little sad one on Carroll Street has done nothing to motivate me and Grand Army Plaza isn't where I want to be on the weekend, it's all handholders and zombie pregnant women with cups of gelato sauntering in front of your car during green lights and giving you the evil eye if you act as if you'd, you know, like to Drive when you're legally allowed to do so.

It's not just me, car-owning friends who moved from Oakland to Greenpoint who I think are returning to Oakland, were all what the hell is wrong with pedestrians here? They guessed that the problems stem from the city being a non-driving majority who don’t understand what it’s like to behind the wheel (I’m way too jumpy to drive in the city).  That's the nice theory. You could also argue that people in New York are just self-absorbed to the point that they think cars should stop for them. Me, I'm a namby-pamby rule follower both ways because people drive like assholes in Brooklyn and I don’t want to get smooshed. Common sense would dictate that if you have a Don't Walk sign yet continue walking without looking, you might just get flattened.

Jeez, now oblivious, selfish Brooklynites have distracted me from the matter at hand--my poisonous stash of packaged Indian food! I think I’ll lay off the Swad for a while, it's making me delusional.

Sandwiched

I could eat a banh mi every day of the week, but still, you have to admit the city has become oversaturated in the past few months. I can play devil's advocate, check out my banh mi alternatives in Metromix.

Since I wrote this, two new contenders have already sprung up: Aamchi Pao and Asia Dog. Long live Asian sandwiches of all stripes.

Banh Mi Cart

1/2 I'm not sure if the banh mi cart is getting more tolerable—they hand out numbers when you order now—or if the misty weather kept people indoors for lunch, but around 2:02pm there was only two people waiting for sandwiches and one woman in line ahead of me asking staff (a whopping three, two men, one woman), "What should I order?" She was steered toward the classic #1. I'm a strict #1 gal, myself, but following right behind the clueless eater I didn't want to seem like a lemming and went wild and got the meatballs instead.

Eh, should've stuck to my guns. The meatballs were delicate and springy, turning into a soft near-spread when pressed between the baguette. They were definitely spicy yet somehow under seasoned and bland.

My only real pet peeve (because I must have one) is that they seem to have stopped cutting the sandwiches in two. I need petite halves for at-desk nibbling. It's just not ladylike to be seen with a dripping meatball-filled hoagie while at work (on my free time, sure).

I also noticed jerky on the menu (and no shrimp cocktail). (6/10/09)

The crowd is very manageable at 2:30pm, no more than a few minutes wait. No problem for a late luncher like myself. I did notice that they raised the price to $6 since my last visit way back in early 2009, which kind of breaks my self-imposed $5 and under lunch rule. But still, $6 isn't outrageous in this neighborhood and I brownbag it 70% of the time anyway. Also, now have a pork fu and eel sandwich, 11 styles in total. (5/11/09)

I was excited to hear that the city’s only banh mi cart had moved even closer to my office, only about three blocks away on the corner of Pearl St. and Hanover Sq. It’s a sad state of dining affairs down here so little things mean a lot. 

But Friday there was a huddle of about 12 people in front of the cart at 1:30pm. I’m not patient in the best of circumstances so unorganized, non-lined up clumps of customers was too much for me.

I’ll go later next time and see how things play out. (5/8/09)

Water St. Banh Mi Cart Update

I've had a few people ask about the status of the Financial District's (sorry for the Twitter FiDi usage but I'm horrible texter and need all lame abbreviations at my disposal) once-mobbed banh mi cart. Well, as of 1:30pm this afternoon, it appeared to be a no show.

Don't these guys know about the banh mi boomlet sweeping the city? They are seriously missing their opportunity to cash in five-bucks-a-pop on the trend.

But more importantly, I was deprived of the lunch I had been thinking about all morning. Maybe the growing Baoguette empire will hear my cries and expand way downtown.

I'll Keep on Truckin'

Happy to report that my painful 45-minute wait at the Financial District banh mi cart a few weeks ago was likely an aberration. Or maybe the hype has already dissipated (though not banh mi mania in general—I swear in the last 24 hours I’ve read about ten recently opened or about to open Vietnamese sandwich purveyors).

I just picked up a #1 and two summer rolls (which I’m saving for dinner so no word on them) and only spent about three minutes in the process. It should be noted that they now have a $3 shrimp cocktail (six pieces) and a posted phone number for pick up orders made before 11am: 646-996-8990.

I’ll admit that I’m curious about what a Vietnamese shrimp cocktail would be like. I don’t recall ever seeing such a dish on any restaurant menus.

By the way, I’m baffled by commenters (then again, I’m frequently amazed by the blowhard-ness of commenters. Yesterday I was supposedly schooled on the inauthenticity of sweet and sour chicken at a Korean restaurant. Well, duh, and no amount of culinary knowledge will stop me from ordering non-traditional dishes if that’s what I feel like eating), specifically the commenters currently going batshit over the $8 banh mi at newly opened An Choi (and before that, it was the $7 banh mi at Park Slope’s new Hanco’s).

Seriously, who cares if someone wants to overpay for a sandwich. If that offends you, then clearly you’re not their target market and if it turns out to be rip off they’ll have to adjust their prices to stay in business. It's the evergreen no one will pay good money for "ethnic" food debate. I can see both sides; I'm seriously averse to $15 tacos. I’m well aware that the $5 Financial District banh mi costs more than a typical Chinatown version but it’s not Chinatown and I’m willing to pay a $2 premium for convenience (not atmosphere in this case, obviously) because I have no other options in this neighborhood. Quibbling between a $3 and $8 sandwich? We’re talking dollars here, even in a wretched economy I’m not going to spazz over a few bucks, especially if the sandwich is actually good.

I’m not crazy, however. Yesterday I briefly went insane and made reservations at Per Se for Friday night after reading everywhere how easy it is to now score a table there since the entire world is destitute. But after the reality of a $275 dinner set in, I chickened out and cancelled. That’s a lot of money for a gal with a lower middle class salary (by NYC standards, of course). I'll have to settle for being price gouged on banh mi, instead.

Cheese Sandwiches Are a Dish Best Served Cold

Confused as to why a cold cheese sandwich, fruit and carton of milk is somehow more punitive than going lunchless. Isn’t free blah food better than no food at all? I ate many a PB&J/orange (ok, I might've also gotten a granola bar) bagged lunch in grade school and managed to survive. And please don't tell me this is about self-esteem.

Then again,  I used to sneak pinches of processed American cheese out of my school cafeteria's walk-in fridge so I probably would've enjoyed a cold cheese sandwich. Yes, I've written about processed cheese on more than one occasion--here and here--because I love it that much.

Two Great Tastes That Taste Great Together

While french fries and hotdogs aren’t an unusual duo, wieners and fries as a standalone dish is bizarre by most standards. And as it turns out, the unhealthy duo is more international than I ever knew.

I’ve always associated the two with salchipapas, the Peruvian treat that’s not too hard to find in NYC. Here’s a basket I recently had the pleasure of digging into at Urubamba.

In December I was shocked, (ok, no Asian food combos really surprise me after finding the 7-11 Big Gulp mashed potato meal) to encounter crinkle-cut fries and sausages commingling behind a glass counter in a Singaporean food court. This one leaned heavily on the meat.

Photo from The Last Appetite

Let’s not forget the Korean fry-coated frank.

Photo from kevincrumbs on Flickr

Resto La Banquise in Montreal serves poutine with cut up hot dogs. I’m sure other Quebecois eateries must do the same, though I’ve never noticed such a thing on any visits. I’m not sure if the curds and gravy would distract or add to the meat and potatoes.

Photo from Slice

And now Italian pies in my own backyard? Ziti pizzas have always given me the heebies. I won’t even stand for rice in my burritos so pasta on pizza is beyond the pale. I assumed this was Brooklyn hubris, but no, it’s an honest to goodness Neapolitan style.

We have four continents represented: North and South America, Asia and Europe. I have little hope for Africa but there must be something in Australia. Probably with a fried egg and beets tossed into the mix

Is anyone familiar with other examples of fry-wiener goodness?

Unbearably Mediocre

Normally, I scoff at brand label buyers who shun generics. Why buy Advil when Duane Reade ibuprofen does the same thing for less? But I just discovered that not all processed cheese is created equal (ok, I already knew that Kraft singles melt while weird 99-cent brands like Tropical don't).

While perusing the refrigerated deli section at a NJ Shop Rite, I went to grab my occasional guilty treat Land O'Lakes white American cheese then noticed a twin product mixed right into the pile: Black Bear, a brand I'd never heard of and can find no evidence of on the internet, for $2 less per pound. Sure, I'd try it.

I anticipated my first creamy bite, but no, it wasn't right. The deceptively albino slice just tasted like a normal shiny orange square that comes individually wrapped in plastic. It was lacking chewiness and real cheese flavor that might be attributable to milk though I can't say for sure.  I'm certain this knock off would taste fine in a grilled cheese sandwich but I just like tearing off bits of cheese to snack on straight from the fridge and Black Bear lacks purity. No more cutting corners with cheese products again.

Don't Be Chicken

Some restaurants tend to be alluring simply because they’re elusive, whether it’s Chick-fil-A to New Yorkers or say, El Bulli, to most of the world. Does the myth live up to reality?

That’s hard to say in the case of the chicken sandwich because I’m no connoisseur. I just don’t choose chicken sandwiches when a hamburger is so much more appealing, but it’s hard to argue with the simplicity of Chick-fil-A’s classic that’s so iconic it was copied by McDonald’s this year.

Toasted buttered bun, breaded, fried (or “pressure-cooked in peanut oil,” they say) chicken breast with no more than two pickles for distraction. Austere in a good way. I think my aversion to fast food chicken and fish sandwiches is that I assume a swath of mayo will be present. I only enjoy mayonnaise when I can’t see it because I semi-secretly have the palate of a seven-year-old. If a white blob squishes out of the side of sandwich when handling it, the napkin immediately comes out and I have to wipe down the interior of overdressed bun or bread as I’ve done for over three decades. It’s not pretty. Not having to endure that trauma with Chick-fil-A is much appreciated; you can gussy up your patty with the individually packaged condiments of your choosing. I was fine with Tabasco only.

(After graduating college in the early ’90s and finding myself unemployable, I housekept my printmaking teacher’s giant ‘70s suburban house for $6/hour. She was a highly entertaining but insane alcoholic who couldn’t get out of bed so I’d also have to take her unruly kid to school [and cart him off to the McDonald’s playground and distract him while she sold pot out of her house] and occasionally make her food. She insisted on tuna sandwiches and freaked when she saw how little mayonnaise I mixed in with the canned fish. “No, like this” she laughed, gleefully thwaping in a good two cups of the condiment, creating a two-to-one ratio of thick white soup to meaty flakes. I almost hurled, and didn’t last long as her helper. I’ve never been good at helping.)

I guess Chick-fil-As aren’t as scarce as I had thought. I encountered one a few weeks ago at Menlo Park Mall, and then again this weekend at the Woodbridge Center, a lovely architectural throwback. I’d peg those JCPenny concrete angles as 1981.

Also appropriate for the era was an Orange Julius inside. I would’ve eaten a peanut buster parfait at the attached Dairy Queen for old time’s sake if I didn’t have a filling German dinner already in the works. I mean, I’d already eaten a late lunch chicken sandwich, which was not on my itinerary.

If you need any further proof of the lowbrowness of Woodbridge Center, they also had a 99-cent store and a Sears (no Spencer’s, sadly) which was the only reason why I had chosen this mall in the first place. Yes, I went to Sears on purpose. I needed to exchange a too-big Land’s End bathing suit top (no nonsense swimwear for me, I’d rather be frumpy than frighten fellow beachgoers) and apparently, they have mini shops inside of select Sears locations.

At least the trip enabled a Chick-fil-A chicken sandwich encounter. I believe there will be more in the future.

A Bouncing Baby Bacon Bar

Yes, yes, bacon has jumped the shark. Or is it now nuked the fridge? Whatever. 2009 is totally going to be about goat anyway. Don’t forget that I told you so when you’re snacking on chocolate-covered strips of billy goat meat like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

But I do love these mini Vosges bars that I just discovered this weekend at a Park Slope bodega (or is a deli if they sell fancy candies and organic stuff?). Maybe two bucks for a few bites is kind of steep, but it’s really all the candy I need. I also kind of like how they use milk chocolate instead of trying to class it up with 80% cacao that just tastes like a mouthful of mud. Salty, smoky meat and almonds just seem more right with a sweeter, creamier chocolate.

I’m glad that I saved the two I bought on the way from Union Hall to Bogota Latin Bistro because I ended up barfing on the street shortly thereafter and that would be a serious waste of candy. I’m still not sure what happened as I rarely throw up (which is why I'm so down on unbelievable emotional vomiting on screen) and never after a mere four drinks. I blame cahaça.  Is this what people mean when they say, "I can’t drink like I used to?" Maybe someone should invent miniature caipirinhas, too.

As American as Processed Cheese

Normally, I enjoy a New Jersey grocery shopping excursion (I’m still trying to muster interest in the brand new Trader Joe’s walking distance from my apt.) but this weekend I was too preoccupied to tag along with James.

As a result, items I might normally veto turned up in the cupboard and fridge. The first being Lofthouse cookies. I have extolled their virtues before. I don’t know what the hell they put in these cake like treats (ok, I did see red flag partially hydrogenated oil on the ingredient list) to make them so irresistible.

They’re unusually soft and create a satisfying substantial feeling on your teeth when you bite down. Coupled with a thick swatch of ultra-sugary frosting, it’s the perfect sugar cookie. The only disconcerting aspect is why in September they’re selling a version with springy yellow icing and perky sprinkles. I would’ve imagined oranges, browns or blacks more seasonally appropriate.

I try not to eat more than one sweet thing a week so this tray of Lofthouse cookies is big trouble. If I were an eating disordered freak I would either scarf the whole batch then puke or toss the whole container in the trash before I could get any ideas. But I neither purge nor throw away perfectly good food so I’m going to have to learn to get along with the Lofthouses as long as they’re sharing living space with me.

Later, I discovered a plastic-wrapped Styrofoam tray of sliced white American cheese. I’ve never liked those shiny, completely unnatural non-melting orange squares that you can sometimes pick up for 99-cents a pack at fine stores like C Town. This form of processed cheese is thicker and more hefty in texture like the Kraft thick singles.

I love processed cheese. I do. I’d never buy it (my own contribution to the crisper drawer is a raw milk Abbaye St Mere) but I can’t resist its salty, creamy charms. I prefer it to a mainstream cheddar (real Cheddars—I’ve actually been to Cheddar, well driven past the town—are a totally different beast) even the Tillamook I grew up with.

In grade school, kids would take turns helping out with lunch service. I can’t even remember if this was voluntary or not, I think you got free lunch in exchange but it wasn’t a low-income program. For me, the best part was sneaking into the walk-in fridge and furtively pinching a mouthful of grated orange cheese stored in giant rectangular bins on the shelves.

I didn’t outgrow my passion for fake cheese either. In high school, my friend Tara had what I guess you could call government cheese in her fridge, and I know that on at least one occasion I sampled some. Maybe it was gauche, eating a family’s free food, but it was that good.

Thankfully, I’ve never developed a taste for Kool Aid, bologna or Miracle Whip. You have to draw the line someplace. We do have a bag of those individual serving ice creams with little wooden paddles in the freezer, though.

And apparently these types of “cheaper high-margin” products are in. They’re being touted as wallet-friendly according to an article in today’s Wall Street Journal (subscription required). Lower end rather than premium brands—Banquet frozen dinners, Campbell’s condensed soup and yes, Kool-Aid—are all getting a marketing push. Say goodbye to Pringles Select.

Someone Just Fell Off the Turnip Truck

Purple carrots and blue potatoes are hardly a new story (rainbow produce was new to me six years ago and I’m sure it wasn’t new then) and mildly strange for the Wall Street Journal treatment, but unnaturally colored food is one of my passions, so I’ll admit that their slideshow is fun to watch.

Recently, I noticed that they even have bright orange cauliflower at crazy cheap Rossman Farms, my go to conventionally grown produce (and Sabra hummus) source. They also have rainbow chard at Fairway. Vibrantly hued vegetables are now totally mainstream it seems.

Unguilty Pleasure

I not only love old-fashioned chicken salad (light on the mayo, though—I’ve only shed my fear of the thick white condiment in recent years), but practically any permutation, Kosher vegetarian included.

These Healthy Korner pitas are inexplicably tasty. How can boring carrots, cabbage, celery, eggless mayonnaise and brown rice syrup (whatever that is) meld into a creamy, crunchy and satisfying light meal?

Carnivores and herbivores have been known to find the whole mock meat thing gross, but I love the chewy texture of pseudo proteins. Vegetarian Dim Sum House has mastered the Chinese approach, which appeals to my Asian food love.

But I don’t stop there. I have no love for hippies yet I’m a sucker for weird health food store prepackaged sandwiches. And as much as I like to rip on Oregon, I do miss the occasional Bhima Power Burger. I wish you could buy The Higher Taste products here. This isn’t the type of food I want to eat for dinner but I would take it over the deli salads and boring crap I normally eat for lunch.

I do draw the line at raw parsnip pinenut sushi, however.

Gatorade+Snapple+Alize=Awesome

You know enough is enough when even Evite gets into the food blogging business. Um, but that doesn’t mean I won’t click on photos of bright red, white and blue cocktails. And sweet jesus, imagine my surprise when I found out the classy beverages didn’t just include Snapple, Gatorade and Alize, but Roland wildberry cherries, too.

 

Every time I’m at the Shop Rite in Linden, NJ (which is more often than I’d care to admit) I ogle all the neon hued jarred cherries above the ice cream freezer. Finally, I broke down a few months ago and bought the damn blue ones because I’m soft-minded when it comes to edibles in abnormal colors. It’s not like I’ve eaten any—they’re just sitting on a makeshift bar waiting for the opportunity.

I’ve been dying to try Rothman & Winter’s sort of recently released Crème de Violette, primarily so I can make an aviation and then sully the lavender beauty with a turquoise cherry. In the mean time I might have to settle for the Big Blue Buzz. Aw, who needs homemade sarsaparilla and artisanal tonic water, anyway? The whole neo-pre-prohibition era cocktail trend is so 2007. Evite knows 2008 is about food coloring and artificial flavors.

Carousel Bakery

It wasn’t until Monday while I was at the St. Lawrence Market in Toronto that it occurred to me that NYC lacks a fancy indoor market like many cities have. And then the Times wrote about this very thing yesterday.

I’ll admit I skimmed, but two words leaped off the screen: tripe truck! Really? Supposedly, a restaurant consultant is envisioning a South Street Seaport market showcasing talents of chefs, in this instance a Batali-run tripe truck. I think it would be cool to have an international tripe truck serving regional styles. I could have menudo, cold Sichuan with chile oil, lampredotto. I mean, S’MAC and Rice to Riches have worked the single minded shtick. Why not let stomach lining have its day?

I’m one of those soulless types who are ambivalent about farmers’ markets. Obviously, I’m not against locally grown meat and produce, that would be stupid, but I don’t get that excited over it either excited and I never have the energy to actually pay visits to greenmarkets, wonderful as they sound. Maybe it’s because I hate the outdoors and everything in the city ends up inducing crankiness because too many people want to do the same thing and many of those people have abhorrent personalities.

The funny thing was that shoppers were complaining about the awful crowds at the St. Lawrence Market and I’d read as much on the internet beforehand. I was expecting a mob scene and at most there were a few counters with three people in a line. That was it.

Toronto was baffling that way. I’ve been before but can barely remember a thing about it (thank you online diary. Wow, I've really managed to tame my long-windedness since 2000). Despite being the most populous city in Canada, it felt more like a Portland; things close early, aren’t even open on Sunday and the streets are a ghost town after 9pm. And strangers stare at you, like they don’t know they’re supposed to mind their own business and avoid eye contact. Freaks. And they follow rules like waiting for lights to change and get flustered when entering the exit.

We trailed a woman into a liquor store, who half-way through the exit door realized she had done wrong and made a big fuss about getting back around us and going in the proper entrance half a foot to our right. We just continued on in through the exit and predictably miffed her.

I also realized that on street corners and waiting in lines I stand too close to others, making them nervous. It’s a New Yorkism that’s always unsettled me, the worst being the person in line behind you getting sideways and putting their things on the counter before you’ve even been rung up. I only realize that I’m physically aggressive and have no sense of personal space when out of town, though obviously not in China where elderly will mow you down.

So, the market was completely manageable and I picked up two Quebec raw milk cheeses: Riopelle de l'Isle, a super buttery triple cream and Geai Bleu, an almost cheddar-like, semi-firm blue, mild but not squishy like the soft blue cheeses I’m obsessed with.

Bizarrely, I stumbled upon a version of the cheese that started my teenage-born fixation, Bresse Bleu, at a Dominion grocery store across the street. No special cheese, just a superstore offering, but not one I’ve seen in the U.S. I got way more excited by this than the artisanal wedges I’d picked up earlier. Like I said before, I don’t even need farmer’s markets to be happy.

 

But the winner was a simple peameal sandwich, a regional delicacy I’m ashamed to admit I’d never heard of until a month ago. Peameal sounds kind of unappetizing; fortunately, it’s really just Canadian a.k.a. back bacon on a roll. But it’s so much more, of course.

First off, the bread is perfectly suited to the task, which kind of makes sense since the vendor is a bakery. The crust is just hard enough on the teeth but not resistant and the inner texture is soft but not Wonder Bread pliable. It’s horrible when a bun dominates a sandwich and this is a fine balance of starch and meat with enough strength to avoid sogginess.

 

The bacon, called peameal for the traditional coating on the slab of cured meat, is more like ham, a little bit fatty and sweet, only barely salty with cooked crispy edges. You get a healthy number of bacon layers. 

Condiments are available for do-it-yourself doctoring. Mustard seemed popular so I went with that and chose a maple syrup infused spread from Kozliks, who has a stall just across the cavernous room.

I hate it when foodies oversell simplicity but this two-ingredient snack is definitely worthy of attention.

Carousel Bakery * 93 Front Street E., Toronto, Canada

'Tis the Season to be Crabby

Once again I find myself celebrating a solo Christmas (despite little love for religion, I find the generic happy holidays thing kind of ridiculous. No one really celebrates Kwanzaa [and please set me straight if you do] and Hanukkah is long over. I know it's hard to believe if you live in the N.E. or pockets of Florida, but only 2% of Americans are Jewish) which can only mean one thing.

No, not a Home Alone marathon (though I do tend to watch shittier fare on TV when no one's around. However, I can promise that I'll never be so bored that Jon & Kate plus 8 will be considered acceptable entertainment. With every aging woman using fertility drugs, are multiple births really a novelty anymore?). I'm talking about crab rangoon, my biggest guilty pleasure. I've come to associate the cream cheese filled wontons with solitary end-of-year snacking.

There's something irresistible about fried and starchy encasing tangy and creamy. I don't think there's actually any crab in the things, just scallions. And dipped into a duck sauce/sambal oelek blend? Perfection.

Previously in crab rangoon:
Crab Rangoon #1
Crab Rangoon (half-assed & trashy version)
Rangoon Run
Wanton Wontons

Deep Purple

I went on a mini Filipino baked goods binge this weekend. I think my fascination with blue rice nasi kerabu (I encountered another enticing photo the other day) spawned a more accessible in NYC ube craze.

These purple yam products have frustrated me into actually reading my camera manual and online tutorials to no avail. The purple I see with my eyes is much warmer and more magenta than the bluish deep color that shows up digitally. Unfortunately, you’re not getting finely tuned photos because around 2pm I had to abandon my mission. The urge to check out the Cat Show struck and I was forced to get out of my pajamas and hightail it in order to justify the $15 entry fee with 5pm closing time.

 

My first find was a slice of ube layer cake after a meal at Engeline’s (which I’m not detailing at this moment). As you can see from the photo, the guts got a little mangled, not from getting knocked around in the car but from crazy slicing. I expected it to be dense from afar, but it's actually a chiffon cake that's very light and not overly sweet.

 

After a stop at the Phil-Am market down the street, I came away with an ensaymada from a New Jersey bakery. These sweet rolls have always weirded me out a bit because of the mildly strange butter, granulated sugar and grated cheese topping. That’s not really a bad flavor combination but I’m more accustomed to cream cheese as pastry cheese. I used to have the same mixed feelings about cheddar cheese with apple pie. The ube filling is randomly and sparsely striated throughout the bun. I wouldn’t have minded a bit more swirling.

 

Ok, puto (which if I'm correct, isn't always a word used to describe an edible treat) are fairly bland and not ube affiliated at all (and somehow instead of fixing the color, I managed on narrowing the frame) but I couldn’t resist the purple muffin-ish blobs and then found a combo pack with all three colors available. These are simple steamed treats made from rice flour and the colors have no bearing on their flavor. I do love the springiness of sweets made with non-wheat meals, mochi being the most extreme. These bright fluff balls will be good for breakfast during the week. I was getting kind of sick of granola bars.

Cute Overload: Plush Edition

Oh my god, how many sewn, knitted and crocheted renditions of food exist in the world? There’s a whole softie subculture (not to be confused with furries) that’s nearly too wide-ranging to wrap my head around. Squishy is good but squishy with faces is even better. Next to blue food, anthropomorphism is about as good as it gets.

I went on a Nyanko buying binge a few years ago and have tried to temper my mania for cats disguised as food. Now I’m attempting to be more selective; the first type of cuteness I can weed out is crochet. To be honest, all that nubbiness gives me the creeps. There’s something too cigarette-smoke-and-wet-dog-infested-afghan about it for my liking.

Here are three items I could live with.

I can’t look at these felt egg tarts for too long or they’ll make me crap myself with glee. Maybe that’s the true meaning of the term Cutesypoo.

My Paper Crane has ridiculously sweet products. The bruised banana is sad cute, but I won’t be able to rest until I get the plush moldy bread.

Sweet Meats don’t have faces but I don’t love them any less. 

Am I Blue

When life gives you lemons, you're supposed to make lemonade, which is kind of stupid if you ask me. If I'm feeling blue, I look at blue food. It's kind of the same concept, right? Instead of dwelling on life's little annoyances, I culled nasi kerabu's greatest visual hits.

I’ve never seen nasi kerabu (Malaysian herbed rice) in person, but I’m in love with the idea of dyeing rice colors even though I’m not sure that I understand the logic behind it. I just don’t think blue rice would fly with the typical American consumer, which is one more reason why I have to give props to Malay Peninsula cuisine. These are not people who are afraid of rainbow hues--just look at the pans of agar-agar that masak-masak (yes, double words are another regional trademark) photographed at a Ramadan bazaar. The blue rice above, came from another such bazaar.  All we get at street fairs in NYC are grilled Italian sausages and mozzarepas.

Actually, I think a lot of modern cooks use food coloring rather than the traditional bunga telang/pea flower to achieve this look. (I know a lot of the intense purples in Filipino ube-based snacks aren’t naturally derived. Wow, this Pillsbury ube hotcake mix is one of the craziest things I've ever seen.) And not all nasi kerabu is even blue; most recipes I see don’t call for tinting at all.

When researching a trip to Malaysia in 2005, I relied a bit on Lonely Planet World Food Malaysia and Singapore (which I now know was photographed by the always on trend Chubby Hubby) and kept coming back to a photo of Kelantanese woman placing bean sprouts on top of a plate of blue rice. It reminded me of a childhood impulse to keep returning to engrossing illustrations in picture encyclopedias. Unfortunately, my ‘80s Childcraft set is in storage across country (or at least I hope it still is—it freaks me out to think that I still have at least ten boxes somewhere in Portland with records, books, kitchenware and possibly a few clothing items which are probably so ‘90s that I could now re-wear them and be in fashion. Er, I might’ve gotten rid of the Childcraft books now that I think about it) so I can’t look up the exact photo I’m thinking of.

I’m fairly certain it was the “Look and Learn” volume on science that contained an image of a tableau of food that was supposed to be unappetizing because the colors were all wrong. I think there was a green orange, black cookies, white butter, a pitcher of milk that wasn’t white, and a few more items. There had to have been something atypically blue but I can’t say for sure. I thought the food looked cool rather than disgusting. Childcraft is the reason I know about anything I know today and why my knowledge level is that of a nine year old.

I have a few recipes for nasi kerabu in cookbooks, though in print and on the internet there are many more for nasi ulam, which is kind of the same thing; they’re both herbed rice salads but nasi kerabu is the one that’s usually blue. So many of the dishes in my cookbooks that sound unusual and worth tackling are next to impossible because we just don’t have access to the same ingredients. For this dish you need bunga kantan, daun kesom, cekur leaves, kaduk leaves, turmeric leaves and more depending on the version. I have basil, mint and frozen pandan and kaffir lime leaves covered but that’s it.

When and if I get back to Malaysia (I had originally planned on Langkawi and elsewhere for vacation 2008, and am still trying to figure out how China became the destination instead, not that I'm complaining about going to China) I’ll have to seek this dish out.

More on nasi kerabu from Cyber Kuali

Photos from:
masak-masak
Cheat Eat
kleinmatt66 via Flickr
Felix KL via Flickr
hazlini5555 via Flickr

New Joy

I’ve been known to torment friends with film. In college I was convinced that The Disorderly Orderly was pure genius (not to be confused with Disorderlies). Then I went through a Mrs. Doubtfire phase. Norbit even sucked me in earlier this year.

While watching perplexingly uneventful Old Joy on the (not so) big screen at Brooklyn Heights Cinema last November, I felt it wasn’t the right setting. Something was missing. The movie pushed James’s tolerance level more than any movie since Grizzly Man (which I didn’t find hard to watch). Er, because nothing happens, or rather nothing’s said, plenty happens in long real time shots, one might say. And many said just that; the film made countless 2006 top ten lists.

But it struck me recently that the ideal circumstances to view Old Joy would be with an Oregonian, someone you’ve been friends with for ages, and quite ideally while stoned. It would be the only way the movie would work. No one else could appreciate the overwhelming Northwestness of the dialogue and setting. Green and wet, moss on trees, oppressively gray sunless skies…slugs. Yes, slugs sum up all that is Oregon. I couldn’t believe my fortune when I was treated to a slug on a rock scene. The only thing missing was slow shots of mushrooms bulging from the earth.

I only have one friend in NYC that fit the criteria. Another would’ve sufficed, having spent some formative years in Portland, but she couldn’t attend. Jessica so rightly brought along a vegetarian burrito, as big as a baby’s torso, 85% beans and rice. I won’t touch those starchy hippy beasts, but it was completely appropriate.

I have no idea what their provenance is, and I’m fully aware that burritos as we know them aren’t terribly Mexican, but the burritos I love--compact, dense and meaty--come from neither Tex-Mex nor Mission-style storefronts in Portland. These reasonably sized cylinders contain no filler, no cheese, are a little greasy and stuffed with typical taco innards like carnitas or pastor. Basically refried beans and meat in a flour tortilla. I’ve not seen these in NYC.

Brooklyn burritos aren’t for me, so I easily identified ultimate snacks of my own. I went to pick up hummus to nam prik-ify, and was faced with a new Sabra variety: jalapeño. So pretty and green that I couldn’t leave it on the shelf. It’s sharper, tangier and herbier than the red chile mélange in former favorite Supremely Spicy. It looks like it would be milder, though it actually sticks with you.

I also picked up a half pound of Bleu d'Auvergne cheese, which I’m not sure qualifies as a soft blue (in my sense of the term). Despite its pliable nature, it’s really a creamy blue cheese, not a blue/triple cream hybrid.  At room temperature, the piquant cheese is spreadable not crumbly and almost fooled me into believing it was the style I was looking for. It certainly out-classed the Charles Shaw Cabernet Sauvignon I was drinking with it.

“Sorrow is faded worn out joy,” we learned. And most importantly, that watching Old Joy is much better with snacks, depressants and an accomplice. It’s worth waiting over a month for the Netflix shipment in order to glean quiet life lessons 2,900 miles from home

Best Snack Ever

Nam prik + hummus = best treat ever. I don’t know if the painfully hot, shrimpy, just barely sweetened paste that recently singed my tongue mellowed with age or if I was just overly sensitive the first time I tasted it. But now it’s perfect. And spooned around a tub of the smoothest, tastiest (which I’m sure is directly attributable to fat content) pre-packaged hummus brand, Sabra, it creates a perfectly balanced dip.

I used to be satisfied with their fiery Supremely Spicy Hummus, but now there’s no going back. The minutely rosier blob in the center of my container is the barely touched chile mix that comes factory sealed. All the other mounds are my pungent addition. I want to eat this newfound snack every day. Last night I ate hard shell tacos for dinner (don’t laugh—they’re good maybe twice a year). Normally, that would be perfectly satisfying but I felt like I was missing something so I had to dig into the nam prik hummus for a makeshift dessert course.

What else can I put nam prik on? Yesterday, I was completely charmed by the idea of curry rice krispie treats. It’s not a giant leap to imagine chile paste mingling with puffed rice. There already is a Thai snack that drizzles caramel on something similar. But I can’t find a photo of that sweet anywhere and I swear I had one, myself.

Saint Agur

I have not given up on my quest to taste all soft blue cheeses. Mild and squishy Saint Agur still needs to be added to the list. It’s a classy $19/lb cheese, not to be found just anywhere. I recently picked up the last sliver on display (they had more in the basement but I’m ok with the dregs) at Stinky Bklyn where I was putting a birthday gift certificate to good use.

I got side tracked by Beeler Hoch Ybrig, a gruyere-like cheese that’s super-nutty. I guess it smells, though I’m under-sensitive to strong food odors. I do know that when I attempted the wretched master cleanse, one tiny bite of this cheese induced serious regurgitation.

I’ve learned my lesson with the chunky jamon Serrano at Stinky Bklyn, so I opted for lomo embuchado instead. This cured pork, they cut on a slicer. And I swear to god, I’m not a stickler but I wonder if it’s not meant to be cut paper thin? It looks hefty in photos. All I know is that it’s like a phantom food. No matter how many see-through circles you pick up and chew, there’s no flavor. It’s caloric air.

The Vosges Barcelona Bar was much more satisfying. While I rarely salt my savory food, I love it with caramels and chocolate. Hickory smoked almonds and sea salt are a good combo, and I liked that this used milk chocolate rather than a hardcore, high cocoa percentage dark.

Whenever I’m not spending my own money, I’m inclined to experiment with foofy beverages. The unknown liquid in this instance was Bottle Green Lemongrass and Ginger Soda. I don’t normally drink soda, sweet liquids have never done much for me, but when I’m feeling wild I’ll splurge on fizzy, juicy things like Kristall (not Cristal). So, Bottle Green isn’t really a soda; it’s not even carbonated. That kind of sucked because one of my core requirements for a refreshing beverage is the presence of bubbles. If I were one for crafting fabulous cocktails, this spicy citrus water might make a good mixer.

Oh yes, back to the cheese. Keeping with my dated palate, Saint Agur was invented in the late ‘80s. I wouldn’t say it tastes grungy, though. When it’s cold the texture is thick and substantial, barely blue, more like Laughing Cow than brie, despite a 60% fat content. After warming up, the cheese develops a subtle spiciness with little aftertaste. All in all, very straightforward and clean, not funky in the least. Almost too refined for me—I’d prefer something a touch trashier.

Previously in soft blues:
Saga
Cambozola
Mountain Top Blue

Take My Cupcake, Please

I hope this post on the wonder of petit fours is a harbinger that the ladies of the internet will stop blogging about macarons. Petit fours are where it’s at, duh. I know they’re just small squares of cake, but they feel so much more special.

Maybe the frosted bites could even usurp cupcakes as tiny and pointlessly trendy dessert, though I fear frozen yogurt is an unbeatable front-runner. Those damn cupcakes have had a sticky stronghold on this entire decade.

E.T. baker tee from Johnny Cupcakes

Saga Blue

Saga is the poor man’s soft blue cheese. It’s not dirt cheap at around $9.99/lb, but it’s the most likely variety to be had from middle of the road grocery stores. Usually, I only resort to it when I’m desperate. I guess I was desperate Saturday because during a Fairway run it was the only soft blue prepackaged on display (not only was my favorite Castello Blue missing, but the Cambozola was M.I.A too) and I caved. Sure, I could’ve waited at the cheese counter. I just wasn’t in the mood.

Usually Saga is low key and kind of generic, bitter rinded, very brie-like. It’s rarely as creamy as I’d like. The wedge I picked up this weekend tasted like swampy iceberg lettuce, weirdly enough. Remind me not to fall for it again. I should know better by now. It’s the same thing with Pret a Manger’s sandwiches always being pricy and mayo-laden, and yet I still persist in buying them every so often.

I was amused to see that my taste is early ‘80s. The decade has been a recent treasure trove for fashion and music, so all things brie should really make a comeback. I’m waiting for blackened catfish, kiwis, and mud pie to return with a vengeance. Strangely, sushi’s never faded away.

Previously in soft blues:
Cambozola
Mountain Top Blue

Blue Cheese: Cambozola

Mold is the only substance that will make me gag and wretch like those inexplicable emotional vomiters that fascinate and repel me. If I see or smell (yes, mold has a distinct smell) white fuzz, my throat closes up, acid starts rising. (The other day, I discovered a bag of jerky next to the cat food that had begun sprouting fur. I had no idea that jerky could go moldy.) But I can reconcile my loathing as long as it’s an intentional part of crafted cheese. Just cutting off green growths from a block of cheddar won’t suffice. (I know plenty of people think this is acceptable but I was traumatized years ago by woodsy, mobile home dwelling, vague friends of the family who brought out a jar of grape jelly for sandwiches and nonchalantly directed, "just don't put the knife in the mold." The entire rim of the glass container was encrusted with flora. Later that same day I was served a hamburger that had a pocket of mayonnaise in the middle of the patty.)

Cambozola is next up in my comparison of soft blue cheeses. I can’t decide if it’s pricy or not at around $12/lb. Is it classy? I got mine straight off the shelf at Fairway. Usually, they stock Blue Castello, but it was absent on this visit. I hope they didn’t replace it with Cambozola. As might be intuited from the name, this is a Camembert Gorgonzola hybrid. However, you might not guess that it’s German (though Champignon’s US headquarters are just across the Hudson in Englewood Cliffs, NJ).

This stuff is like pure buttery fat, sticky and thick and not overwhelmingly blue. Smooth, with no bitterness or sharpness. I could actually stand for a little more punch. My problem in general is that I have a hard time defining what’s too rich, so the line between appreciative and gluttonous can be tenuous. I have to wrap up and hide away these creamy blue-streaked wedges or I’ll keep going back and slicing off more. I guess that means I like the Cambozola.

More soft blues:
Saga
Mountain Top Blue

Can-Do Spirit

I’m not sure how one becomes a “culinary critic of tinned foods” outside of simply declaring yourself as such, but I do like the notion. A few weeks ago, I was speculating on how the French can make eccentricity chic, but it’s the Japanese who make batshit crazy cool.

Ok, collecting canned food isn’t exactly crazy (and I’ve never understood what guano has to do with mental instability). I’ve been known to find and hoard a few oddball foodstuffs but I don’t have outlets like Chika Takai. She serves canned food in a restaurant, has published a book translated as “Canned Food Maniacs” and guest spoke and produced a menu for Nichiro’s 100th anniversary celebration.

I’m not even wild about canned food (though I love spicy Thai catfish in a tin) but I’m impressed. I now want to become the foremost culinary critic of chain restaurants.

The Madeline Myth

I’ve always felt a little sore because I don’t have a pivotal (good) food memory. A meal or single ingredient that shaped you into the human you are today. You know, the fodder for like 85% of all food related essays. “Going home” literally and figuratively. Discovering yourself through family or life changing travels, and all the better if your tale involves a rustic village on the European continent.

(In fact, I was a little weirded out yesterday when I opened the new Gourmet to discover an article from the woman who does (did?) the Bruni Digest—about an ancestral home in Finland and the cuisine that accompanies these summer sojourns. I absolutely do not know the path that takes one from blogging smart, satire of a New York Times food critic to writing intergenerational food pieces in highly coveted venue. But then, such leaps have always mystified me.)

But it turns out that I do have a foreign food memory (I’m still working on the family component), albeit minor, and didn’t even realize it. Last century, when I still spent lots of weekends in the East Village, I would frequent the East Village Cheese Shop. Sure, everything was on the verge of turning bad but it was cheap as hell. The dollar selections up front would charm me and I always fell victim to Castello Blue, a little half circle, wrapped in gold foil and boxed in cardboard. One buck for the creamiest, brie-blue hybrid ever.

It was so good that it had to be trashy. At least that’s my nonsensical logic. A purist would just eat full on piquant blue cheese or triple cream brie unadorned. Blue Castello is the anti-Cabrales. Someone that would enjoy tempering one with the other has no respect. I’ve never been respectful, though.

I never knew such a two-in-one treat existed, at least I didn’t think so until I remembered bleu de bresse. Eighteen years ago I spent a miserable July in a 17th century country home in Southwestern France. My attempt at being a summer exchange student was not a success. I didn’t appreciate my bucolic environs one bit, could barely communicate and was bored out of my mind. But I did like the bleu de bresse when the after dinner cheese plate came out.

Well, it was a Tupperware container of cheeses, some past their prime. My host mom (who I described in my diary at the time as looking like Peg Bundy with Rod Stewart’s face, and I would stick with that assessement today) considered herself to be “modern,” which meant we ate frozen food (even the baguettes) and watched TV during dinner. Two things I had been led to believe were absolute no-nos in France. Honestly, I could’ve cared less about either at sixteen (and got a kick out of Dana Hill being in like every TV movie. I currently get a kick out of the fact that there's a guy mysteriously named Dana Hill who works remotely at my company) but did notice the discrepancies.

The creamy bleu de bresse was the only edible that demanded an inquisitive qu'est-ce que c'est from me. I’ve never sought it out since and never see it anyway. I’m not sure that it’s even sold in the U.S. But I’ve been eating approximations for years without realizing where I got the taste for the style in the first place.

Whenever I’m presented with an opportunity to try a creamy blue, it’s impossible to pass up. I’ve been trying to limit my cheese intake (when I go on healthy eating binges, I don’t miss sweets so much as rich dairy products) but soft blues are my weakness. I’ve bought two wedges in the past two weeks. See, no self-control. And it fits into my fetish for blue food.

As long as I’m unable to resist my urges I may as well sample the variations I encounter. First up is an odd cheese to start with because it doesn’t completely fit into this category.

Last week I read about Mountain Top Blue on The Kitchen and felt inspired to track it down because the store mentioned in the post happens to be walkable from my apartment. I’m not one for going all that out of my way for comestibles so this was like a cheesey siren song I couldn’t tune out.

This pyramid shaped cheese doesn’t fit my M.O. because it’s an artisanal goat milk concoction and the blue aspect is minimal. Also, at $15 a pop, it's pricier than my usual snacky impulse purchases. It’s more like a very good mild and nutty goat cheese with a hint of tanginess from the blue. It’s also more substantial and less melting than the styles I normally relish. You can cut a slice without it buckling under its own melting texture. I suspect that with age, this cheese would soften up in the center, but it didn’t last long enough to get that gooey. Purchased on a Friday evening, it was history by Monday morning. I might buy it to share at a party, but it almost felt obscene to pick at the blob solo over a weekend.

More soft blues:
Saga
Cambozola

$3.49 Lofthouse

I very rarely shop at Stop & Shop, mostly because there aren’t that many around. But yesterday I was on Northern Boulevard sampling Colombian hamburgers (and ultimately ended up seeing 28 Weeks Later a few blocks over in Astoria—I’m still not clear where the Long Island City border is. I'm also not clear why ESLs go to English language movies if they have to have every other word explained to them aloud. And if inanity like "What's a pub?" is going to occur, why does it have to be conducted half an inch from me?) and for boring reasons I ended up at two Stop & Shops (L.I.C. and Maspeth).

I do enjoy their spacious aisles and near approximation of suburban shopping. Plus, they’re never crowded (they tend to be a little overpriced unless you get one of those loyalty cards, which apply to practically everything). But the biggest draw besides the bottle and can recycling machine is their brightly colored sprinkle-topped sugar cookies that tend to have seasonal themes.

I thought they were a house brand, but they’re made by a company called Lofthouse (their website appears to be in limbo). I’ve never been crazy about store bought cookies (or canned soup) because they always seem lacking. But these thick icing-heavy examples are an exception. They’re not special, more like something someone would bring to grade school for a birthday (except that now everyone has allergies or is obese or organic-only and treats are outlawed). There’s a floury, slightly baking soda-ish quality to them, crumbly and chewy at the same time, and I swear to god, toothsome would be an apt description but I’m not using that word anymore.

It seems that I’m not alone in my fondness for these sweets, though chatter on Yahoo! Answers isn’t really indicative of anything. Heck, people also devote time posting “Which major chain restaurant has sourdough bread that is cut in 4?” and “At taco bell they serve a pinto bean and cheese thing and I would love to make it with dinner tonight.?”

I won’t question why red, white and blue is featured in May. I suppose patriotism can be celebrated year-round. In fact, there was a mom shopping with two youngish boys, and one was dressed head to toe in camo, so who’s to say?

Kristall Clear

I love to eat but I don’t really love weekday lunch. At my relatively still new job people make use of their full hour and aren’t big desk eaters. That’s wise, I’m trying to get there. I’m simply a desk eater because I can’t deal with crowds and the 12-2 crush raises my blood pressure (for real—I’d like to believe this study mentioned in the NY Times last week about dark chocolate being as effective as beta blockers in controlling blood pressure. They specifically mentioned atenolol, which is what I take because I seem to have the health level of a sedentary middle-aged man who has smoked and eaten red meat his entire life).

I just ran across the street to grab a bagel at Au Bon Pain who doesn’t make even remotely good bagels but there aren’t a lot of options around Broad and Beaver streets. It’s always frenzied and I start getting all distracted and unable to make a decision and thought I should get a seltzer because I was getting tired of the tap water I’d been lugging around in a Poland Springs bottle (I usually get a couple weeks out of each bottle before I start worrying about germs). I didn’t see any club soda so I blindly grabbed an inoffensive, clear, sparkling pear beverage in a glass bottle. I was a little bummed to realize it contained sugar after I sat down but it was fairly light and more fruity, plus, how often do you find a pear soda?

I attempted to read about the faux gastro pub craze in New York and tried not to let the bustling around me bug me out (why do I have beta blockers when I really need tranquilizers?). It wasn’t until I got back to the office that I realized my name was in the Swedish brand of all natural fruit soda.

I know, big deal if your name is John or something but I’ve never been blessed with namesake anything, (though in Budget Travel I discovered a Buenos Aires boutique hotel called Krista) not even things meant to be personalized. I even see Krystal, which seems unusual, more than Krista. Off the top of my head, there are burgers, a Filipino (one of the other Krista Garcias in the world is a teenager in the Philippines) mini chain in NYC (hmm, looks like they just closed their Manhattan branch) and a new bar I just noticed Saturday on Queens Blvd.

So now I love Kristall soda even though I normally hate soda. Oh my god, I just found out something horrifying about Kristall: they also produce a beverage called Julmust. I have no idea how it tastes, but with hops and malt extract listed it sounds suspiciously close to my least favorite foodstuff in the universe that I just mentioned yesterday, malta. Kristall clearly has a dark side.

Food Felons

-- I can totally sympathize with this “Sweet Tooth Bandit” who spent nearly $700 at Swiss Colony using a stolen identity. I used to become desperate and tormented every holiday season when the unsolicited Swiss Colony catalog showed up on the mail. I would longingly page through the wish book, coveting the petit fours with all of my grade school being. I never ever got a single item from Swiss Colony and now that I have free will (and better taste in confectionary) I feel less compelled to order anything. If there’d only been an internet in the early ‘80s, who knows what havoc I might’ve tried to wreak.

--It’s not every day that fried chicken brings out the firebug in people. I do love the NYC brand name bastardization process. Somehow Kentucky Fried Chicken (don’t forget the Kitchen Fresh Chicken fiasco) becomes Kennedy Fried Chicken and then JFK Fried Chicken emerges.

I discovered the regionally confused chicken Maryland when I was in Penang. I never ordered any, but it appears to be fried chicken served with fried bananas, fritters, fries and sometimes sausage or bacon. Does that scream Baltimore to you?

The unanswered question in this arson case is why a Twin Donut would be selling fried chicken at all. Franchises are so renegade in NYC--I recall there used to be a Blimpie that sold Thai food on the side and a Chinatown Popeye’s that hawked pork dumplings under the counter. I’m sure there are countless other examples.

--Ok, malnourishment isn’t a felony but if your eating disorder fucks up my commute something criminal just might happen.

Nothing Krafty About It

Maybe I misunderstood this Wall Street Journal article on how today’s People contained scratch and sniff Kraft ads. As a lover of the fine publication, Kraft Food & Family, this seemed like a dream come true. I thought they meant that Kraft was sponsoring this week’s magazine so I couldn’t wait to flip through it at work this evening (I don’t need to subscribe to gossip rags—they’re practically the only periodicals we get at the Post) but it was just a plain ol’ People with a Reese Witherspoon and Ryan Phillippe cover that simply smelled liked glossy paper not an aromatic holiday edition.

I did get excited when I saw a Campbell’s ad with a recipe for green bean casserole. I know, not Kraft but a whiff of cream of mushroom soup and French’s French Fried Onions would’ve been welcome and I don’t even like soupy casseroles (I’ve been trying to detox after overindulging in alcohol and battered fried treats this weekend and eating carelessly in general the past few weeks. I so couldn’t handle the CR lifestyle. As of 8pm I’ve eaten blanched cabbage, green beans and carrots with a little peanut sauce, ¼ cup of spiced pumpkin seeds and a small box of golden raisins and I’m so starving that I’m practically hallucinating. And the peanuts and pepitas probably contain too much fat. The only thing keeping me on the wagon is that I’m working solo until midnight and can’t sneak out for a snack. I do have an emergency orange in my purse because I knew I would have a freak out).

But smelling synthetic food scents is safe, so where are my Krafty advertorials?

Sweet Smell of Excess

I told myself that if I ever get to take a substantial vacation any time soon (which doesn’t seem likely in my current state) that I’ll only go to one city (ok, possibly two) and explore the hell out of it. I always try to cram in as many places as possible in my allotted amount of time off and never feel settled in any of them (Spain and Wales in ten days wasn’t enough and even two and a half weeks for Hong Kong, Singapore, Penang and Kuala Lumpur was too brief).

That’s also how I feel about throwing parties, even low-key ones. I want to make a million things, and I often succeed despite space constraints (I can’t complain about the size of our apartment—it’s vast by local standards, but the kitchen is as tiny as NYC stereotypes would have you believe. Witness dirty aftermath in photo to the right. There’s a mere 18” of workable counter space, which is better than the zero inches I’ve had in the past). The trouble arises when I have my hands full literally, prepping snacks and sipping drinks. The last thing I’m capable of is taking pictures. Photoblogging and I are natural enemies. My antisocial nature becomes apparent when over the course of six hours I only manage a few food shots and not a single image contains humans. For all anyone knows, my Saturday night soiree was a party of one (does anyone else think it’s weird that two former Party of Five actors with animal surnames both play doctors in back-to-back ABC dramas?) when I’d estimate that thirty odd guests came and went over the course of the evening.

Deep-fried candy was intended as the main event, though judging from the heaving bag of leftover bars in the downstairs fridge, we didn’t make much progress. More attention was paid to battering and cooking oddball items like Sara Lee Cheesecake, Entenmann’s Blackout Cake, caramel apples and Hostess Sno Balls. Anyone interested in recreating the greasy decadence in the privacy of their own home can follow the recipe I posted from a previous venture a few years ago.

Raw caramel apple

Cooked Sno Ball

On the non-sugary front, I whipped up two easy drinking snacks to go with the Jalapeño Margaritas. Supposedly, I squeezed enough limes for 18 drinks (it’s a good idea to not save the task of juicing 30 limes until the last minute) but the pitcher was gone in a flash. Cocktails are like that. I thought I’d counter the Three-Pepper Spiced Pepitas, which was part of a Food & Wine feature “Bar Snacks for Food Snobs” with a common people Rachael Ray Spicy Chickpea Snack Mix. I don’t want to be a hater, but the garbanzos were kind of eh. It’s hard to compete with smoked Spanish paprika though.

I made a Fatty Crab recipe, Malaysian Glazed Chicken Wings, against my better judgment (ok, that’s a weird thing to say. I apologize for my completely irrational aversion to Zak Pelaccio, who apparently is opening a new restaurant in London). I’m crazy for fish sauce, chiles and sugar, so no complaints. In fact, I ate extra chicken last night for dinner and I’ll probably eat a few wings this evening. James was disappointed that I baked the poultry when we had a tub of hot oil at the ready. One can only fry so much.

Said oil was put to use for Perkedel Jagung (Indonesian corn fritters). I doubled the irresistible recipe given on 'Ono Kine Grindz and should’ve quadrupled it. I don’t even have photos of the fritters because they were devoured as soon as the hit the plate. They were served with Maggi Sweet Chili Sauce that we got at a Carrefour in Singapore. We brought a few bottles back last year because I’m obsessed with the sweet-spicy stuff but you can get versions in Chinatown. It’s even on Amazon, though the bottle is different and the label looks more old fashioned.

I borrowed liberally from James Oseland’s new Cradle of Flavor (which never struck me as absurdly titled until friends saw it on my desk and started mocking it/me with made up names like Bassinet of Taste. I thought my own invention, Snugli of Seasoning was a hoot—too much tequila has been known to influence humor perception) but am unable to reproduce the recipes in full here. No, I didn’t just gain respect for copyright, his recipes are just really freaking long and I don’t have the wherewithal to type them out. I made a shrimp satay that completely fumed up the apartment with its requisite toasted shrimp paste for the marinade. I’m highly tolerant of extremely pungent smells (seriously, I think I have a permanent sinus infection. For better or worse, I can’t smell anything) but James was having a freak out trying to ventilate the place before company arrived. Fans, candles and incense are no match for belacan. Thank god for global warming or else we wouldn’t have been able to keep the windows open all night in November. The dipping sauce was a simple concoction of kejap manis, sliced chiles and lime juice.

Gado Gado is kind of whatever you want it to be. I briefly blanched sliced carrots, green beans, bean sprouts and also included fresh cucumber and fried tofu. I forgot about the cabbage I intended to add. You can also make it heartier with sliced potatoes and/or hardboiled eggs. Vegans threatened to attend the event so I eschewed the animal byproduct. And just because a good percentage of plain vegetarians did show that didn’t stop me from putting shrimp chips on the side. The deep-fryer had to be put to use as much as possible.

The Javanese peanut sauce that gets mixed with the salad is actually a recipe worth typing out (unfortunately, Cradle of Flavor isn’t on the desk I’m currently occupying—I’ll add it in later). You start by toasting and grinding peanuts from scratch, which is so much better than using peanut butter and I’m not just saying that to be a purist. Shallots, chiles, coconut milk and vinegar eventually are incorporated.

So, next time it’s fried candy and say, one or two Southeast Asian treats. Hypothetically, I mean. It’s not like I’m going to fry candy and grill satay again any time soon--that would be repetitive. I hate paring down, though. Excess makes me happy.

I was also happy to be brought a pair of shoes that were too big for the original purchaser and the size 9 friend she passed them on to initially. I had just been lamenting (in my mind) how much it sucks to be a 9 ½ since inexplicably no one seems to make them (seriously—why the whole jump from 9 to 10?). It’s too bad that I hobble in even near-practical thick 2” heels. I have no idea how I’ll pull off spindly 3 ½ inch heels (note the use of “teetering” in the ad copy), not to mention the skinny jeans that should accompany them. I’d better lay off the peanut sauce and fried food stat.

$70 of Joy

When is a magazine worth $70? It doesn’t fight “stubborn belly fat,” so how to justify the expense? The cover price works out to a mere $2.30 or so but the $54 shipping from Malaysia kills me. I love Flavours more than almost any food magazine I’ve found, despite the fact that I’ve never cooked single thing from it. My subscription just ran out and I’m going to have to bite the bullet.

The writing is ok, the thing is rife with advertising/pr blurring usually reserved for small town dailies, they only recently started noting which restaurant reviews were anonymous (and vice versa), but the magazine taps into a twisty culture that I’m fascinated by. When people think Malaysia, they think quintessential street food and they’d be right. In fact, there was just a travel piece in the New York Times on the topic. I had some of the best dishes ever on my visit last year. The region’s residents are food crazy, and rightly so. Eating and obsessing on where to eat is a perfectly acceptable hobby. Makansutra had this niche pre-blog era. It’s no coincidence that many of the original food bloggers were based out of Singapore and Malaysia (I recall reading a few years back when Friendster was the big thing that after the U.S., Malaysia had the highest number of members) and they continue in their proliferation. Singaporean Chubby Hubby seems to currently have the corner on the slick, anything but amateur market.

But there’s not a lot of high-low mingling, it’s either hawker or haute. Western food frequently fills the gap in the middle. Malaysians might take offense at this, but as with many nationalities, their tastes tend to be provincial. They like what they know and are incredibly particular about minutiae like subtle differences in broth at various stalls. Yet they’re not so critical with foreign flavors. I was initially baffled how Thai food could be better in NYC than 100 miles from the Thai border. Most of what I saw tended to revolve around noodles or was something not terribly Thai dubbed tom yum (though I have to admit that tom yum pizza sounds like an awesome invention) in the way we’d stick pineapple on something and call it Hawaiian.

Flavours definitely dallies in the higher end but it is tradition-bound too. The tone is aspirational, occasionally fawning and sometimes misguided. I love the hodgepodge. Picking the January/February 2006 issue off the shelf randomly, the first ad for Maggi celebrates Chinese New Year with the tagline, “customs may change but good taste is forever,” which sums everything up. Honestly, I don’t even know what the original customs are—maybe that’s why I can enjoy how they jumble them all up.

Content from this issue includes "The New Oriental Splendour" and pictures pretty amuse bouches of prunes & bacon with pan-fried potato and cherry tomato with Chinese bbq meat; "New Year with the Nonyas," which features old school dishes like hati babi bungkus (pork liver balls);  "Old-fashioned Favourites," profiling nostalgic snacks from yesteryear like fah sang koh and ham chit soo that are completely bewildering to me; a column from a French chef who teaches at the French Culinary School in Asia on how to cook lamb, the premise being that “Malaysians do not know what to do with lamb.” The roasted lamb rack with tapenade & black olive mashed potato looks pretty good.

Then there’s an insane feature on truffles (Perigord black truffles were quoted at RM3,000 to RM4,000 per kg. Hmm, that’s $400-500 a pound, probably about right) with a recipe for truffle puffs, essentially typical curry puffs stuffed with foie gras and truffles. It’s probably tasty, despite its ostentatious premise. Not so palatable is a cocktail they’ve devised called an azur, which is a glass of Chardonnay drizzled with blue Curaçao.

They review a place called Fondue House and are sure to point out that recipes have been tweaked for local palates, many have low alcohol content or none at all, and the bacon cheese fondue uses beef bacon. Sometimes you forget when reading flashier publications that the country is predominantly Muslim. I recall being surprised that our room service breakfast at a perfectly modern hotel had a choice of beef bacon, turkey ham or chicken sausage. No pork to be found.

I’m enamored with how the mixed culture—Malay, Chinese, Indian, British, Portuguese—all put a mark on local cuisine and how this natural fusion informs how dining is interpreted. It’s a weird scene. Last year, in Kuala Lumpur, we went to Frangipani, a swanky creative restaurant, and were two of only eight diners in the vast space, all Caucasian.

  The concept hasn’t been fully embraced yet, and for good reason—it’s really freaking expensive. Our bill was around $150, more on par with a New York restaurant. Meanwhile, a bowl of laska at sit-down Madame Kwan’s goes for around $3.50, and locals complain (you can get it on the street for under one dollar). It’s like these Chinese monster malls filled with luxury goods but necessarily enough clientele. The transition is too fast and unattainable for the mainstream. (Coincidentally, there was just a related discussion on egullet about the lack of high end dining threads.)

I know it’s strange that I don’t enjoy this type of coverage when it’s home grown. Maybe that’s because New York is oversaturated with gloss. Or maybe it’s because Flavours’s style is highly un-American. When they mix Western flourishes in, which they often do, it’s European or Australian. Nods to the U.S. are nearly non-existent (they murder Mexican food—cajun spices, gouda and baked potato with your burrito?) Sometimes it’s fun being an outsider, totally unjaded and learning everything from scratch.

See What I Mean?

See's isn't exclusive. There's nothing Michel Cluizel or Fauchon about it. Old (long-dead) Mary See doesn't taunt you with one coveted U.S. flagship, her milk chocolate legacy can be found at practically any mall...as long as you're on the west coast. There's not really anything gourmet (or whatever that dated adjective implies anymore--I suppose artisanal or organic would be more a la minute) about See's candy but they're one of my favorite treats in the world.

And I do mean the world. I was almost crazed enough to cough up roughly $40 for a pound when I unexpectedly found a shop in a Kowloon mall. Being away from home, even for a short period, will do that to you. On my first visit to England eleven years ago all I could think about were those sugary, shortening-laden sheet cakes from any American grocery stores that usually have a lemon or raspberry jam stripe in the middle. I suspect I was having a reaction to the fruitcakey, marzipan topped wedding cake I'd been subjected to on this trip (here's a photo of such a beast from my sister's wedding #2--I obviously didn't "photoblog" the first). I might be one of the few freaks in the universe who actually likes fruitcake, but light and frivolous it is not.

I was thrilled to find a hand-picked box (as opposed to the standard assorted variety) in my mailbox (ok, on the little table that’s been put in the foyer because the mailman apparently thinks 11231 is still a ghetto zip code rather than half-gentrified and filled with merciless complainers who aren’t accustomed to shoddy service [seriously, I think we’re intentionally getting shit because tenants have told on this guy so many times] and throws 85% of our building’s mail on the ground rather than opening up the boxes) from my mom a few days ago. We occasionally received a box for Christmas as older kids (we got Whitman’s samplers when younger) but Halloween is new to me. It’s a tradition I could get behind, though.

The last See’s candy I was exposed to was a Christmas season two-pound gift box sitting on the table near my desk, two jobs ago (and I wonder why I’m having such a hard time getting past HR now. Three jobs in one year raises countless red flags). It was during the transit strike when I walked eight miles on top of taking the PATH to and from work, so I somehow justified eating Scotchmallows, Apricot Delights and Polar Bear Paws, throughout the day. Unfortunately, sitting around the house on a Saturday like today I have no excuse for that kind of gluttony.

The Food Chain

There is almost nothing quite so awesome as scary beings eating themselves. This anthropomorphic ice cream eating ice cream, cartoon cow devouring slices of its own hindquarters concept is my new favorite Flickr pick me up.

Ah…Autophagia and Cut Me, Wicket Servant also tread into this tasty yet terrifying realm.

Chicken cannibal photo from bunchofpants on Flickr.

Operation: Ham Fisted

I don't really get how certain foods reach near mythical status. Sometimes it’s a matter of price such as with luxury ingredients like kobe beef or black truffles. Other times it’s a n issue of scarcity. Up until recently, mangosteens, Sichuan peppercorns and raw milk cheese were verboten in the U.S. (I think we’ve loosened up on the first two). Jamon iberico falls into both camps, making it extra attractive for carnivorous thrill seekers.

Jamón Iberico de Bellota, essentially ham from black footed Iberian pigs that have been fed on acorns (bellota) is supposedly the shit. Americans are putting down $200 deposits now to get their meat hooks on FDA approved $1,200 hams that won’t be ready for eating until 2008. I’m not that crazy (or loaded). I am curious if it's indivuals or restaurants that are going this whole ham route.

I’m very much a non-foodie (is there a grosser word? Mirth and wound are also two uglies) or else I would’ve researched D.O.’s (denominaciones de origen) bought from a specialty shop like Jamonisimo. But the vacuum packed €84/kg jamon from Can Via at the Boqueria (above left photo) was sufficient for me. We got 600 grams, a little over a pound, for about $65, if I’m doing the math right. It’s not as if my palate is so advanced that it would shun a more pedestrian jamon.

The fun was more in deciding how we’d get our half kilo back to NYC undetected. Just tossing the plastic-clad lump of meat into a suitcase seemed like asking for trouble. And after the terrorist scare started hitting the news, we got more nervous. If even breast milk was suspect, what hope was there for an innocent ham?

We committed total blasphemy and butchered our little porcine prize with a 99-cent type store (who knew they had these Brooklyn staples in Barcelona?) pocketknife that we paid €3 for. Hand carving is prized over machine cut jamon—here’s the proper way to do it—but I don’t think our man handling would come recommended from anyone. Rather than nicely balanced sheer strips, we sheared off irregular wedges with fat blobs in weird places. I'm sure the hotel housekeeping staff loved us.

First, we ate a bunch with a loaf of bread. Not only am I not a foodie, I’m not much of a food writer either. I can’t describe how food tastes to save my life. I like writing about eating, but delving deeply into flavors and nuances of taste is tricky. I’m shallow. Yes, the ham was earthy--how about that for cop out food description shorthand? It’s better than “interesting,” right? There was a faint sweetness, jamon isn’t salty like prosciutto at all. As for the acorns that I was likely supposed to be experiencing, that’s debatable since I’m not sure that I even know what acorns taste like. Who’s eaten an acorn? Maybe nutty would be a better overarching term. Eating jamon iberico is like dealing with an annoying bug bite that you vow to only scratch one last time and then keep compulsively going back to. One slice will inevitably lead to four more. At least instead of resulting in raw, bloody skin, you merely end up full of ham.

Then we got to work stuffing the rest into 12” or so lengths of bread, simulating bocadillos that we’d bought the evening before from Bocatta, a fast food chain. We’d saved the sleeves the original sandwiches came in for this nefarious purpose. After sticking our hacked Spanish sandwiches into the paper wrappers, we had a close approximation of a store bought sandwich. James and I each wrapped one in a plastic bag and packed it in our own suitcases. Perhaps if one of us got nabbed, the damage might be softened by keeping the two separate, like how the royal family can’t fly in the same plane (is that even true?).

Operation: Ham Fisted was a smashing success. I ended up salvaging the porky bits and plastic bagging them up, which I’m sure also breaks some sort of purist rule. Ignorance can be bliss. I ate the last tiny remainder last night and relished it since it was the only souvenir I brought back from Spain. It was certainly beat an Olympic stadium magnet.

Out with the Old, In with the New

I’m so out of the loop. How could I not know about this new mall development in Glendale? I love me a Queens mall, but there’s something a bit off with The Shops at Atlas Park. For one, I have no idea what half of these stores even are. Crazy for Animals? Amish Fine Food? White House-Black Market?! What the hell? These are not the chains I’m accustomed to. That’s what happens when you build a mall where no subway goes. And Chili’s is no great shakes. They don’t even have a theme. Er, or are baby back ribs their calling card?

After the lack of Sonics anywhere 100 miles from here, I got on an Arby’s bender because they’re another one of those fast food companies that advertises on TV yet has (almost) zero NYC presence. And I’m dying for a beef ‘n cheddar. I used to eat a beef ‘n cheddar and jamocha shake almost every day for lunch as a high school freshman. Oh, and a Cherry Coke and Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup in study hall (and I weighed like 70 pounds less then than I do now. No shit. More and more, I’m starting to believe that metabolism slowing with age thing).

A few weeks ago I noticed that they’re building an Arby’s in Middle Village, which makes me happy. But it’s being constructed on the old Niederstein’s spot (scroll to middle of page), which makes me sad because it was the oldest restaurant on Long Island (of course you all know that technically Queens and Brooklyn are on Long Island). Even though the food supposedly sucked, I had every intention of trying Niederstein’s for at least the novelty of an old German hold-out nestled next to a cemetery, while I lived those three years in neighboring Ridgewood. But I never did it. I’ll have to rectify that oversight with a beef ‘n cheddar (don't forget the Horsey Sauce) in the near future.

Old style Arby's hat photo borrowed from tesg's guide to big chain road food consumption.

Pizzeria Oh-No

I've never had any particular urge to visit Chicago. Not counting airport layovers, I've never even been in the middle of the country, just the edges (though I did spur-of-the-moment visit a few southern cities in summer '04 just to begin rectifying this extreme east-west exclusivity). But out of nowhere I was struck with the urge to check out the windy city (oh, that's big apple lame). And when I say urge to check out, what I really mean is eat.

I think I've had an aversion to Chicago because I'm less than enthralled by its trademark foodstuffs: deep dish pizza, weirdo hot dogs (no regional pride, I don't care for any city's buns and wieners), Italian beef sandwiches. I don't know, I'm all about hearty everyman food, but none of these tempt me in the least.

But after this recent MLK Monday, I had wished that I'd planned something more substantial for my three-day weekend. Maybe it's because I just started a new job, but I'm feeling nervous and restless and in need of mini-vacation (I still can't believe that my big S.E. Asia excursion was almost half a year ago) despite having no vacation days yet.

My next opportunity for escape will be President's Day and I totally want to try Moto and the nearest Trader Vic's to NYC. I'm thinking I can somehow turn this into a belated Valentine's celebration. How better to say I love you than with crab rangoon and "sweetbreads with real snow that tastes like goat cheese." I shit you not.

Wanton Wontons

Crab rangoon is something I seem to indulge in when no one else is around. I think it's because I'll eat an entire $3.25 order of ten in one sitting and that's not the sort of thing to brag about. I just can't help it, rangoons are that good. Jalapeño poppers are second.

I needed roast pork on Christmas for a recipe and thought it would be the perfect excuse to have crab rangoon delivered. But I must admit Wing Hua's version were way too thick and chewy. It's not like I expect subtlety or perfection from a corner take out joint, but a rangoon should be at least a little crispy.

I survived, and for me rangoons are really a vehicle for sweet chile sauce. I picked up a few bottles of Maggi chile sauce in Singapore and I put it on everything I can. Versions of this sauce come in little plastic packets at fast food chains all over S.E. Asia. I had it at Burger King in Thailand and A&W and KFC in Malaysia. Great for dipping fries.

Petty Fours

It's official, petit fours are overrated. By me, at least. I don't know why I coveted the damn little squares for so long. This year I was given a box as a gift, and while I should've been ecstatic, I was faced with the same grim reality that surfaced the last time I tried petit fours (and yes, I'm sure you get what you pay for--nice confections can't be had on the cheap). They're nothing more than littler Little Debbies with Christmassy frosting flourishes. Waxy, shortening-laden lumps in a pretty shell. And these specimens all had the exact same white cake and raspberry filling. I had to throw them out (this exact thing happened last year, so you think I would've learned) to prevent the angry fullness that comes from gorging on unsatisfying sweets.

Festival of Bites

Mithai make my teeth hurt and my tongue happy. I’ve always been a sucker for hyper pigmented foods, sweets in particular. But I’m more familiar with tiny S.E. Asian style snacks than these Indian counterparts. Where Malaysian/Singaporean kueh, Thai kanom and Vietnamese banh tend to be variations on glutinous rice, rice flour, coconut milk, agar-agar and mung beans (it’s amazing the mileage you can get out of small repertoire), mithai revolve around evaporated milk, ghee, chickpea flour, nuts and spices (often cardamom and saffron). Dairy definitely looms larger and creates a richness that coconut milk can’t.

I’ve come to know and love the fudgey-textured burfi (sometimes called barfi, but I prefer the more appetizing spelling) and syrup soaked galub jamun. The high sugar content isn’t what causes the tooth ache—my sweet tooth knows no bounds—it’s the sometimes used edible silver leaf that’s the culprit. I have the feeling that if these goodies were all whites and neutrals I would be less enamored of them than in their magenta and chartreuse glory. That is their beauty. Americans (of a certain type) tend to be down on the unnatural and artificial, but how do you argue with tradition? But then, I also like the fake green pistachio gelato better than the dull toned purist version.

There are quite a few places around the city to pick up some mithai. Sukhadia’s and Rajbhog are both chains, but there are also smaller shops and branches of these two biggies in neighborhoods like Jackson Heights and Richmond Hill, Queens (not to mention my new favorite New Jersey locale, Edison). Buying these gems is almost an old fashioned candy counter experience, they are tucked on trays in glass cases, come by the pound and are placed in a little box tied with string.

Having a limited knowledge of mithai, I only a vague idea what any particular item is since they’re not labeled or described in any fashion. And being NYC, there’s always a crowd around the counter so I feel pressured to move it along and pick and point quickly and without questions. But then, I’m overly sensitive to this sort of thing, holding up lines, looking dumb, when I see inquisitive, indecisive folks all the time.

I recently stopped by a storefront whose name I can’t recall on 74th St. in Jackson Heights. My interest had been rekindled while reading a recent New York Times article on mithai, but I waited until the weekend after Diwali to beat the holiday hordes. I indulged in the sweets pictured below, and I’m not sure how long six pieces are meant to last, but I purchased them Saturday afternoon and had eaten them all by Sunday evening. That’s exactly why I can’t have candy sitting around the house.

Pista (pistachio) burfi and something Rajbhog calls sweet cutlet, though I suspect that’s not its proper name.

Chicken Soup for the Office Worker's Soul

I’m afraid I won’t be having my favorite lunch, chicken udon from Yagura on 41st St., for much longer. I sense a new job on the horizon (just a feeling—I don’t want to jinx anything) which will put me in a different part of midtown (really, I could do without midtown altogether). I suppose a new job is better than Japanese chicken noodle soup, but I’ll still miss my $4.88 plastic tub full from around the corner.

I don’t fully understand the whole umami concept, but I think this soup is rife with it. There’s an extra taste in there and it’s not simply salt. Supposedly, the konbu and bonito flakes which create dashi, the broth that is the basis for many Japanese soups, are an umami powerhouse when combined.

The noodles are fat and chewy and just filling enough. I’ve tried it with soba before, and while adequate, the overall effect was mealy and nibbly rather than teeth chompingly satisfying.

I would almost say the soup is healthy if it weren’t for the chicken. They include a handful of thick hacked up skin-on slices that I’m sure ooze fat all through the liquid. And the skin is browned and still crisp in parts, which implies that it hasn’t been stewed to death. That might be the clincher, the poultry is a separate entity and not a stock component either. Most chicken soups seem over cooked and dreary by comparison. I’ve never had any last long enough to refrigerate for later, but I’ve been curious if a white lardy layer would form atop the surface. There are some things you just don’t need to know.

Sometimes they forget to sprinkle the scallion slices on top, and you wouldn’t think it’d matter but it does. You need that tiny crisp onion contrast. I also keep a little bottle of Japanese chili powder in my drawer to spruce up the already flavorful soup. Three good shakes usually does the trick.

Sarawakian Experiment

Sarawak Laksa

300g Sarawak laksa paste (I'm keeping this metric because that's how the paste comes packaged)

8 cups chicken stock

1 cup thick coconut milk

16 oz thick rice vermicelli (I couldn't’t figure out how thick they meant, so I opted for the thicker of the two types I had in the pantry. I'm pretty sure Sarawak laksa doesn't use the round rice noodles, which are next to impossible to find in NYC anyway)

Toppings

¼ cup beansprouts (you’re supposed to blanch, but I didn’t bother)

3 1/2 oz. chicken (half a medium breast) poached and shredded
5 large prawns cooked and shelled (I used half a pound of smaller prawns because I needed to use them up. Consider this an American adaptation, heavier on the protein)

Garnish

2 eggs, cooked into an omelet and cut into strips
¼ cup cilantro leaves, chopped

3 calimansi, halved (I lucked out in finding these at the Elmhurst Hong Kong Supermarket, as opposed to my usual Sunset Park location. Lime wedges would also be fine)

Boil laksa paste and chicken stock together for 15 minutes. Strain into a pot. Add coconut milk and mix well. Season to taste with sugar and salt.

Briefly boil dried noodles to soften. Drain, and divide into serving bowls. Add toppings in order listed. Ladle laksa gravy on top.

Garnish with omelet strips and cilantro.

Serve with sambal and lime halves.

Sambal
5 cloves garlic

2 shallots

Half a medium onion
¼ cup dried chiles, soaked in hot water
2 tablespoons dried shrimp, soaked and drained

5 tablespoons oil (the original calls for 6-8 tablespoons, but that felt excessive—hopefully, I didn’t ruin the flavor)
3 ½ tablespoons chile paste (I used sambal oelek)
1 tablespoon tamarind paste mixed with 3 tablespoons water

1 tablespoon sugar

½ teaspoon salt

Pound garlic, shallots, onion, dried chiles and dried shrimp into a paste using a mortar and pestle. Or alternatively, use a food processor. I usually go for the mortar and pestle (it's easier to clean, and of course more traditional) but I don't have the patience to break down the dried chiles properly.

Heat oil and fry the sambal ingredients until brown and aromatic. Add chile paste and tamarind liquid and season to taste with sugar and salt. Continue cooking over low heat for 25 minutes.

Serves four.

Adapted from Savouring Sarawak, Flavours, July-August 2005.

 
I'm definitely neither food stylist nor photographer, but you get the gist.

I was lucky enough to be given a package of Double Red Swallow Sarawak laksa paste as a gift when in Kuala Lumpur. This is the good stuff, straight from Kuching. It's hard to find even in Malaysia, never mind the U.S. I hope I did it proud. As I've never had Sarawak style laksa before, it's hard to gauge how close my version comes to the original.

I do think I my sambal turned out hotter than what I'd tasted in Malaysia. I have a high heat tolerance and it still burnt the taste out of my tongue (I just ate some with chicken and rice for lunch and my mouth is now numb). I was trying to measure the dried chiles with a food scale, using the metrics from the original recipe, but I don't think the calibration is sensitive enough--no matter how many chiles I piled on, the needle barely budged. My 1/4 cup suggestion  is less than what I used, and probably wiser.

Rangoon Run

Ok, I just went outside for the first time today (well, technically I was in the hall earlier for about 15 min. barefooted and wet-haired answering census bureau questions about crime) to get Chinese take out (I’m too cheap to have it delivered. I’ve always had a thrifty streak but I fear it’s getting worse. The other day at work they had all these pastries and fresh fruit set up in a common area as a reward for everyone moving offices [my office wasn’t moving] so of course I had to get some. But the truly miserly librarian-ish behavior came out after the food was all gone. I actually went out and saw all the plastic cutlery that hadn’t been used, grabbed a bunch and stashed it in my drawer. Jesus. And when I recently visited the swanky bathroom at Yumcha for my birthday dinner I was completely wowed by the almost cotton towel quality of their nicely folded paper towels and crammed a handful in my purse because I figured they’d make better subway sweat mops than the Kleenex I’d been using that sticks to my face and that I’m unaware of until hours later when I look in a mirror).

I don’t do the ubiquitous NYC hole-in-the-wall Chinese thing very often, but when I do I’m always shocked at the insane amount of food. Even as a penny-pincher and glutton, I’m a little appalled. No wonder they’re so popular. All I really wanted were crab rangoon, a mild guilty pleasure that I only seem to eat when I’m alone. But I figured I’d get one of those combos too to not look like a total freak (that’s the other reason I didn’t do delivery—the 10 for $3.25 rangoons don’t meet the minimum).

String beans and pork seemed mildly healthy, at least there would be some vegetables and nothing else breaded and/or fried. I picked the $7 dinner for one, which ended up also including a shitload of fried rice (the default, I was fine with plain white), fried wontons, wonton soup, sweet and sour spareribs and “chicken fingers.” Oh, and a can of soda, which I turned down because I’m not pop person. But they were all “it’s free,” which I realized, and then felt bad for saying no and got a ginger ale. Easily dinner for three, or two hungry people. I don’t know whether I should be impressed with how much food I got for around ten bucks or disturbed. Self-imposed portion control, I guess (for the record, I only ate half the rangoons and all the spareribs). So, I might be a pathetic Sat. night Chinese take out food orderer, but I draw the line at watching Ghost Dad on the PAX Network. Who knew it was directed by Sidney Poitier?

I think rangoons are best enjoyed with Thai sweet chile sauce, but dammit if I wasn’t out. I improvised using rooster sauce mixed with one of those orange duck sauce plastic packets. Nice emergency substitution.

Sidewalk Score

Despite not being terribly collectible, I persist in collecting that late ‘60s/early ‘70s Time Life Foods of the World series. I’m certain that these books are gathering dust in corners of thrift stores and crannies of basements around the nation. But NYC is no second-hand paradise, no matter what natives will boast. I rely on my mom to send any (there are picture-filled hardbacks and accompanying spiral-bound recipe soft covers) she scores out west my way. She’s inexplicably started an Amazon.com hobby-business selling used books, not a bad Portland proposition since the city’s roaming with cast offs at prices you’d never find here.

I was walking home from work, just a block away on 3rd Pl. when I noticed a hearty, manly roast beef photograph staring up from the sidewalk at me. What the heck? It was the British Isles volume, one I was lacking. Now all the secrets of Yorkshire pudding, toad-in-the-hole and cockaleekie, illustrated in creepy-cool still life, are all mine.

Haggis fanfare

The Three Faces of Mazzola

First I started out on a highbrow roll with this heirloom tomato white anchovy salad I’d made last week out of the current Food and Wine. It was a little wet from sitting around a few days, but all the better to soak up with a nice slice of crusty French country bread. But then I broke into the cheese bread (I stopped in the local bakery Mazzola only to pick up a loaf of French bread, but then went crazy when the girl asked “anything else?” Oh, the pressure, the upselling) which is insane and pure fat. The loaf is so stuffed with aged provolone that it soaks through the paper bag with oil. And I’ve eaten almost half the damn thing in the three hours I’ve been home from work.

At least I refrained from also picking a lard bread. Yes, lard bread. I’m not sure that it’s laced with actual lard (ok, it is), but there are big chunks of salami strewn throughout. Funny, I just found a reference to this bread from this exact bakery on a librarian’s blog from Eugene, OR. And it must be good because based upon the stuff this person seems to usually eat they verge on vegan.  At least by NYC standards. Organic, animal product shunning is way more mainstream in Oregon.

I don't know why they have so many different bags.

Lotsa Laksa

Laksa is a many-splendored soup. Practically very nook and cranny on the Malay Peninsula claims a regional variation. I wonder how many types I’ll be able to try during my upcoming Singapore and Malaysia trip? Here’s a Wiki take on the topic.

Dim Sum Redux

New York City does all right in the food department, but sometimes I long for the west coast. Daly City, CA has it all: In-N-Out Burger, Filipino chain restaurants and Koi Palace, which I’ve heard has some of the best dim sum in the U.S. Koi Palace also has pretty dim sum pictures and a seriously comprehensive menu. (Now that I think about it, I have family in Daly City that I haven’t seen in over twenty years, but it’s doubtful they partake in the multitude of Asian goodies available.)

Despite loving dim sum, it’s very rare that I actually get out and eat any. It might have something to with not possessing the breakfast/brunch gene. Weekends are for sleeping in, it takes effort to transform into an early bird eater (though I more than make up for it throughout the day). My most recent foray into the realm of rolling carts and tiny treats was at World Tong, which is currently one of the better NYC choices. Don’t be scared of Bensonhurst.

Crab Rangoon (half-assed & trashy version)

Purists (as if there could be such a thing) will cringe at my tinkering with a classic. Maybe I’ve just been skimming too many whack mom-ish food publications like Weight Watchers and Kraft Food & Family. I ended up using reduced fat cream cheese (though I’d never advocate fat free for any purpose, except maybe spackling) so I wouldn’t feel guilty (no, I’m not one of those types who drinks Diet Coke with candy) and fake crab because I’m cheap and actually like the taste. If I were making a smaller batch or trying to impress strangers outside of a Super Bowl party, I’d certainly use real crab meat. At least I didn’t use garlic powder.

More musings on this unlikely delicacy can be found here.

8 ounces crab meat
8 ounces cream cheese, softened
2 garlic cloves, minced
dash of Worcestershire sauce
1 green onion, chopped (optional)
48 square wonton wrappers
salt and pepper
oil for frying

Mix cream cheese, crab meat (if using the fake stuff, it won’t flake nicely, so chop it instead), garlic, Worcestershire and onion, if using, until well combined. Season with salt and pepper to taste.

Spoon 1 teaspoon of filling onto wonton wrapper. The edges can be wet and folded simply in half for a diamond shape or continued by pinching the two corners and adhering to the center with another dab of water.

Heat oil to 375 degrees, deep-fry rangoons in batches (don’t overcrowd) for about 3 minutes, or until golden. Drain on paper towels.

Serve with hot mustard and/or sweet chile sauce. I highly recommend this Thai version.

Makes 48 crab rangoons, about five per person (unless you are feeding freaks, they will seriously all get eaten)