EatingAsia

Long Before Photoshop Was a Verb...

..., or even a twinkle in a software designer's eye, they were manipulating images at Bangkok's Nangleong Art.

We stepped into this 86-year-old photo shop early one morning on our way to Nang Leong market to pick up batteries for Dave's flash, and were captivated by a display case full of an eccentric collection of figurines and buttons decorated with 50's-ish tinted photographs. The shop itself looks charmingly as if it hasn't changed in decades, and the owner is very friendly.

Later in the day we returned (after an excellent Isaan lunch) in the company of a lifetime resident of the Nang Leong neighborhood who is good friends with Nangloeng Art's owner, Puangpetch Suasa-nga. After a bit of chit-chat we headed upstairs to the workshop to see how the buttons - which the owner calls 'lockets' - are made.

It all starts with a porcelain oval (or circle or, if you wish, heart shape) and photograph, we were told by Mr. Red and Mr. White (no, I didn't make up those names), the brothers who've taken over for their father. It's he who, inspired by the photos on Chinese gravestones, developed the locket process. Customers can supply a photograph or have a portrait taken in Nangleong Art's studio (with the shop's vintage camera; they haven't gone digital here). If a customer wishes a locket of the Thai king they can choose from Nangleong Art's large collection of portraits of the Thai royal family.

Using the photograph as a guide, the brothers draw-paint a portrait on a sort of plastic paper and then attach it to the porcelain. Sometimes they bring two portraits together to create a single image. The locket is then placed on a piece of metal mesh and heated from underneath with a blow torch to set the image.

This is incredibly painstaking work; Mr. Red said his father began teaching him the craft at age thirteen and it took him a few years before he could confidently take on a locket on his own. It takes the brothers two to three months to fill an order, and a medium-sized locket costs about 1000 baht (about U$30) which, given the fact that this is a one hundred percent hand-crafted product and that these pieces will  at some point in time be collector's items, seems pretty reasonable.

Unfortunately Nangleong Art, like many businesses in this characterful and all too often overlooked neighborhood in Bangkok, is fading. If it weren't for their locket orders, says the owner, they probably wouldn't be in business at all. Mr. Red and Mr. White, who are perhaps in their fifties, are the last in this line of locket makers and the shop may be one of the only places in Bangkok to find this vanishing art.

We didn't think to inquire about locket delivery by mail but one thing's for sure: when we head again to Bangkok in a couple months' time we'll be toting favorite photos and planning a stop at Nangleong Art.

Nangleong Art, Thanon Nakhon Sawan (between Krung Kasem and Phaniang Roads), Nang Leong neighborhood, Bangkok

You Start With a Few Gorgeous Crabs...

In  between watching the trunk of a sago palm be transformed into flour, sampling kinilaw (Philippine 'ceviche') at the fish market, and learning how sap of the nipa palm's flower stalk becomes vinegar (and liquor), we looked on as a Butuan native made a few of her favorite dishes. Our favorite of her favorites would have to be Buntaa Binuntaan, crabs stuffed with fresh coconut and their own fat and cooked in coconut milk.

Despite the fact that coconut oil is now deemed healthy, this dish is clearly over the top - lusher than lush and not something you'd eat every day. It's also the sort of dish that I can't imagine anyone, other than those with a serious aversion to coconut milk, not loving. And it's surprisingly easy to make, assuming you have access to a key ingredient: buko or young coconut, still soft enough to be scraped from it's shell in silky strands (which you probably do; I saw them for sale at a Whole Foods grocery store in Santa Fe, New Mexico and they can be found at many stores specializing in Southeast Asian ingredients).

Our hostess, the same lovely woman who hooked us up with the sago makers, learned this recipe from her mother and great grandmother. She started with about two and three quarter kilos of fresh crabs. Female crabs are what you want for this dish, because their roe is a key component (how do you tell a female from a male crab? Flip them over and compare the size of the 'flap' that covers the bottom half of their bodies; the female's 'flap' is wider). She put the crabs in the freezer for a few hours, until they were 'asleep' and immobile, and then pulled off their top shells.

After removing the crab's gills and cleaning the nasty bits from the top half of the shell

she carefully removed fat and roe and from both halves and set it aside.

It would be mixed with the shredded buko.

To this mixture she added a generous amount of garlic - pounded in a mortar, not chopped - chopped ginger, thinly sliced scallions (both white and green parts), chopped red onion, and salt.

She carefully cleaned the empty crab shell tops and stuffed them with the mixture.

More stuffing went into the cavities of the crab bodies created when their gills and fat and roe were removed.

After stuffing the crabs she reassembled them

and tied the halves together with kitchen string.

The liquid that remained on the platter after the crabs were stuffed was set aside for later.

                                 stuffed and ready for the pot

The crabs went into a deep casserole, along with a good amount of crushed fresh ginger. Probably the most laborious part of this recipe is squeezing the coconut milk (assuming it doesn't come out of a can).

My favored method for extracting coconut milk involves hot water, an electric blender, and cheesecloth, but in this Butuan household it's all done with manpower - two 'pressings', the first for coconut cream and the second for the thinner coconut milk.

After placing the crabs in the pot our host added thin coconut milk to cover them by about two thirds. There was some coconut-crab mixture leftover after the crabs were filled; this she wrapped in tin foil (you could use a banana leaf) and placed in the pot as well. After bringing the coconut milk to a boil she covered the pot and left it to simmer steadily for about twenty minutes.

As soon as the shells of the crabs turned red red she added the coconut cream and the coconut-crab fat juices that had drained from the filling mixture and muddled the liquid in the pot a bit to mix.

Once the liquid came to a boil again the dish was finished.

The kitchen had filled with the heady aroma of good, spanking fresh seafood, peppery ginger, and  coconut oil. The crabs came out of the casserole with bits of congealed coconut cream clinging to their shells, and there was plenty of coconut milk sauce to spoon over rice. I know that a number of other dishes were placed on the table that evening, but for the life of me I can't remember a single one. I passed the evening in a delirium, a crab and coconut milk-induced fog.

Buntaa Binuntaan (Butuan City Coconut-Stuffed Crabs in Coconut Milk)

I'm not including amounts because (1) I didn't do any measuring while our hostess prepared this dish and (2) this is very much a to-your-taste sort of food - if you hate ginger, omit it. If you love garlic, add lots. If you don't have red onions on hand, add more scallions. Just be sure you've got female crabs, that they're big enough to make prying apart, cleaning, and stuffing worth your effort, and that you've enough coconut milk and cream (if you're using canned consider thinning some with water to substitute for the second pressing coconut milk) on hand (a good way to guesstimate is to determine the capacity of the pot you'll use and then figure on at least half that amount in coconut milk).

female crabs, the bigger the better
a young coconut or two, meat scraped out and sliced into matchsticks or shredded
green onions, thinly sliced (white and green parts)
garlic, pounded to a mash or finely chopped
a small red onion, finely choped
salt
ginger - some finely chopped, some thickly sliced and pounded in a mortar, with the side of a cleaver, or with the handle of a heavy knife
coconut milk and coconut cream

special equipment: kitchen string

1. Put the crabs in the freezer for an hour or two, until they completely stop moving.
2. Working quickly, pull the top shells off of the crabs, discard the inedible gook clinging to the inside of the shelll, and carefully scrape into a bowl all crab row and fat. Clean the crabs and their now-empty top shells under running water and set aside.
3. Using your hands or a fork. mix the shredded coconut with the crab roe and fat, the green onions, garlic, red onion, salt to taste, and the chopped ginger.
4. Fill each crab shell and body with the coconut-crab roe mixture, then reassemble the crabs and tie them together with kitchen string. Wrap any leftover filling in tin foil or a banana leaf to make a flattish packet. Set any liquid aside.
5. Lay the crabs on top of each other in a deep casserole (use an appropriately-sized casserole; the crabs should be in at least two layers) and add thin coconut milk to cover them by about two thirds. Scatter crushed/pounded garlic on top of the crabs.
6. Bring the mixture to a boil, then reduce the heat to a  brisk simmer and cover the casserole. Check the crab's progress occasionally.
7. As soon as the crabs turn pink pour in coconut cream and leftover filling 'juice'. Stir quickly just to mix, bring the liquid to a boil again, and then remove the casserole from the heat.
8. Serve hot or warm, with lots of rice.

Real Pizza

When I described for my friend Brett my favorite pizza in the US, if not the world (fresh sweet corn, crumbled feta, cilantro, lemon zest), served by my favorite place in Berkeley, CA (The Cheeseboard), he rolled his eyes. And snorted. Yes, snorted.

'That's not a pizza!' he spat-snorted. 'Come to Brooklyn. I'll show you a real pizza.'

So I did. Go to Brooklyn, that is, while I was in the US last month. And he did. Show me a real pizza. He let me eat some of it too. (Dave and his camera missed out, unfortunately. Sorry Dave!)

If Brett's a representative sample I think I can safely assert that New Yorkers are pretty obsessive about their pizza. They believe they live in one of the world's pizza capitals. I'm not saying that they don't - I'm just saying they believe that they do. In his quest to demonstrate that years of residence in the San Francisco Bay Area had so warped my food consciousness that I no longer knew a frou-frou Sunshine State (CA is the Sunshine State, isn't it?) sorry excuse for a pizza from a real pizza, Brett took me to Di Fara's. It's a New York institution. I have to say, I loved it the minute I walked in.

Stacked ovens (two of which require a step ladder to reach), a counter, a refrigerated drinks case, and about seven tables - Di Fara's is not much to look at. But the smell of that pizza shop could get even a food poisoning victim salivating. Garlic and tomatoes and sizzling Italian cured meats and wheaty dough, that what Di Fara's smells like.  The aromas wafting about in there are intoxicating, and maddening too, because if you order a pie special, rather than just taking a slice or two from what's on offer for the coupla-slices customers, you'll be waiting a good while. Even if you phone your order in ahead, as we did.

Dom Di Fara makes the pizzas. And he's been doing it for eons. Di Fara is the sort of long-standing family-owned food business that I take for granted in KL and don't too often stumble across in the US. It was a delight to watch Dom work. He's slow and methodical, lavishing care and - dare I say it - love on every single pie. Dom keeps a steady pace no matter how many customers are lined up waiting for their pie or a slice. He won't be rushed and he won't be distracted. He treats every pizza as if it's the most important pizza he'll make all week. He's a true craftsman.

Buffalo mozzarella, sauce house made with imported Italian tomatoes, a healthy sprinkle of honest-to-goodness parmesan, substantial dough base randomly blistered on its rim and bottom. Fresh basil and oregano leaves and a sprinkle of dried oregano, not sprinkled from a canister but pulled from fragrant dried whole branches, a nice touch. We went with a few different toppings on one pie. What Dom called 'wild mushrooms' - obscenely huge, meaty chunks of porcini from a jar - were my choice and they were a standout, but in the end I have to admit that in the case of a pizza this good less is more. When it comes to savoring the honest flavor of Dom's crispy and chewy dough, and his tartly piquant tomato sauce softened by that milky buffalo mozzarella, the fewer distractions the better.

Yes, Dom Di Fara makes a real pizza. I'm a convert.

Di Fara Pizza, 1424 Avenue J, Brooklyn. Tel (718) 258-1367

Update: A comment below led me to this ode to Di Fara's, Dom, and his pies. It's a pretty wonderful read.

Market Makeover

I have fond memories of Dalat Aw Taw Kaw, a vast fresh and prepared foods market across the street from Bangkok's more famous Chatuchak (aka the 'Weekend Market') boasting a selection of edibles that never failed to get my saliva glands working. My Thai teacher introduced me to Aw Taw Kaw in 2002 and almost every visit Dave and I have made to Bangkok since we left a year later has included a morning spent grazing its front aisle.

But it's been a couple of years, and I had no idea that Aw Taw Kaw had undergone a serious, floor-to-ceiling renovation. While I was in the US Dave found himself in Bangkok on a Saturday morning and, per our routine, made straight for the market. 'It reminds me of a Tesco,' he told me over the phone. Aw Taw Kaw used to be known by Bangkok residents as the 'movie star market' because of its cleanliness relative to other Bangkok markets and its high prices.

Goodness, I wonder what they call it now.

I really don't know what to make of the renovations. From Dave's photos it appears that Aw Taw Kaw still boasts a selection of foods from around the country, that its seafood vendors still offer what is probably the most pristine fish and shellfish in Bangkok,

and that it's still a fine place for visitors to the city (especially first-time visitors, who might be shy of diving into the Thai capital's rather less-regulated street food scene) to do a bit of snacking.

But I can't help but feel a bit sad for what's been lost. Next to Aw Taw Kaw was a small wooden open-air building where an older vendor dished up a sublime version of generally overlooked dish, guayteow nam (rice noodles in soup). He and his soup are gone, but at least now, in the same building, you can eat LA-style pork buns (?) in air-conditioned comfort.

The market is still populated by (some) family-run businesses, like this pork stall, but Dave reports that many of our old favorites are no more. I fondly remember a bespectacled vendor named Jum who specialized in all things crab. Her kanom jeen nam yaa bpuu, rice vermicelli doused with an over-the-top coconut milk crab curry, was simply amazing. Across the aisle her mother and a cousin sold delicious porky Chinese dumplings, and down the way her sister specialized in giant prawns, boiled and grilled. The grilled prawns were disappointingly dry but oh, those boiled crustaceans, touched with a bit of the classic lime-fish sauce-chili dip. The grilled Thai sausage man (round ones, short ones, long ones, sour ones and spicy ones) - gone. The extremely sweet, extravagantly coiffed and made-up matron, relatively new to the market, who made kanom namtaan, an otherwise difficult-to-find spongy steamed cake topped with fresh coconut shreds - gone. The vendor who ran a mini kanom workshop that turned out beautiful purple and pink jellied rosettes and tiny marzipan-like 'fruits' - gone.

I'm not against improved standards of hygiene and sanitation, but I wish that when planners plotted their urban market renovations they'd take the human side into account. Renovations require closing down all or parts of a market or relocating the vendors while work is done. In the case of Bangkok's Nang Leong Market many vendors in the central section (Nang Leong market consists of stalls in a center 'square' surrounded on all four sides by more stalls in and in front of permanent shophouses) never returned after the renovations were over; they either took their business elsewhere or retired. Nang Leong is still a great place to eat, but the renovations really took the wind out of the place, and quite a lot of what was special about the market - especially inside the square - no longer exists.

I don't know how the renovations to Aw Taw Kaw proceeded, so I can't say whether our favorite 'missing vendors' are no longer there because they couldn't afford to be sidelined while the work was being done. I do know that it's rare for vendors to be offered compensation to make up for business lost in cases like this. (I also don't know if rents were raised after renovations or not.)

And I suppose one could say, 'What does it matter if a vendor hangs around post-renovations or not, because there will always be another to take his or her place?' I suspect that's how many a planner might see it, anyway.

I'm reminded of a writer I met when I was in New York. Over breakfast in a sleek Italian cafe in Soho, he described watching the neighborhood that he's called home for many years change from one filled with small, family-owned, characterful businesses and eateries to a place of chain stores, hip restaurants, and loft conversions. Yet there's no denying that the area is much safer - and cleaner - than it was when I worked in New York in the late eighties. When it comes to modernizing, cleaning up, renovating ... whatever one wants to call it .... balance seems elusive.

I do suspect Aw Taw Kaw is the future of urban markets in Southeast Asia.  And I wonder if, when the conversion is complete, they'll capture my imagination as they do now.